I didn't write this one (just stole it off this one site), but feel free to tear it to shreds as an exercise/opener.
Waves lap at our toes tick by tick
And we just can’t stop falling for
The hour hand’s insidious trick;
Melted chessboard’s eroding core
From those wretched quartz lips,
Second by second, slow,
A sundial’s ichor drips
We’re all buried up to the brain
While earwigs march along the plain
Past windmills made of hopes unclaimed
Stars bleed from galaxies unnamed
From the mind’s soup rises a beast most vile
All drooling, its seven mouths eat their fill
Counterfeit crowns ajangle with dank spleen
Yet far worse still, in chains beneath that hill,
There ticks a phantom wreathed in threads of guile
Rejected breath
Inverted death
Three hands with twelve sets of teeth fracture a shingle
Opening the roof to depraved euphoria
Through which an unsteady stream of chained faces pours
As sense—common or otherwise—crawls on all fours
Ahead of this writhing phantasmagoria
Far above, overseeing it all, a single
Eye
all these houses have been abandoned
left by desperate people
food still on plates
i enter and sit in anothers room
clothes lying around
work unfinished
i leave and look up at the sky
stars a random mess
to the next house
repost from earlier thread
>>7699026
I can't tell if this is a failed attempt at a metrical poem or just vaguely metrical looking free verse. Either way, it's not good.
>>7699026
all these houses left
desperately--
food still on plates
clothes lying around
work unfinished
the stars a random mess
>>7700221
This is much bettet
>>7699026
>>7700221
Here's why I did what I did:
>houses have been abandoned
the whole point of the poem is the emptiness--you don't have to tell me they're abandoned, the poem does that for you.
>desperate people
This is more of a personal preference, but I find that the more nouns you bring in, the more you have to describe and explain. I want to know why they're desperate and why they left.
>I enter and sit in anothers (sic) room
The action (you entering) doesn't add to the poem, and we're already in the house so "another's room" (or even another room) just get in the way.
>I leave and look up at the sky
I know stars are in the sky; you don't have to tell me.
>the stars a random mess
Without this line, there is no poem. The contrast between the abandoned house and nature's randomness compliment each other and make a strong image.
>to the next house
This is not a strong ending because we don't know what you're doing or why. It detracts from your one strong image and is the reason I removed the first person & actions from the poem.
Wrote this Haiku about a girl I was creeping in the park.
A thoughtful blossom
So fluid in her stillness
Her silence, a song
>>7700250
What would you say about the first one in the thread? It seems like there's more to dissect there.
>>7700250
First, I appreciate the critique, this seems like you actually thought about the poem.
The poem is intentionally vague at points; I tried to make the reader imagine some great calamity that forced an entire city from their homes, but left it up to them. I like the first two lines, and honestly don't see reason to change them; I think the cadence of them flows nicely, but I will admit there is some redundancy.
The second two are flawed, no way around it. I'd leave in the line about another's room because I want a sense of violation and isolation, but the actual wording could be modified. I leave and look up at the sky is a weak line, and I'll keep working on it, and the same with to the next house, although I thought when combined with the implied calamity it meant the narrator was a scavenger in some kind of post-apocalyptic event. I've been watching a lot of Walking Dead lately.
Again, thank you for the criticism, I will work on this.
>>7700289
Being vague and having a story (the speaker scavenging through other people's houses) are in direct opposition to each other. If that's what you want you have to make the poem longer and tell us how and why and who the speaker is. You don't have to tell us what happened if you don't want, but I need more development for a narrative.
>>7700263
k
I hate amateur metered/rhyming poetry because it usually sucks and takes a long time to fix, but for you, anything.
Haruspex
When we learned we were Men
we became hysteric, armored
ourselves in lavender robes,
went to war unlacing amnesia’s
golden thighs, gave ourselves
new names written in ancient
alphabets we beat into one another,
wrote them in shimmer on stone
walls, as though already hieroglyphs.
I slaughtered an owl, once,
stained the letters white
while his feathers rouged
on a driftwood altar.
When I sliced him at the nape
to read his inner workings for signs
of preternatural guilt, I found
no deformity to speak of:
no tectractys heart, no emerald bones:
just my maiden name, carved
into its spleen, exactly where I predicted.
>>7700339
original poet here;
I can see the benefits of the revised version, but I really don't like those first two lines, they seem awkward and unbalanced
>>7700432
It is something of a by-the-numbers revision that's technically better than what you had, but still awkward and bland.
>>7700454
So is your critique more to do with the subject matter rather than form? You just find the narrative or word choice to be poor?
What about a start more like
These houses left by desperate people
Work unfinished and food still on plates
Clothes strewn across floor and chairs
Or should I just stop this line of thought now?
>>7699005
>>7700263
This is going to take 2-3 posts so bear with me. Lets start with the form. Here is the rhyme scheme and syllable counts for the poem.
a 8
b 8
a 8
b 8
c 6
d 6
c 6
e 8
e 8
f 8
f 8
g 10
h 10
I 10
h 10
g 10
j 4
j 4
k 12
l 12
m 12
m 12
l 12
k 12
n 1
What stands out to me are stanzas 3 and 6.
In stanza 3 switching from abab to aabb is jarring and can be an effective tool for emphasis. The earwig line is my least favorite of the poem as it seems shoehorned in there, so drawing attention to it shouldn't be your goal.
Stanza 6 stands out because it does not match stanza 8 in both rhyme and meter which is again, a tool which seems out of place here. They both should be 10 syllables abccba.
The poem rests on the last line breaking the form. It should be uniform until that point.
But all this begs the question, does this poem deserve meter and rhyme? As in, do meter and rhyme help the poem? Does form compliment meaning?
Considering the amount of awkward shoved-in lines, my answer is no—at least not without major reworking.
>>7700505
Time is up there with death and love for the title of “most overworked theme”
Here’s my edit:
Waves tickle our toes
tick by tick
The insidious tock
From quartz lips--
Second by second
it’s ichor oozes
As you can see, I cut out most of the poem. This edit is less helpful than going through it line by line.
>Waves lap at our toes tick by tick
With you so far, normally I prefer “I” over “our” because you’re bringing me with you and maybe I don’t want to be a part of whatever you’re going to say.
>And we just can’t stop falling for
This line is really just in here for form. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t do anything. It just has 8 syllables and rhymes.
>The hour hand’s insidious trick;
How is it tricking us? What trick? You never answer these questions, so it feels like trick just rhymes with tick.
>Melted chessboard’s eroding core
Woah! Cool sounding line that comes out of nowhere and goes nowhere. Does it fit the poem? kinda-sorta-notreally
I recommend that if you’re going to have you’re a-rhyme be –ick, your b-rhyme should be –ock. You don’t have to say “tick-tock” if the poem does it for you.
>From those wretched quartz lips,
I like this line. “Those” sounds antique to me, “its” might be better.
>Second by second, slow,
I’m not sure about this line. Either repeat “second” or use “slow.” Both is overkill. “Slow seconds something something” or “Second by second motherfucker (or any other word)”
>A sundial’s ichor drips
Quartz is a relatively modern watchmaking material, it seems at-odds with “sundial.”
>>7700511
>We’re all buried up to the brain
Am I? With what?
>While earwigs march along the plain
Worst line in the poem. Breaks your rhyme scheme and just sucks.
>Past windmills made of hopes unclaimed
Unclaimed hopes.
>Stars bleed from galaxies unnamed
Unnamed galaxies. Also if you’re going to rhyme “-aimed,” don’t start both words with “un-.“ It feels tacky because the words are so similar. I would cut this stanza.
>From the mind’s soup rises a beast most vile
>All drooling, its seven mouths eat their fill
>Counterfeit crowns ajangle with dank spleen
>Yet far worse still, in chains beneath that hill,
>There ticks a phantom wreathed in threads of guile
This is where you’ve lost me with the “we/us” thing. You’re telling me the devil lives in my mind? Fuck you. Also what does time have to do with the devil? Is time the devil? That’s what you imply with your last stanza, but here are all these classical images which conflict with the whole 3 hands, 12 teeth thing. I would cut this stanza.
>Rejected breath
>inverted death
Cool lines, but they neither fit nor turn the poem.
>Three hands with twelve sets of teeth fracture a shingle
>Opening the roof to depraved euphoria
I like the hands and teeth, but “fracture” doesn’t feel like the right verb. I’ve never seen a roof held together by a single shingle. “Depraved euphoria” feels off here, I can’t put my finger on why.
>Through which an unsteady stream of chained faces pours
“Chained faces” doesn’t really do anything for me.
>As sense—common or otherwise—crawls on all fours
Crawling implies being on all fours, but fours rhymes with pours!
>Ahead of this writhing phantasmagoria
This line doesn’t make sense because youre about to say above.
>Far above, overseeing it all, a single
>Eye
Eyes oversee things. You’ve lost me again. Whose eye? Time’s eye or the devils? Why are they overseeing this crazy mental bullshit? Like I said above: if you’re going to break your meter here, you need to be uniform through the rest of the poem.
these houses left by desperate people
work unfinished and food still on plates
clothes strewn across floor and chairs
the food is rotting and its getting dark
ill need to search the next house over
the stars outside are a random mess
i hear a noise growing loud and close
Good or bad I've gone as far as I can with this.
>>7700432
Definitely. I think the Anon doing the rewrites is just showing possibilities for what could be done, not necessarily telling you what to do.
>>7700524
Kinda. I mostly cut garbage out of poems.
I don't write for people. I just tell them what's worth working with in their poems.
>>7700523
Very little has changed from the original. You are redundant with food (food on plates..food is rotting), and the last line is even more out of place than before.
>>7700505
>>7700517
>>7700511
Again, I didn't write it, but the title in the place where I stole it from was "Time And Tide In Waves" so the intent with that structure was probably to represent the tide receding and swelling (the variable size+meter of each stanza as the "waves" and the way they "grow" and "shrink" as the "tide"). One of the tags was "surrealism" so I assume the jarring/unfitting mental imagery was some sort of attempt at a dreamscape.
It seems like it was awkwardly slapped together around a predetermined meter and rhyme scheme overall.
>>7700556
Alright. I'm done then
>>7700584
Mopping
In the noxious cloud of cleaners
drifting up the stairs is
the mopper: face under bandana
scouring step after step
layers of filth and paint.
Sponge streaks on the floor
give the tile a grain like
hair or wood or the earth’s bones
we dig out of the ground
and bleach clean to admire
in white museums.
I read somewhere that we find
the most dinosaurs in WWI
battlefields, the earth freshly tilled
with metal explosions.
In a barracks the cleaning stew
would have a specific recipe
no one would follow, and there would
certainly be someone yelling.
At home, my mom’s own
toxic concoction would be thrown
together once a year, maybe,
when she was not too hungover
and the floor was in a state
that made her feel guilty.
"Stay out of the kitchen"
means
"Stay off the kitchen floor"
to three boys with a love
for chair gymnastics.
6 stitches one year
didn’t stop us.
Some things are harder
to quit than others
and there are often relapses.
Hold your breath, breathe, hold your breath
in rhythm, convincing rhythm, that
you are still in fact alive and the floor
is still in fact dead though now more sterile
like a folded hospital blanket or
coffins lined up neatly in the store.
We do not give much back to the ground.
We keep our rot in boxes and scrape
what we want from stones,
discarding debris deliberately.
Waste must be kept separate—
what else would you call dirt?
Here I am reminded of the preacher
who stared at the floor
when he spoke.
"God grows us like plants
and heaven is where our
roots reach down."
While the earth is eviscerated and mined
and stomped on and gouged and from
where all life springs.
>>7699026
all around me are familiar places
worn out faces
worn out plateses
>>7700584
No, I'm fine, and I don't feel confident enough yet in my own righting to critique someone else. I really just meant that the original was probably the best I could do, and it's time to move onto another poem, or to the next house.
>>7700593
Good rhythm and narrative overall. But I think your line breaks//ending are in want. Too much enjambment and not enough suspense//tension//irony between the line breaks.
weakest line endings: is, like, others, that, or, our, from...
>>7700600
Sometimes you gotta leave a poem for a bit. But there's a difference between "the best you can do" and "the best you can do right now"; I've got a lot of poems that are still on the back burner cause I don't got the skills to write 'em yet. Nothing wrong with that. Keep working hard.
>>7700618
I'll think on it every once in awhile, thanks.
>>7700584
I dunno, it's definitely awkward and amateurish, but a lot of your specific judgments about what is or isn't fitting seem highly arbitrary. I think it'd work if the word choice wasn't so haphazard and forced to fit the meter/rhyme scheme so much.
>>7700628
You're right. A lot of my judgements are arbitrary.
I'm not going to spend 2 hours writing an essay on a poem I don't like for an author who isn't present, so instead I'll ramble on about what I personally don't like.
>>7700328
Close Encounter
Breathing deep in child’s pose
for nowhere near eternity,
he found Andromeda’s lost
golden lock.
With tweezers, he picked it up,
half expecting it to writhe,
and thus confirm its alien nature,
until he remembered close encounters,
of any kind, end with an implant
you don’t notice for years—
a slow spasm in your cortex
sparks a small wormhole, and you’re finally crazy
enough to believe any of it happened:
the hole in the space suit,
the deep space laboratory,
the fumbling Mengelian probe,
the well-vacuumed space station.
The creature certainly grew two heads, he thought,
but could it ever learn to think about itself
in third person?
>>7699026
these houses are abandoned
the desperate have left them
food still on plates
clothes lying around
work unfinished
there's nothing here for me
i leave for the next house
stars a random mess
>>7700673
second line needs work, i feel like there should be something between the last and second last
I'm trying to perefect this as my first poem, pls help:
Vapid blocks of grey littered
The vast stretch of green fields.
Sheets of shining glass
Fillled the now decadent curves
Of once heavily laboured land.
In the far distance, solitary
Cattle grazed their lives away.
Upon this scene of tired
Ulster sat a little fellow:
A blackbird of honest voice
Who sang soft melodies of
Playing children and dying men.
This harbinger of happy days spoke
And for a moment I thought
That not all in this world
Are blind to the beauties of life,
And I myself was not alone.
But as the sun declined
And the moonlight rose,
We both returned to our affairs.
>>7700652
I'm flattered but no. Sorry
>>7700906
Some pls critique. Be mean and harsh.
Lathnos het faltern on the high stump
Tious masses rustling their coats in root-eaves below
while Istern hordes trample in a growing spiral
on gods' faces, antipodal.
Sammandrion, sivy settled Satremonger
he may be, lends animate to callowed, mallean Prentics
and holds barred many a mangled law-tracer
but has no heed of his brother
Taphylos, who's none below but the deads' hands
agaze to the primate roil past halted lands.
Ears scarred and torn off
all sound is distorted noise
eyes blurred and failing
a spot blotting out everything
throat tearing and bloody
my words are barks and growls
>>7699026
gay
Theonan, vie and storm-
only decay awaits,
cognot and lorn.
Anthrotist, pry and glean-
only decay awaits,
mechrous, unseem.
Hilean, sit and know-
only decay awaits,
Tel without throe.
Innocent, wake and rise-
only the day awaits,
all things your prize.
>>7700644
>nowhere near eternity
kek!
>>7702732
seems a little lean
but good start
First two stanzas of a longer poem I'm working on. Any suggestions as far as the scheme and rhythm? Should I add a syllable to the first lines, bringing it to seven, or does it work better with six?
---
Awheth to bleeding sky,
to comm without
Ans leading nigh.
Brontus stamp tall three the hills,
though greenling hands the raging still.
Orth left to haggard day,
brought low to ground
the Towers Ley.
Shrieking Bor the flesh to bite,
but low is warm and sacern light.
>>7700221
damn what a fix
>>7700221
>>7702849
Well I think it's a shit rewrite of what wasn't that good originally. The word desperately is too jarring, blocking off what flow the poem had, and while a lot of unnecessary shit from the original has been cut so has the narrative. We go from a description of abandoned houses to stars suddenly, no mention of leaving at all, and the reason given is that 'we know the stars are outside'. The line in the original projected loneliness, and was only a little too maudlin and typical. It should have been rewritten not eradicated.
>>7703022
That guy kinda seems like a pretentious fuck who knows less about poetry than he thinks he does. The original poem wasn't good, but the way he gutted it was completely uninspired and bland. A lot of his critique seemed like dumb shit along the lines of "this doesn't make sense to me" or "I don't like that".
>>7703029
agreed. The original needed work, but it had something there and the rewrite took it away. I'm looking at what I assume are other critiques of his and it's not looking good.
>>7701090
I like the first part. Good imagery. The second part seems like a Beatles lyric, and follows an almost limerick-like pattern. I'd say I don't like it, but my personal taste go against this and it could just be me. But maybe take out melodies, have the bird sing softly and change the second line to 'i thought for a moment".
>>7701446
This is a tough one to critique. Your grasp of language is better than mine. What I read I like, but I am concerned it doesn't flow very well. If you were to speak it aloud, do you think the rhythm would come easily?
>>7701959
death metal lyrics/10 but decent. needs an ending, some kind of point
This is just a quick stream of consciousness exercise but I'd love some criticism
There, he is beautiful. He has a head that holds me like a machine with awesome pulses, and god looking at him I just want to know his face. I want his face to be my instinct like a reaction to hold my breath in water, I want that face to be spilling into my eyes. His body is thin and he is a lovely human and of I don't want to be kissed or hugged or held or loved by him, I want to be hurt by him. He is too lovely and magnetic and too painful to look at, I want him to hit me. I want thick ropes of instinct and pain to swing from his fists into my jaw and I want to spin and spit and cry as he lays into me, god this is what I want. I want to feel the burn from his blows seep all syrupy and hot into my skin for hours after he is done, if I am conscious. He's a beautiful person and I want to give him something he can give all of his pain and worry and cry and sob and sad and hurt and anxious yes I want him to hand all of his to me so he will never have to feel that anymore because he is so much lovelier than me, I just want him to die already so he doesn't have to be suffocated in a world where people like me are meant to live.
>>7703231
I think this has potential. Try writing about the other senses and how they are stimulated/want to be stimulated. Also try a more eclectic thought pattern - perhaps the pain reminds them of a time in their childhood?
I don't really know what to call this? Prose poetry?
Post-modern introspection provides associated environments a commissioned ecological grandeur built for the hereditarily elegant one fussed with trend celebration and believe their diverse interests provide a profound dawn of beauty and design to their impermanent but aesthetic affairs manifesting itself in one’s residence with tea-drinking over an electronic centrepiece digitising the purposefully imperfect performance for your catalytic highrise high-culture reader currently training to be an imperial architect.
>>7703226
I always make sure my poems work spoken as well or better than read. That one in particular has a rhythm that shows up better spoken, but I think it could benefit from a few syllables chopped here and there.
My friends outside in the gray
while I sit waiting
joyful and weightless play
I regret staying
>>7704777
Too /r9k/.
any discernible talent?
The theater of desire is dark,
Resounding loud with hopeless loves
Releasing fervent shrieks into
The night, as limpid idols mount
The stage – a breast, a hip, a foot,
A tender cheek – encircled close
In blinding, shining mists - such warm
And lovely things that race and whip
Our blood, distract our thoughts, and seize
Our hearts with single-thoughted love
Such desperate hopes, now given furtive
Form inside the theater of the mind
where are you? -
that inky globe
whose curling waves
whirl childhood's oceans;
sailing creation
across the page
in ruler, metre, line.
Like a double couplet gull
ferrying time
inch by inch,
rhyme by rhyme,
trapped -
at this end of mine.
>>7706416
The first two lines are really awkward, but I can see this being very good with some tweaks.
Maybe:
"Desire's stage in shadow sits,
feckless love resounding through"
Also change "releasing" in the third line to a two-syllable word, like casting or throwing. Something with force, and brevity.
And yeah, these changes mean that you get a rhyming couplet in lines 2 and 3, but that gives the poem a rhythmic peak between the first two lines which are describing the stage and the rest which detail the things happening on it.
Last suggestion- do something drastic about that final line. It feels like a car crash in the middle of a nice country drive, but not a poetic car crash. You need to bring this poem to a slow stop, maybe add another line, but whatever you do, please get rid of "theater of the mind."
>>7699005
From my wattpad:
Five times I have tried to be
Original but I'm onlee
Reformin' the livin' deep.
Neither my eyes or familee've
Observed the true charitee
The times have changed two worse
Hollow claims and nothing's worth
I often dream 'bout a sweet world
No woes, no foes; just gay days.
Garble all you want, I don't care.
Welcome to my sweetest dream.
Each and ev'ry one just come in!
Longtime dreams will revive, laugh.
In my dreams, you take a nap.
Valve your life and all you have!
Eager euphoria'll give you earflaps...
Longtime friends will love who you are,
Original goals shall appear.
Vaunting their greatest vastness
Extending your pleasant visit.
Welcome to my deepest dream.
Eech o' them are per'fect...
Observe all the limitless
Narration Wee can think of.
Lovely Realitee o' loveliness
You must love forever.
Don't you find it perfect?
Eclipsing the sun, It is.
Children love silly games.
Are you ready for my play?
You must live for ever.
Welcome to my highest dream.
Everyone shall live forever.
Lunar time is aproaching.
Lunar time is nearer.
Chant your dreams, chant them now.
Rainfall shall announce our succes!
You...
>>7706582
The "poem" -more like a Lyric- is named:
My Sweetest Dream.
>>7706594
>Fail
...
>>7706568
hey, this is actually very helpful. thank you.
pls guys i need some criticism on this real quick. i don't want to seem dumb in front of the pretentious art students when i submit this tomorrow:
a banshee,
half a foot in the wind and the
other half keeping the tiles on the floor,
yelling,
but not so much to wake the canary
in the other room.
staunchly bloody fingers and a pair of glass teardrops (for empathy, i'm sure).
my queen glossed her eyes forcefully at him.
where will this memory go when the amphetamine glow subsides? if it matters
tomorrow i'll be anyone but me. i was born
a wolf's son. my mother crazy by the tundra
echoes, raised me a shadow and a runaway.
there's more to this but i just need some criticism/advice pls
>>7706937
If you're presenting it to pretentious art students, you'll be fine.
A shrill sound awakens a still body
a desire for an angry scream, trapped
won't come out, even softly
petty people pissed and fuming
family, I say, always comes with pain
the painted picture of ultimate relatability
the woes and throes of tantrums and temperament
cracking like a mirror thrown to the ground
faces still visible in the shards
collected and chosen to be mended and glued
or left in the pieces to remain unused
Walk,
down the same tired road.
Eat,
what your body craves for.
Hate,
the things your mind tells you to.
Love,
not a single one.
Repeat,
the same mistakes that I did.
Be your own frigid bitch, a drunk horrid mess.
My words worthless, life of the pretentious.
>>7699005
We get it, poets.
Things are like other things.
But things I care not about,
and people are all the same
so why not
write some poetry about them ?
Bards are dead, talent is thin
and poets are locked away
until the great second sin
is burnt down in my ashtray.
I would have given everything a face.
>>7707785
Sins are false advertisements on your way home.
>>7707791
They are actually a moral theory by Aquinas completely separate from religion altogether
I find solace in the broken shapes of my bedroom mirror,
the reflections that said I should hit once more,
hit something that isn't there.
I am here,
broken like the mirror in my room.
But unlike her shattered face,
I cannot me mended with ducktape or glue.
So I hit again,
maybe this time they will go away.
>>7707936
be mended*
ejaculate dripping
from my pulsing cock
its hard to find something more fitting
when all you got is rock
>>7708218
this is beautiful
one anon told me I had too many weak enjambments so i tried reworking it
Left is original
Right is revised
Am I going in the right direction?
any other criticism is welcome
>>7707784
The enjambment is bad desu. It adds nothing but a forced and ugly pause, which is jarring for no reason. To tell you the truth, this poem is really boring. It doesn't go anywhere, it doesn't say anything interesting that hasn't been said more elegantly a hundred times before.
The one redeeming feature is the "Be your own frigid bitch" part, which could be taken in isolation and used in a different piece, maybe.
>>7707936
CRAAAAWLING IN MY SKIN
THESE WOUNDS THEY WILL NOT HEAL
>Someone please tell me how to fix this
Pine fingers rake the sky
which is held down on all sides
bound by mountains.
It bleeds early sunset
and we could call it torture;
or we could call it something else.
Wood gouged cloud
the shade of maple
or flies stuck in amber
floats without motion
or the sluggish sliding up the sky
that airplanes do.
Musky dirt is our Chanel.
Tongues lick this distance,
eyes sniff the needles far from us,
dart more and more toward the smell of you
who is beside me
wrapped in the tartan of your people
who killed my people
and tortured others slow,
precise, on dark bruised nights,
hanging in the wind.
Headless, I bought you a
necklace made of zircon which was
nonetheless beautiful to the blind.
Retire this nasal eye to slow breathing.
The wrinkled sheet length changes
From two to one
from one to zero
until zero bleeds to utero;
this dark is fetal climbing through a pussy only physicians touch.
On my hands the look of you
on my ears the taste of you
against my nose the nose of you
on my tongue the sound of you
everything is the touch of you;
origin bleeds from two.
Retire these lips to slow breathing
>>7709927
>Pine fingers rake the sky
>which is held down on all sides
>bound by mountains.
>It bleeds early sunset
only reading this I would have rather read
>Pine fingers rake the sky.
>Held down on all sides
>bound by mountains,
>it bleeds early sunset
"which is" breaks it for me. After awhile it would be understood that it is in fact the sky being described and not the "pine fingers".
>>7709927
>CRAAAAWLING IN MY SKIN THESE WOUNDS THEY WILL NOT HEAL
is it strange that i wouldn't have instantly thought this if all he had done was change all the "I"s to "He"s? and make it all past tense or something?
>>7707936
>>7710126
*
>He found solace in the broken shapes of his bedroom mirror,
>the reflections that said he should hit once more,
>hit something that isn't there.
>He was there,
>broken like the mirror in his room.
>But unlike her shattered face,
>He could not be mended with ducktape or glue.
>So he hit again,
>maybe this time they will go away.
It's pretty bad regardless though.
>>7710079
Thanks man. I agree with you, I think.
Girls in their winter clothes
A tree’s falling leaves
Shade from the sunshine
A cold windy breeze
The moon’s somber face
A shadow’s dim light
The things that I love in life
Just don’t shine bright
A song whispered sullenly
The sun’s gentle flare
Soft snowy fields of white
And long flowing hair
A night’s somber, nipping breeze
A distant church bell
My mind slowly crumbling
My life locked in cell
For all the thoughts that I’ve fought
And all I might as well
For all the care that disappears
And passion that’s been quelled
No more time to stand around
No more time to grieve
For girls in their winter clothes
And trees’ falling leaves
Wrote it a bit ago, a bit childish but I like the initial and ending lines.
suppose that when i am dead
you will take me with you
in a cool jar under your coat
so that i may be there when
you visit an old friend or
walk along the bike path
or sit out on the baseball
field at night under the
fading glow or on
the bench down by
the station waiting
for an old red train
thinking about
the weather
or nothing
at all
just
your
thoughts
breathing
with me.
Words are
such trivial things.
But we cling to them,
write them down.
See?
I did it again.
Empty verses with no meaning.
In last night's dream
I fucked Rachel Green
Filling her holes with my cock.
Mind, building a scene,
Of what Geller has seen
Until pulled out of my love by the clock.
>>7699005
This is one I found in another thread:
Equality is something that is a thing that has the meaning of a purpose which happens to be the kind of thing that one might find slightly like a thing that people know about that is an idea that has a meaning that people put into action and make a situation with meaning that means that the idea is a movement and the movement is a force of nature gliding through space traveling at the speed of light but embedded into the hearts of the people of earth who hold in their hands the hands of the people they feel for and throw them into the cosmos to discover and become one with the universe.
Equality is a man under a bridge with a shirt for pants and gloves for socks. He doesn’t move but speaks in a tone like the bus above him and is heard by no one but speaks great words of wisdom. The day he dies he is surrounded by everyone from his home town and they cry without tears and say he was a good man. His spirit rises up into the sky and his molecules spread out and become part of the earth and his consciousness is devoured by the flying energy in the distant reaches of space and as we live on he becomes woven into our lives and we become him and he is us and he is all of the animals and the birds and they are him and at last he is free.
Equality is nothing. Equality is everything. Equality is powerful enough to be nothing at all and everything that is at the same time because we are equality and we are nothing. Yet to ourselves we are all that is for our knowledge of ourselves is limited and as we are all seen as equals we do not know what lies beyond because equality acts as the idea that has a purpose that has a meaning that is to become one with the universe. To be devoured by the energy of space and time. To become nothing.
To who am I to write?
That audience of my eye;
gold beached in blue,
orbiting marooned
an inward black.
Where sees the eye
but lack?
Green hills
Red skies -
pale stains
of holy skin -
drawn tight
around something.
>>7711008
I really like this
