armageddon flowers now
the rain slants the skies
armageddon flowers now
lacerate the dress
agent of axe wound
motivations are stolen
fade-away clown bugs
a smog-leech christmas
an anathema cherry
a crimson blade dance
apathy moondance
sludge wars for mr. noontime
the house doubles down
buck banger flea trick
sunset bravado dump tides
glass cannon tube-fed
i wrote this for a guys art project, would love feedback.
fuck there should be a period at the end.
i also wrote this poem for my dad who just died recently
dream lawyer
did you photograph this florida sunset with your slingshot temperament
did you bury dead flowers under the physicality of your footsteps
you talk to your clients while i water the fake plants
and the sun does circles around you
the diet coke king inaugurates another moody tuesday
and i keep thinking
why do i have a brain
and you practice your putting
like nothing is happening
and nothing is happening
i needed a lawyer to sue my bad dream
and you came
with bagels and coffee
and collateral—a sweat stained callaway hat
you came
with a tornado’s deposition
you came, of course you did
you came into my bad dream
exorcising it in the name of ballgame
your reason was dominant
you took me to where the rain never bleeds
and dream lawyer
you took me to earth’s greenest steam shower
and showed me the emergent airplanes over the concrete fields
dream lawyer, i owe you
for passing the dream down
bump
>unironically doing pottery
My critique would be that you should spend your time doing something useful
nobody wants to post their poetry?
I laughed for a while then died at anathema. Everything about this just sounds like you're a neophyte. That's fine. Get some influences
Hated being poor being seen empty handed at the store
Tired of not having things wish I could just grow a pair of wings
Get out of this city tired of people looking at me with pity
There was downtown and uptown but I lived in the wrong town
Just wanted to get out, leave the building, evacuate
But back to reality I had to face it
Said I didn't need school, boy was I a fool
Chose the street life being in strife
Got a few bags, a glock and my life on a clock
It wasn't supposed to happen like this, I had a bright future filled with bliss
Made a whole bunch of bad choices because I didn't know how to appreciate what I had
Wanted to get rich fast and not end up like my dad
Living below the poverty line I felt like my time spent had been more than fine
If I waited two more maybe I wouldn't have to trap anymore
Or If I waited six more and some more I could have had more floors
Maybe I could of lived in my own place in my own space
With a family that loved me, what I lacked in my childhood
Growing up I envisioned this to be with my crush but it wasn't meant to be
Pretty rich white girl, poor dark nigga lets be real
I dropped the dreams, the basketball seams and the love for my team
All I knew were the crack fiends
But my time I believed was coming to an end reminiscing one day with a friend
Living the life of being on the run, working after the sun, praying to my gun
Hoping that I didn't have to shoot or get shot
But it all happened so sudden I didn't know how I let the tears flood in
My friend murdered in cold blood
I wonder why I was surprised, like damn we lived in the hood
This kind of shit happened everyday but this time it was different
If it happened to someone else I would of been indifferent
But this was my homie, my day one, my nigga
Never thought I would see myself pull the trigga
He was in another gang and I was forced to bang
I was arrested and now I'm doing ten but he's doing life
Everyday I regret the path I went down, one filled with strife
This is just one story among many in the hood
I didn't want this, I didn't want it to end like this, but was it for the greater good?
Honestly OP it's not good. You use a lot of good images and there are elements of cohesion at times. BUT, it is not a good poem. It's meter is bland at best. There is too much of a sense of obscurity replacing artistry. It's so unstable that it's empty. However, if you like it then keep writing like that. As for me I would close your book and leave it on the shelf at B&N
iz OK, but only barely OK
honestly, man, i think you have some raw lil seeds of talent that if you cultivated properly might, over the course of years, yield something resembling quality poetry
right now it really feels like you are writing with the idea that people will read it...one feels the heavy hand of the artist most when the artist is so concerned with their public image
it is the most difficult thing in this world, by try to write honest, genuine, brutal stuff with the intention that you and only you will ever read it. discard/burn the effort. do this so many times per peoem you cant even remember--then maybe a lil glimmer, something worth being read by others, will emerge
seriously, why do potential artists never understand the most basic principle--that those things born under the star of the imagined public are forever destined to be sent to the dumpster?