I'll go first, setting the format:
I fucked my uncles wife while drunk
She claimed rape
I claimed inebriation
She played victim
I stayed adjacent
I loved my uncles wife while drunk
He's working late
I came wasted
He never knew
Until she had to face him
I see her walk through my decrepit life
Smiling and singing about something
I wish I could hear what she's singing
I wish I could see what she's seeing
Because without her voice I'm nothing
Without her breath still breathing
Without her step still crushing my ego
I would be the next an hero
is meaning in the prose or
in the author's writ
is the truth just a pose
or is it god's sweet wit?
I close the tome and ask for peace
but thirst for more blood ink
flay my flesh then fry in grease
may i never sleep a wink
library walls loom over me
my tomb this has become
dusty are the pages, see?
my ghost gives all welcome.
Once amidst my mundane day
I catch a waft of truth or something other than what I have become
And while I twinge, in that spark of a moment
I leave it behind and instead watch the frost cover my soul in apathetic understanding
And it's easier to be
So I don't care
poems about writing are boring and overdone. Also, the structure is nothing special and you say nothing new.
The poem is not horrible, it's actually competent. but it's a failure because it says nothing, conveys nothing.
the structure is very prose-like. This, in this case, is not okay. The ideas you're trying to write would benefit if you'd try to change te structure of your thoughts, making htem more poetic. Ideas, in poetry, benefit more if written as concepts, or symbols, "cut" in the next line. Also, you should break lines more often. Your poem, the way it's laid out, makes for a fast read and the ideas are not well absorbed.
In short, it's not done. You need to change it, I think.
Thanks man. I just wrote it as I posted it so it didn't have much thought going into it. I might work on it at a different point in time and vet it out but this indifference to my general life at the moment is pretty much conveyed in the face that I wrote that in 2 minutes and I doubt I'll look at it again.
Write this the other day, first poem ever. I know you only want current feels but I can't get this event out of my head and I like your critiques so could you give me a hit m8?
Literally just wrote this after coming back from a walk, please don't hate, I've never wrote a full poem before:
Soulless blocks of grey littered
The vast stretch of green fields.
Sheets of shining white glass
Fillled the now decadent curves
Of once heavily laboured land.
In the far distance lonesome
Cattle grazed life away.
Upon this scene of tired
Ulster sat a little fellow:
A blackbird of truthful voice
Who sang sweet 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,
But as the sun declined,
And the moonlight rose,
We both returned to our affairs.
well, of course, it was to write a poem in that moment, it's only natural if the poem seems rushed, or not well-thought out. I wasn't trying to be rude or anything, thanks for taking well the constructive criticism.
You adjectivate too much. The adjectives kill the poem and purity of its images and thoughts.
Change it, take things out, it's okay. A good poem, even if it's a short one, needs time to mature and to be constructed properly.
you ask where am i
as if you hadn't known
as if i could have died
and it wouldn't have shown
i ask where are you
as you were the one who left
as you were pondering what you knew
and pretending to act bereft
hm? no, i didnt write a long poem. i wrote the one about reading, and being bored with reading in general, and that it would kill me with books still around me, hoping that someone would occupy my library after i die, so i could read over their shoulders. it wasnt fully formed, of course :P but that was my general sentiment in the tiny poem i wrote.
how about these two, very different points in my life. very short, very quickly written.
These thoughts culminate,
dulcet tones penetrate,
forgone runes illustrate,
what callous fools generate,
fleeting time evades grasp,
silver tongues blindly rasp,
to young hands dying clasp,
escape fate's bloody maw,
sought truth amidst flaw,
revolved doors eviscerate,
this bloody primate,
the Ultimate Vertebrate.
She looked at me for a moment locked in time
eyes, emerald gilded sunspots through shattered glass,
this ore a boon, alloyed spirit held at length,
winds of change spewed from Eden's maw,
eyes now further than the stars littering the empty sky,
those eyes, now sultry soil.
That's up to you, but I would change "souless" to something else; "decadent" curves, "lonesome" cattle, "sweet" melodies... these are very cliche.
Also, I forgot to say the most important thing: the ending is actually quite, quite good. If you're going to fiddle with it, be very careful because you could end up breaking the rythm and the beauty of it. I would leave as it is.
>"decadent" curves, "lonesome" cattle, "sweet" melodies... these are very cliche
>Also, I forgot to say the most important thing: the ending is actually quite, quite good. If you're going to fiddle with it, be very careful because you could end up breaking the rythm and the beauty of it
holy shit really? I can slapped that on the end at the last minute cause I felt it ended too abruptly. I was actually gonna expect to get hate for the ending.
The leaves scratch as they blow
Across the pavement.
Autumn's air is scentless.
The contrast between
Soft greys and browns;
They sing to me.
An earthworm writhes from
Below, rising out of
Shards of dead leaves.
The rain, still misting,
Separates us apart.
Can't say much, won't say much, I'm leaving in 5 minutes.
But your poem would already be better if you took out all of that punctuation. There's no need for it, the line breaks actully help with the poem's flow better than the punctuation; try it. It will make it better, I promise.
The machine broke long ago
but we can still hear it humming.
I spent the night throwing some
prayers up to the stars.
The Terror cracked through the
bloated sky this morning.
The malaise grows,
and the last light of the world
sputters and goes dark.
I was just telling the truth.
By not being so generic.
By having something fucking worthwhile to convey.
I could go on...
I'm not ''trolling''. I was just giving an honest opinion. An opinion from someone who has read more than ten thousand poems, and does so for a living.
''Put lipstick on a pig ... and it's still a pig''
Nice guy, huh? I bet you get all the chicks
Like the slow drip of time from the hand of a clock,
My anus aches and throbs and aches for veiny cock.
How glad I am that culture sees my longing sane:
My faggot tendency, my asshole's will to fain!
And so I write a piece of verse to speak the foam
-y dick'd provider hence: a jigg'lo named Jerome,
Who puts it in and pulls it out and puts it in
-to my dripping and foaming and bleeding hole of sin.
Dear Muse: methinks myself a poet of the ass!
I sing of cum and dicks, tell tales of sassafras.
Believe, I write real well: "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty..."
But nothing's more the truth than faggot booty!
To the living still and the dead who may hear
The future you left me inspires the days of new ways
Beautiful is just a word so often you repeated
Some knew it truly, I constantly cheated
Only Keats felt what I myself kept inside
Like I was around, but never alive
I see beauty in the face of my lovers
The cheap thrills, books and lives of the others
Thin carmine veins protrude the corners of your bright blue eyes
Dense, dark grey bags below; droopy eyelids; downwards notched head
Blonde hair aflame from rays of morning sun
Faded expression, wilting small bright lips
I can't help but stare; in your mess of jaded tiredness, your beauty lights my soul from an empty place
I muster a smile through my fantasy of you
You glance over
I make eye contact, resting my face on my fist
Silence falls, time slows, my heart stops
I mean, yeah its not great but it's not meant to be. The ending is a bit disjointed in terms of the imagery used in the first few lines. It's predictable from the second line which is fine because it's a short thought. One thing that seriously bother me was >I wish could be cleaned because grammatically it automatically becomes a reference to the hair which pulls the reader away from what they interpret this greased head to be and now just sounds like you need shampoo. It takes away they're imagination.
I was walking
in a bad area
Some jigaboo was talking
I pulled out my gun cocking
it with anxiety hysteria
they saw me and started flocking
I shot nine of them
I don't think I'm going to get away with it this time.
but my life is purple tasteless shit. i have literally nothing new to offer. reading anything i'd write at this point would be waste of time or if i printed out book, waste of money.
0.0001% of the people are good enough poets for somebody to invest time in money into reading them imo and not even them always
demented like Edgar Poe
bound skin orphan on deathrow,no hoper,forgot you put yourself there when all your achievements turnt to dispair
no going forward,sordid mess pulls your best chance back to the catch 22.no decision made is right but here I am moon light ranting asking the benevolent for a better life.
no wonder I popped pills to live with the hand I've been given, No education is worth getting when communication skills are lacking, rejected Cvs make you see a new perspective about how the world turns daily.
It's fun to blow your load over Amys picture daily, she won't mind you're a schizo typical guy just take her behind the bushes and fuck her already but you're a neckbeard loner,no hoper, fill the room with zyklon B and breath deeply.
DFW had a normal, upper-middle class upbringing with little-no tragedy which is adequate for most people.
In fact, a lot of people would kill to have an upbringing like that.
He was just severely depressed and so were most authors
“The spiritual haughtiness and nausea of every man who has suffered profoundly – it almost determines the order of rank how profoundly human beings can suffer – his shuddering certainty, which permeates and colors him through and through, that by virtue of his suffering he knows more than the cleverest and wisest could possibly know, and that he knows his way and has once been ‘at home’ in many distant, terrifying worlds of which ‘you know nothing’ – this spiritual and silent haughtiness of the sufferer, this pride of the elect of knowledge, of the ‘initiated,’ of the almost sacrificed, finds all kinds of disguises necessary to protect itself against contact with obtrusive and pitying hands and altogether against everything that is not its equal in suffering. Profound suffering makes noble; it separates."
“Man, as the animal that is most courageous, most accustomed to suffering, does not negate suffering as such: he wants it, even seeks it out, provided one shows him some meaning in it, some wherefore of suffering.”
“The discipline of suffering, of great suffering – do you not know that only this discipline has created all enhancements of man so far? That tension of the soul in unhappiness which cultivates its strength, its shudders face to face with great ruin, its inventiveness and courage in enduring, preserving, interpreting, and exploiting suffering, and whatever has been granted to it of profundity, secret, mask, spirit, cunning, greatness – was it not granted to it through suffering, through the discipline of great suffering?”
“Actually, every major growth is accompanied by a tremendous crumbling and passing away: suffering, the symptoms of decline belong in times of tremendous advances…”
''If it is true that that which does not kill us makes us stronger, then it is equally true that by overcoming suffering, by facing it squarely and by not turning toward such overworn tools as “faith” and “hope”, we become something greater than what we were without suffering. “And if your hardness does not wish to flash and cut and cut through, how can you one day create with me? For creators are hard. And it must seem blessedness to you to impress your hand on millennia as on wax, blessedness to write on the will of millennia as on bronze – harder than bronze, nobler than bronze. Only the noblest is altogether hard. This new tablet, O my brothers, I place over you: become hard!”
“The greater the suffering, the greater the life.”
And now you see, your fortunate carefree middle class upbringing wasn't all that you were led to believe
sad sad sad girl made of tears and blood
soon to be made of:
dishonest hands going through soul mind heart body
why i did it
why nobody had done it sooner
sad sad sad girl made of
not tears nor blood
not lie nor delusion
This reminds me of the reason I hate Charles Dickens. Completely useless, long-drawn descriptions to take up space and attempt to hit on the use of pretty words. You can start the poem at "I can't help but stare" and still accomplish it.
Cuz this is just complete post-ironic millenial shit.
The only reason this isn't bad is because of the context of the thread. I kind of like the style but it feels like a hopeless try at expressing your self loathing...but not in a particularly great tragic way.
I mean... You know I didn't quite mean it reminded me of Dickens though right? Honestly, taking out all the uselessness at the front, it was a nice emotion for a quick poem, it was just boring by the second line for me.
>and it wouldn't have shown
>and pretending to act bereft
Neither keeps in rhythm. Overall it's juvenile. Also, the 'you' changes themes from first to second stanza in a weird confusing way. And
>as you were pondering what you knew
is so disjointed I now have no idea what you are talking about
Here's my poem >>7607371 it's an acrostic
This is weird, you're striving too hard to capture some huge feeling. but that huge feeling is just the increasing pressure of your melodrama on repeat
bad form, but at least you get an idea across. 6/10
>the future you left me
I almost stopped reading
but i kept chugging on and it continued to be bad
this is leagues better than your poem
>broke long ago but we can still hear it humming
this is gay
>the rest of it
okay you at least captured an image but then was gay and meaningless
im not paranoid
im really going to die someday
the question is:
is "I" delusion of grandeur?
or something somatic?
is life a soul's idol?
or is it a racket?
if I die alone,
will time hear me say:
it's a formality anyway
We rake a rim across a glistening arm
and scoop up tears of midnight labour's dew,
whose pungent fragrance is a healing balm
to cure the sting of hovel-wall mildew.
Taste starship, starship gravy
the homemade biscuits made o' glue
baked scarlet bacon so blue
Now that the time has come for me to say hello,
grant me a wish for snow on the barren Mars
scolding mothers floating round the Milky Way
storks holdin' packages nine months late
After all this I taste my
taste my starship, starship gravy, starship navy,
homemade biscuits made o' glue (made o' glue)
blackened scarlet bacon so blue like earth's atmosphere
Starship gravy, with meteor-like lumps through it
breakfast planet, tiger captains, and frogs that smack their food
come out and see the variety I am the manager of the
Tasty starship gravy (gravy with a "Q")
homemade biscuits made o' glue (factory, poor horsie)
broiled scarlet bacon so blue (pigs aren't around, let's use you!)
Shrimp fried behemoth, sautéed steamed broccoli
now serving whipped cream made from the clouds in your dream
out here, I put it on sale, my boat for you to scrutinize, not buy
not my precious supermarket merchandise, hey, you have enough trees so take some hospitality
tasteless starship, starship gravy (with meat-like chunks, though meat free)
homemade biscuits made o' glue (accept them, they might make you choke and turn blue)
seared scarlet bacon so blue (for use degreasing starship gravy)
So come on down, help clean (it's a mess)
and taste our starship gravy!
I'm walking a fine line,
one where each side is defined
by the measure of nostalgia
and the stagnancy of time
Here comes a feeling I'd thought
a memory, a memoir;
this happiness has made my heart rotten
"I am unique", I say to the man in the mirror
To me, not men before I, it is clearer,
that I am not pretentious, nor pompous,
I'm walking a fine line;
I am ready to fall this time.
I kept thinking about it so I tried to change it around a bit. I think it sounds worse now though. More try-hard so now I'm lost
Maybe once, amidst every mundane day
I'll glimpse a waft of truth or something
Other than what I have become
And while I twinge
In that spark of a moment I already know
I'll leave it to dull
And instead, in apathetic understanding, watch the lazy frost bristle across my soul
And it's easier to be
So I don't care.
Garage with two hundred cars
Hotel with two hundred rooms
Mind with two hundred thoughts
Soul with two hundred dooms
I could not see the rising dawn
Cleaning up an oil spill
ExxonMobil's dead and gone
I would have cleaned it but I had no will
It's cool. And yeah that's why comments like that are asses. They're genetic and pretentious. And poetry isn't about to get very many people very far in life, it's not about that really. You can keep writing bad poems your whole life and that's cool if you feel your getting shit out of it
the bleach washed away from your hair/
except for one curl - amber, ornaments
But breathing your neck, fuzz like light air/
This is why i will never pay the rent.
Frankly, all i want is to tear/
apart that curl and wash away your sickly-sweet scent..
I wanna be a beautiful boy
Rulling my kingdom of dreams
All the other boys will envy me
When I put on my diamond tiara
I'll shine brighter than all the princesess
And I'll rule over them and make them
Love me even more
All the boys will want me
All the boys will love me
And to some I will give a piece of my ass
Three hours more, the great turning point of it all
Of nothing, really, it will come to pass
That nothing important passed these lips in three hours more.
For nothing in the world will know you.
I am the roach clip arabesque
I am the chain link fence
I am the roman cathedral
And candle, too
I am the stop signs
And cars passing by
I am the litterbug bedpans
And the inner city blues
I am the body malfunctioning
I am the derisive Mr. ...
I am the subtle cold
I am the sidewalk, dirty in my scope
I am the half smoked cigarettes, basking in the heat
R8 my shitpost/review pls /lit/fags
I almost felt bad for Lazarus
Rising again from funeral mound
This way, it is not a gift
To get another go around
When everything is not satisfied
with your gift of all of you
You will find your mind is calcified
Your everything is sick
Eggs and baskets, what you're told
If logic applied
No logic nor thought, only echo
All hollowed out
If amidst these tumbling forces
The spurs of my will gained quantum significance
These rigid, ever-centrifugal stretches
Into the rebellious shapes of ripples I'd lead.
With one arm raised, I'd hover askew
With both to the skies, I'd garner the holiest pleasures.
And I'd draw those ripples in a graphite timeline
And I'd seek Bureaus and air-tight suits
And I'd hand my notes to various men
Who'd eventually know how it fell into shape
The event would accord the probable norm
And I would never have it all for myself.