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Real Poetry Thread
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You are currently reading a thread in /lit/ - Literature

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Last was high jacked by trollfags. Honest critique. I'll bump with a few of my own shitty poems.
Kiss Me
And tell Me you love me
Let me taste your secrets
And let passion
Guide the night
Time passes slowly
Sitting down without you here
Seconds feel like years
I see you, now time is fast
Slipping away, please come back
Have you ever seen
Someone beautiful like you
I don't think I have
highly cliched-sounding language.
These are awful mate, honestly. Is this just a trollfag thread? I'll try one and you can say it's shit too.

My love, my dog.
Without you, who would be there
to snuffle by my bedside
wet nose as dawn calls
I sigh, not another morning
scrambling for switches
because it is winter, and the light
is thinner than cold fugs,
these that I see black fromm the black window
while my coco pops go crunch.

Our anxiety is gone.
What’s to be gotten–it lies there–
firm steps towards it to secure our longing.
We won’t shame ourselves at yearning
for what should never have been flubbed away.

If you believe God now believes in you,
call hallelujahs in the silence of your heart.
The bible has said it, we blast down walls
amid great fanfare.

The runnel cuts a mental path
wider than what can be contained in any
bloodless selfishness one denizen could
muster against this year’s anxieties. So walk.

My friends, I love you–and so sustain you
in majesty according to my best wishes.
The crudity in my soul is no measure
for the exhilaration which I am seeing capable in us all.

I’ve got the sense we’re gonna take it without fences.
They can make their interiors smell like bleach all they want.
Won’t matter.
that's a nice piece of light verse dude.
Cheers, I did used to write a lot of poetry but I could never read enough of it to do anything decent.
One day, somehow, someway, there appeared a stain
But it was no smear; it was a splatter of red paint

I wondered how it got here, but it didn’t matter
Since it seemed to me it was no more than a simple spatter

However, I needed to clean the wall before anyone had a chance to see
In fear the stain would be too hurtful for me

But as I tried to clean with all my might, I could not erase the stain from site
Despite my fight, against the stain, it remained the same: bright as night

I knew I had to run away or find another way to scrape it away
Because I've seen other people's walls decay in a similar way
When people face pain many turn to God and pray

Others, however, fall prey to the sadistic claims of a sharp blade
But a knife cuts deep and puts life in harm's way
Maybe one day we'll weep for those who trudge along carrying pain

How far can they crawl on their knees with the scars on their arms and legs?

As they plea to pass away
People claim time alleviates all pain but how can it soothe this rotten stain
Formatting changed when I posted it :/
There nothing here that really excites me. The image of the smear on the wall as extrapolated to personal stains seems trite to me.
I guess this is the 'realest' poem I've ever written. Or at least have written down.

On a rejuvenating evening close,
Sitting alone, and drinking the same
Old crusty bottle dry, and my head
Ringing with tired cries, I'm stricken dead
By dancing rabbits bouncing on their toes.

Their lofty elegance parting an iced sea,
Camouflaged for a moment, until, "There!
Right past the fence! I saw them! Come and see!"
And all returned were the snores of a bear.

The rabbit's tracks allowed me to stay close.
I followed them 'til the trees were the same,
'Til the snow covered up my ravaged head;
And then I found the rabbits, frozen dead,
With blood stuck to their fur for me alone.

And weeping vanished to fierce roaring growls
That thrashed the merging trees loose of all their
Tender snow, snow that shadows what I see;
The voracious, beady gold eyes of the bear.
For my playwriting class we all brought in a small piece of writing that had language we found interesting. We got in groups of three. I brought in the first verse and refrain of Emily by Joanna Newsom. One guy brought in a small part of The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County by Mark Twain. One girl brought in a Philip Larkin poem. Then our instructor made us write using the style of the piece we brought in and write from the perspective of the speaker as if that speaker wants something from one of the other two characters. I did this and changed Emily to Eleanor because using the same name would be extra lame.

The frog and old Smiley Webster all say that
The bread of the birch is the base of the belly's beloved
And the whimsical rhymer hoards the riches of Kaisers
As Eleanor sleeps none the wiser but whispers to me
That that man in the bar is a liar, a liar, a liar
Spinning tales of old tadpoles trapped drowning in fish bowls
Who never jump out of the fire, the fire, the fire
So I recruit Larkin and use both our voices to pull good old Eleanor back to good choices
Our lyrical boldness will bound the now-hopeless
With bricks as they sink in the river
Drowning in dampness they'll mildly panic
in stoic acceptance, their efforts invested are sunk costs like ships on Lake Huron
Me and you, Philip, my God what great teamwork
We just put quite a stir of a play on
I guess I'd be a hero
With sword and armor clashing
Looking semi dashing
A shield within my grip

Or else I'd be a viking
And live a life of daring
While smelling like a herring
Upon a viking ship

I'd sail away, I'd see the world
I'd reach the farthest reaches
I'd feel the wind, I'd taste the salt and sea
And maybe storm some beaches
That's who I'd be, that's who I'd be

Or I could be a poet
And write a different story
One that tells of glory
And wipes away the lies

And to the skies I'd throw it
The stars would do the telling
The moon would help with spelling
And night would dot the 'I's

I'd write a verse, recite a joke
With wit and perfect timing
I'd share my heart, confess the things I yearn
And do it all while rhyming
But we all learn, but we all learn

I must always hide
My fate is known
I must always stay
In the dark and all alone

So yes, I'd be a hero
And if my wish were granted
Life would be enchanted
Or so the stories say

Of course I'd be a hero
And I would scale a tower
And save a hot house flower
And carry her away

But standing guard there'd be a beast
I'd somehow overwhelm it
I'd get the girl, I'd take a breath
And I'd remove my helmet

We'd stand and stare, we'd speak of love
We'd feel the stars ascending
We'd share a kiss, I'd find my destiny

I'd have a hero's ending
A perfect happy ending
That's how it would be
A big bright beautiful world
But not for me
>And to the skies I'd throw it
The stars would do the telling
The moon would help with spelling
And night would dot the 'I's

I like this.
Shit, forgot too greentext, keep posting though, it's entertaining.
To Pretend
It’s 4:51 am on a Friday night and
I should be sleeping and I can’t
Not because I have insomnia but just
because it’s getting harder.

And I’m sitting here now in front of the computer
and I can hear the clicking of the keyboard as I’m hitting the keys
Too hard
And I wish it was because of anger but it’s just the frustration
because it’s getting harder and harder and I can’t do anything about it
and I can’t make it stop and I can’t make it go away or shut up
and I can’t make it and
I can’t.

It’s getting harder.
It’s getting harder to pretend
It’s getting harder to pretend that I’m having fun when I’m not
to pretend that I want to laugh
that I’m still funny on the inside.
To pretend that I am interested in what people are saying,
to pretend I have something to say
to pretend that I still think it’s worth pretending.

It’s getting harder to pretend that I still care about vinyl and headphones
To pretend that I’m still an audiophile,
or that I still enjoy hiking and swimming and music;
To pretend that my hobbies still interest me or that I want to find new hobbies
Because I don’t, I don’t want to find anything but I have to because the opposite is
To pretend that I feel the difference,
to pretend that I care,
To pretend that I give a shit what I look like,
or sound like, or what people think,
To pretend that I’m not just a bystander in my own head
Paying rent and doing chores
But living in the basement and staring at the same four walls peeling
And pretend that I don’t see the same walls every time I go outside.

To pretend that things are still pretty and girls are still attractive
And the ocean is still vast
And the mountain is still imposing and not just the
same old shit I see every day
The same peeling walls that I’m staring at
And I can’t hear anything over the deafening silence in my own head.

And people say to seek help but what help can I get
When I don’t even want to get better
I just want it to stop
I want the walls to peel away and eat into themselves and
House to crumble
and the silence to just go away

And every day it gets harder to pretend that I’m the same person that I was
Years ago,
Or that the person is still somewhere inside,
Or that there is a person in there at all

To pretend that I can get excited or angry or sad
To pretend it’s not getting harder to breathe
To pretend I’m still funny
or that I still remember what funny means and that there are other reasons to laugh
except not to cry

Harder to pretend I still have goals and ambitions
Dreams, wishes, desires, wants, needs,
To pretend I care what comes tomorrow
or Today,
To pretend I’m excited about the things I want to be excited about

To pretend that I’m not pretending.

To pretend I’m still alive.
Posted this a while back but never got critique.

Do you know how many times I've stared through you and thought
This is the end
But I've felt the weight of what that meant and thought
I'm too young to die
So I turned away and when I faced you again
You thought I was silly
And life was just plain
But today
It was so gloomy all day today
The snow was meant to come but never came
What's the point of winter without snow
What's the point of you and me
But I'll turn away
And you'll never look up
And we'll spend the rest of our lives
With each other
Because we're meant to be
>taste your secrets
So how am I to make it day to day,
if only pushed by the thought that somewhere,
in some universe
There is a version of me,

with you
and, there, I am happy.
Wrote this as part of a story. pls be gentle, I've never written a poem seriously before.

pawn, knight, royal, bishop, rook
we hope they’ll find what for they look
men aplenty gods a few
is a lonely heart worth the lot they drew

rat-king, feline, serpent, bird
their game is on but their roles transferred
change, create, shape, shock and spin
not too long till their war begins

cook, tramp, gamer, devil, martyr
they had no chance to choose or barter
safety keep them and us all
should they fail the sky may fall

pawn, knight, royal, bishop, rook
we hope they’ll forgive us for what we took
men are many but options few
sacrificed for the lot they drew
You won't like to hear it but I'll be honest as possible. I've read enough to know if a poem is atleast somewhat decent or absolute shit. It's like, just, my opinion, dude... I know... But still.
Don't get mad if it's shit. Not everyone was meant to be a poet. It's as simple as that. Some of you just haven't put the time in and somehow believe you're a genius even though you don't know what a stanza is. Or, well... anything about poetry, really.
This isn't your diary.

Cliche. Shit.

See above

Shit. Genuinely shit.

Shit. All those ''buzzwords'' of a psuedo intellectual.
Sort it out.

Dropped at ''somehow, someway'' and stain.
Read more before attempting poetry.

Too much. Way too much. Reads like a teenagers attempt after reading Blake for the first time. Get off this board if this is all you can produce.

Absolutely worthless. What are you doing?
Pottery, maybe. Poetry? Not a fucking chance.

''I just watched a marathon of vikings and browsed /pol/ for an hour''

Dropped. Dropped. Dropped at the first fucking line.
>It’s getting harder.
>It’s getting harder to pretend
My, how creative and groundbreaking.

>this is the end
Yeah, so it should be. Wake up tomorrow and go back to work... And I don't mean poetry.

Just stop.
You've never read poetry in your life, have you?


You've got to be pulling my cock, right? This can't be it.
You didn't shit on mine ugu~
>Just stop.
>You've never read poetry in your life, have you?

no, never.
Yeah I skipped it because it's too short and also shit.
There are shorter poems than yours, of course. But they actually convey something, anything.
Yours was like a mashup of pop culture quotes and ''vibes'' concentrated into 6 lines to form a plebian ''diary entry'' type poem.

In this particular artform, It's safe to assume that the juice isn't worth the squeeze for you, and It likely never will be.

Okay. Come back in 30 or so years when you believe you've seen everything.
Well then lets work on it huh? Where are you seeing the pop cultures quotes,
and what do you mean "vibes."
Also, why do you think it's not conveying anything?
I don't want you.
I want what you represent,
a gleaming display of the muses of myths.
your strength lies in your effect on those who meet you, and this power is the sweetest honey to your lips.
Those lips, extended beneath your nose, pouting in expectancy.
I will make solitude my bride,
and my heart will beat as it has since i was born.
Look at me, my heart pumping just from your touch,
I feel like a little boy when you laugh,
My mind boils when you flirt with a man.
It is jealousy that i feel, and I hate myself, for my knees are bloodied by my devotion to you.
I hold in my mind an image of a girl,
you break the mold and twist it round my neck, strangling the words before my lips express them...

Panic is the last
bastion of the
man without
a choice between
bad and worse
In early morning
I shield my eyes
from the bright sun.
When the truth of day
can shine free,
my weakness keeps me from the image
of the grass bathed in
an almost motherly warmth
Our fragile existence balanced
by but a few coincidences
we accept our life as a gift.
yet we are spoiled children.
our gift is thrown in the dirt
and spat upon by
the very people who depend on it.
Dancing on coals above a lake of ice
wasnt the best idea, it seems.
You can't ''work on it''...
This is not some fucking high school project. You can't just ''wing it''
You don't sit around and force yourself until you think of something to write. Why do people think poetry is like some sort of songwriting circle? This is not a fucking ''creative writing'' class. You will not be able to consciously outdo the greats who have came before you. Some of them spent 50 years mastering their craft. You don't just get to decide to be a poet one day and off you go... Well, you can but you end up writing shit like you have posted.

>So how am I to make it day to day,
First line is dull and doesn't even sound okay
>if only pushed by the thought that somewhere,
What is being pushed? My face into the palm of my hand?
>in some universe
Le Universe, is so grand... like woah, has anyone ever thought this too?
>There is a version of me,
Lol. I've seen this in so many other places. Films, poems, books... it is almost like it's not even there at all

>with you
>and, there, I am happy.
?? Shit. It's shit. It is honestly like a childs attempt at their first poem.
Well then if that's the case why even have these threads?
It's called constructive criticism for a reason.
I'm not trying to "outdo the greats," why would you think I'm trying to do that? I'm trying to express a feeling in a certain way.

As for your comments

Yeah I don't like the first line, it's strange and I agree, so I changed it.

The second line has been changed as well, but it means that I am being pushed, what's keeping me going essentially. I changed that line to be a little more direct, and convey that point in a better way.

The third line doesn't mean this universe, it means that there is an alternate universe in which I am with this girl, because for everything that is possible there is a separate universe in which it's happening etc. etc. I'm sure you know that. So I changed that line to clarify a bit more.

And the fourth can be changed to be more eloquent if you think that's the problem.

And what's the issue with the last two lines? you just said they were shit. What makes them shit? I've changed them a little bit as well.

I know "the greats" have spent lifetimes working to become as skilled as they were. I'm not trying to surpass them, I'm trying to improve through reading, writing, and through criticism just like I'm sure they did.
Also, if you've written any, can you post one of your poems?
File: pepe of injustice.jpg (20 KB, 400x388) Image search: [iqdb] [SauceNao] [Google]
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>tfw my poems go unnoticed
Which one was it, i'll read it ugu
>I'm not trying to "outdo the greats,"
Then what the fuck are you doing?
>I'm not trying to surpass them
If not, then what are you doing?
Seriously? I'd love to know.
If your aim isn't to convey something in a way that hasn't been done before and is genuine... then what are you doing writing poetry? Write a fucking diary.

As for the rest of your post:
I don't care. I gave my opinion as someone who has read alot of poetry. If you think poetry is like high school then ignore my opinion and continue on. While you're at it, you may aswell sign up for art school and buy ''A Dummies Guide To: Poetry''
Maybe I'm wrong but I'm willing to put money on the fact that you:
1) Middle class
2) Relatively comfortable
3) Average intelligence
4) Boring
5) Damaged self esteem
6) Like hip-hop
7) Have never read poetry

>if you've written any, can you post one of your poems?
Implying I'd post my hard work on the internet, for free, just so that it can be read and forgotten within two seconds due to all sorts of different reasons.
I would never cheapen my work like that.
Also, I don't need validation where as you clearly do.
I. 1981

When I am so small Da’s sock covers my arm, we
cruise at twilight until we find the place the real

men lean, bloodshot and translucent with cool.
His smile is a gold-plated incantation as we

drift by women on bar stools, with nothing left
in them but approachlessness. This is a school

I do not know yet. But the cue sticks mean we
are rubbed by light, smooth as wood, the lurk

of smoke thinned to song. We won’t be out late.
Standing in the middle of the street last night we

watched the moonlit lawns and a neighbor strike
his son in the face. A shadow knocked straight

Da promised to leave me everything: the shovel we
used to bury the dog, the words he loved to sing

his rusted pistol, his squeaky Bible, his sin.
The boy’s sneakers were light on the road. We

watched him run to us looking wounded and thin.
He’d been caught lying or drinking his father’s gin.

He’d been defending his ma, trying to be a man. We
stood in the road, and my father talked about jazz,

how sometimes a tune is born of outrage. By June
the boy would be locked upstate. That night we

got down on our knees in my room. If I should die
before I wake. Da said to me, it will be too soon.

II. 1991

Into the tented city we go, we-
akened by the fire’s ethereal

afterglow. Born lost and cool-
er than heartache. What we

know is what we know. The left
hand severed and school-

ed by cleverness. A plate of we-
ekdays cooking. The hour lurk-

ing in the afterglow. A late-
night chant. Into the city we

go. Close your eyes and strike
a blow. Light can be straight-

ened by its shadow. What we
break is what we hold. A sing-

ular blue note. An outcry sin-
ged exiting the throat. We

push until we thin, thin-
king we won’t creep back again.

While God licks his kin, we
sing until our blood is jazz,

we swing from June to June.
We sweat to keep from we-

eping. Groomed on a die-
t of hunger, we end too soon.

this un and this un,
wrote them both methed out at a shitty time in my life.
*Snap snap snap snap*
>Then what the fuck are you doing?
I enjoy writing mate, however it's not what I'm planning on doing with my life.
I would like to write, and I really enjoy poetry but as of now I'm not trying to be the very best.

>If your aim isn't to convey something in a way that hasn't been done before and is genuine... then what are you doing writing poetry?

I never said that wasn't my aim, it is, and just because I'm trying to do that doesn't mean I'm trying to surpass anyone. It's not a contest.

>Implying I'd post my hard work on the internet, for free, just so that it can be read and forgotten within two seconds due to all sorts of different reasons.
>I would never cheapen my work like that.

You're a pretty pretentious guy.

>Also, I don't need validation where as you clearly do.

These threads aren't for validation, it's for constructive criticism.
why exactly are you asking for advice from such a dbag?
The first one was much better than the second.
The second was so whiney and obnoxious, to me at least (no offense)

>I will make solitude my bride,
Cliche and a little too edgy for my taste
>and my heart will beat as it has since i was born.
Duh. Cool heart idea but make it something better than that
>My mind boils when you flirt with a man.
It is jealousy that i feel, and I hate myself, for my knees are bloodied by my devotion to you.

Little too middleschool-y, but I get what you mean

>I hold in my mind an image of a girl,

Good, alright

>you break the mold and twist it round my neck, strangling the words before my lips express them...

And it comes crashing down.
post some of your own Ah-mazing work then faggot
Because nobody else gave any feedback,
I have the revised version of the poem if you wanna take a look m8
i guess so. i'm not much of a critic, but i just write shit emotionally. i feel like criticism is a logical based thing. but shoot.
I'm 19 years old.

I am handsome, smart, athletic and virile.

I have a novel that is in it's final editing stage, and a creative writing professor at my college has read the first draft and thinks it's saleable.

I have a girlfriend who is confident, articulate, playful and spontaneous.

I have a small group of interesting friends from different social and academic backgrounds, and I also have many other acquaintances who see me as a reliable source of humour and good company.

Both my parents are alive and in good health.

I have no regrets.

I have already experienced three existential crises, the latter of which was described as having the depth and profundity of a man twice my age.

I am a passionate lover, a sharp thinker, and a trader of witty repartee.

I am not self-pitying, meek or needlessly humble.

I will live a good life at your expense.
Very nice. Much better than the average lit poen. Well crafted.
i've shit more expressive poems than that after coming home from an all you can eat laxative buffet.
Sincerity alone doesn't make a poem. That goes for a lot of the writing in these threads.
How am I to endure earth's revolutions around the sun,
if there is only one thought that motivates the very cells in my body,
the truth that in some alternate universe
There is a version of me, and a version of you

and we are together,

and there I am happy.
i don’t care that the policy says i need
this form
that documentation
the right postage and
a “nominal” fee

listen here, Eichmann
Thurn or Taxis:
i want what i have
to be somewhere else
without impediment
from uniformed, desk-
occupying forces
>someone who has read alot of poetry
>alot of poetry

Several Shakespearean sonnets and a couple of Tennyson's pieces, was it?
This is brilliant. Have you written more?
like i said, i'm not a critic, but it feels rather sterile.
>Year of Our LORD 2016
>Responding to this pasta
I understand where that's coming from. I guess it's just something that resonates with me.

It's just a tragic thought you know? That the woman that you are completely and utterly in love with, (if you can't be with her) is with you in an infinite amount of other Cosmoi.
And there you are happy, but it's not this universe. That's what really gets me, and made me want to write this. Because you just happened to be in the one universe out of and infinite amount, where you're not with the girl you love. Know what I mean?
i wrote a short poem around the same time as those others, actually the same day, the same hour. i still feel like it was the best thing i had ever written.
it's called Unrequited.

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.
Casting Shadows

A web is only beautiful to those who
think it complete; just as
a whole is thought a unity of
all whose holes could cast shadows.

Just as light sheds darkness from
the center of its glow, a figure
made by curtains needs
but starving eyes to grow.

For what relation is there not
of envious reflection?
Not sure why am I even posting this unfinished piece of..

I hear roar
Six legged beast
Defying laws of human nature creeps
Up the castle wall
It brings them joy, forbidden lore
And tiny pinch of diamond ore

Commence the feast
Defender cries
Casting glance from his dilated pupils
In the direction of the beast
I actually really agree with you, thanks.I didn't put any effort into that one but it sounded so perfectly portrayed. But it truly isn't much of anything other than a very pointed expression of my life. There's not much else going on. I'm glad you pointed it out
I once read a book
It was long as a train
As dull as a doorknob
It gave me infinite pain

Yes, I once read a book
It made me feel used
I solemnly believe
That I have been rused

I once read a book
The taste of paper was sweeter
The name of this book
Was >grasa infinita
And through the graceful dying, we’re dead.
The clock still strikes-
still rings overhead
he runs from the chapel and shitposts on /lit/

RIP lonely lit hobo
where are you? -
that black blob
whose curling waves
whirl childhood's oceans;
speeding 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.
did you run out of ink?
Lonely street lamp in the rain
A Street light’s gold glower
Does the suns job forlornly in the small hours shower:
A steel light clerk who mourns lost mornings with flowers.

Flat pan metal slopes down.
The sad chrome petal with the cloud split crown
When sky drums his fingers on my mercury hound

However, as the beams touch each drops skin
Is taken in and split
The spectrum cut up
Swims so thin
No longer cluttered
Red past green
Doing the breast stroke
Wearing a rainbows grin
Then the lamps lost dawn blink in the squint of an eye
The briefest gift of a firework from the kind city sky.
Poem I wrote about smoking

I feel a drift of swans
An ebony flutter in the lungs
The doctors say they’re black geese
And I can’t breath for their dead ponds.
But I think that relief
That sensation of passing a silk sleeve
And I mean to my briefs
Is just worth our not getting along
will the mermaids, sing me away
with waves, white as snow?
only you can go, help me stay,
melodies i'll never know.
I didn't think the repetition served any real purpose in this. I actually just read it as if the repeated words were only said once. I think it works better that way.
so you don't think people should be poets then? everything good has already been said so there's no point in trying?
you've got a pretty defeatist attitude to art making. It's not about being the best or outdoing the greats anon.
The whole point of these threads is to critique and offer tips on how to improve their poetry.
At my school there was a kid named Paul
He had a limp and had trouble walking the halls
Sometimes he would stumble and then he would fall
Laughter came quickly with a thundering gawffaw
Soon after, his weak cry of pain turned into a bawl
I think it's unfair, because he wasn't his fault
Nobody helped because nobody cared at all
He wasn't bright, and was prone to brawls
Also, he might've spoken with an exaggerated drawl
He had a picture in his wallet of his mom
When he saw it helped him remain calm
"Mama's Boy", that's what we used to call Paul
this is pretty trite

this has some decency in it
Through the darkness sprawling across the tattered walls, you had been my beacon of hope.
Your voice called through the fog, shivers crept down my spine.
Through and through, you are my angel.
Preconceived notions broken, seeing the world from inside the shattered window paine.
Falling in my dreams, but you gave me new ground to tread in my waking life.
Static channels previously scrawled off as unimportant now shine with a kaleidoscopic glow.
Will these lessons turn unconscious?
Our roads converging was of only a delightful misstep of fate.
From this moment, my heart will open it's chambers for you and let your blood steep in mine.
I welcome the day we embrace, you will always be met with open arms.
Another one of my poems:
I had lost all hope when those words echoed and pounded between thoughts.
The worms you buried me in are suffocating me, and dirt clots my vision.
Those familiar notes had still crawled along my every nerve.
My body is in the present moment yet I am far from this space; the jaws of discord have swallowed my shell.
A cloud of despondency hovers above me, enveloping me completely, descending.
There comes a point where the pain is to be expected and you shut down completely.
You become submissive to the darkness that is ravaging through your mass.

any feedback would be appreciated
Shitty poem delivery service:

- Romance, Effendi, Romance -

We sit and eat Teriyaki Chicken Kebabs, while watching
My parents’ dogs. 'What should we do now?' she asks.
'We could spend the evening writing poetry to each other,' I say.
'I’m so exhausted, I just want to watch TV,' she says.
'That is OK too,' I say, and together we watch HGTV.

Later in the evening, she asks me, disbelievingly, what kind of poetry I write.
'I guess realist poems,' I say. I have never let her see my poetry.
'You should write me a romantic poem,' she says.

I am taken back to the Middle-East in colonial times,
When it was full of adventure, and pyramids, and tombs, and effendis,
And Sol Bloom and the Streets of Cairo and Maurice Jarre.
You could wear khakis then, and their pressed seams would remain immaculate,
Their soft but stiff fabric unsullied by sand or dirt or the decomposing detritus of ancient mummified Pharaohs.
Such wonder, such romance!
But now in their place are grubby terrorists with self-made IEDs.

She yawns, and I pour the rest of the wine into our glasses.
Tomorrow we will need to get up early.
File: 1449439620643.jpg (2 MB, 1920x1200) Image search: [iqdb] [SauceNao] [Google]
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Arnold Gypsy, eyeless, misty
Kissing feet of Passionate
Trust thy station, fold it crisply
Save unfurl in session set

Question not thy waking dreaming
Fix thy face against the storm
Hear no evil beggers screaming
See thy love escapes not form

Form nor function bleeding unction
Succor not who succor thee
Touch succint thy social suction;
Knowest not what gaiety.

"Five shots, back to back to back."
"Jesus, I'm not looking to die tonight."
"Get up, it's almost time."

"I'm saying there's no point in
Mixing the drink. Higher cal.
Stop, he'll just spend it on drugs."
"Get yourself something to eat."
"So it's a basement show?"
"Yeah, New bands, cool people."
"I don't know. People who go
To these things. They're not real.
They don't believe in anything."
"What's there to believe in?"

Exist beyond perception lacking
'scendent agent through the mist
Feel thee not thy sinew cracking?
The coming of, in-fi-nite bliss.

In darkness know the basement chasm
Sound unsound the Word anew
Sink thee now in soulless spasm
On among the peerless few

Who do not see, who cannot know
The vortex come, thereabove
When souls are falling like the snow
Sink thee with thy concrete love.

"The bassist is good.
Are the shades supposed to be
Ironic or what?"
"Nah. Pretty sure he's blind. It's
Like, their thing."

"Pope me a beer, man."
"It's on me. You're pretty good."
"What does good even mean?
Talent is cheap, IPA isn't."

>First two parts of a 7 part longer work. Planning on fixing the dialogue integration and adding a couplet to the rhymed sections to make it a sonnet.


I think it might work better as prose with a few couplets pulled out and inserted between paragraphs, to be honest. Not sure though, I suppose it depends on where you're going with it.

I want to tell a story, a short one that requires a bit of poetry. I spend the poem setting up a figurative rapture.

Arnold, the bassist hipster, is both physically blind and figuartively blind to truth and objective beauty. At the moment of rapture, he is blind to the beauty. His inability to see renders him a martyr, left out of the gates of heaven so that others can go in.

The idea of the blind man being an inadvertent sacrifice for the sighted by way of the light of rapture is something I'm trying to communicate, and relate it to the modern age.

Ah. Would have to see the other 5 parts to come to any conclusions, I guess. What made you decide to tell this story in verse?

I thought of the first few lines after finishing a book in the park next to the Flatiron building. It was summer, then. Kissing feet of passionette refers to Christ as the Passionette one, as in his passion, which is why it's capitalized. Arnold is pursuant of the same path, kissing feet. The station is supposed to be the true colors of Arnold's psychotic soul.

I thought of the first stanza and wrote through the 4th that day. It was inspiration.
What time is it? The time to stay alert. So many times I have drifted away into my own little, more personal, space of mind. Yet don't we all? There's nothing more menacing in this life than time. If stress doesn't kill you first, time will. Time is an age-old enemy, always there, waiting to pounce at every second of every day. These units of time, time controls, time is the blinking soul that harbors the void.

The days come shorter, the nights wane longer, the mornings dark like so should be. Days colder come, embracing bodies not unlike death, its arms cold draped beneath, beyond. Winter; reverse the clock, all this life in primal pen. Living things fight more, for warmth, survival. Luckily these things do also adapt.

Adaptation is sacrifice, one thing must fall so that another may rise. These are the opposing forces at work.

Throats churn chocked, sore and nose run clear. Still much left for fear. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing quite painful as painful is an attempt at controlling what can't be quite controlled. Rise! Rise, Aeolus' current! Lakes run red and pale, these tastes so bitter. Cool and coated pain seeps out my grasp, fall into helplessness return. Unstoppable this force, this river swelled from deep mountain cavern, not intellect nor power such as God could hold you, not my tears. They rave, they rumble. Defeat.

But soon will come again a time of warmth and comfort, a time of spring, soft and somber. Soon come summer, fall and winter once more.

Perhaps time may also be a friend, a friend and enemy, a singing sibling to men and women; brother or sister to them all.

Sometimes we take what anything we have, what all we praise, for granted.
Water and eye contact are not the same. The pure and cold and practical versus the deep abyss of personality which takes up such mercurial forms. Who are we to be a type? The only ones who can. All living things need water, to my knowledge, but I was surprised the other night to see a coyote leering at me. Its eyes were water. My stomach was water. And the air was sticky with it. But there was no volume to that experience, no depth with which to measure pressure. There was only eye contact, and that strange lopsided expression, and my steady hands on the patio table. I cannot feel these moments. They cannot float forward through time to save me, sinking and sinking in my own water. They were never real, but for the strange substance of graphite. Waves of lead that all but we will never understand, much less read, and will never the wiser return to the sea.
white dot was a meme poet, and had no discernible talent. he was shitposting, and is literally genre tier fiction. clearly a juvenile poet.
Posted this in another threads few days ago

Brussels in Winter

Ambitious drifts of snow still cling,
Somewhere between a street lamp light
And waffle house, to greying roads
That sparkle; melting gold from lamps
Are blurring lines, and smudging out
The borders drawn on cobbled streets
Left sprawling, carelessly, adrift.

La Grande Place never looked so sweet
As when we laughed to nothing jokes,
And ran like madmen, wild, to dives,
Just barely eighteen. Manneken
Was laughing with us. Still he grins,
Though echoes roared in smoky rooms
Have faded from there long ago.

If troubled houses beckoned us
Return, we never heard their calls.
And maybe, somewhere in those streets,
The carefree boys still laugh and run.
I miss the days
When I counted
The hours passing
Waiting for what's next

and if I was
Ready to take
My dreams to flight
Or if I could wait.

But the hours,
Counted no more,
Have turned into years
Passed in the struggle

To feel again
What I felt then,
To look forward to
A sunrise anew.
I see your eyes watching me in my dreams
(never far from the room I reside in,
generating their own illumination)
and I miss you more than usual.

What visions our love inspired! and
I have tried my best to forget them.

I've given them all up, you see;
I've done things I never would have,
when I was with you. I jumped into the Abyss
headfirst to jar your existence loose,
tumbling sharp crystals of you
internally, naturally, desperately yearning
to wear you away into stepping stones
but struggling to keep your edges raw.

I want to find you!
And tell you I'm sorry that you forgot
I told you I'd help you with anything.

I may be a Fool, a zero, but I believed in us.
You were and are mine. I'll never love another.
You are the beauty of the universe to me
and the secret soul of all music.

I won't do it! I wish I had the strength
to kiss the ground you walk on. I'd dive
through magma and tundra to be more
than just a ghost of the past to you.

You'll see! I'll give you my once-distant heart
and a candlelit night-- fingertips caressing hair--
will be all that stands between us.
I fucked him while thinking of you again, you nigger. How dare you lay this electromagnetic curse upon my wrought-iron heart! For years I wandered, growing rust, nigh inert. I didn't ask for restoration, I didn't long for salvation: I did not see Hell. For no reason at all you sank me in an e-tank, removed my crust hands-free, made me a temporary slave to the current. How filthy the water and steel plates become! I was not aware I'd developed such an overgrown patina! Your static pulse ate through to my core and revealed a long forgotten shine. And I glad for it: I see that all other paths terminate in reverb, in vigorous wrenching of puppet-strings, in the release of a putrid last breath.

The script is concluded: your part played out admirably, my dear. I am eager to send you the advance copy. "Not For Distribution". My turbulent heart has been welded, hard-wired, fused, to yours! Look, look! I have torn myself open to show you, for I have discovered there is no happiness to be found in all the world when I deny this truth! I am yours, I love you, I love you. My capacity for passion has never been met with so little resistance before. Resistance? Nay! You make me forget the meaning of the word! There has been no resistance, only damned insulation. And yet, even inhibited, you'll leave me bruised. How I ache for your lashes.

Pain is pleasure, and pleasure is pain. Any catalyst and reaction leaves me longing for more... but some experiments are exquisite. You are exquisite, a treasure, a magnum opus of humankind's development. I would wish to place you in a museum, climate controlled, for the masses to admire... but I am selfish, and I would rather keep you locked away, a secret soul, a secret mind, a secret body.
Today i did listen to those tones
They were slow and low and deathly so
I walked around, I thought a bit
It took but a minute to realize it
Dopethrone was a pretty good album
Crawling in my skin
These wounds, they will not heal
Fear is how I fall
Confusing what is real
A passing vrein swallowed me.
The krondor was factoring love letters drom the universe er.
Seeing as viviv was climbing the upside jorv
A sarop lent his popex into aerolopo craxing si fran
get out
>get out
For one thing I don't know why.
It doesn’t even matter how hard you try to throw me out.
Keep that in mind, I designed this rhyme with emotional power.
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2 MB, 2560x1440
A berry blew up his own tsar
Whisper cranberry generated char
Blasphemy ensues, definitely not a brawl
A dimensional strawberry born into a haul
Fingered self-me of fame and small
Vile pre-pattern'd Victoria sits
She's gigantic from half the angles
Frantic tales she retold, knits
The windsound melting into rectangles
A first person shot a second, before he divorced wits
Blueberry tantrum fused into a "now he slits"
Another gigantic self now unquits
Isle Isle Isle
A file I refile
A pile old and senile
Drinking half the Nile
Reconcile, own denial
Dial the phone, please, Kyle
Lie to yourself, be immobile
Not by a long shot or a mile
Hostile is my style
Lord Belial been waiting for a while
im not that anon but i seriously doubt whether art is either a valid or a worthwhile pursuit for those who do it as a hobby. to be an artist is to create within a tradition. hobbyists like you imply on 4chan are not artists because they do not know the tradition. art is perhaps not about outdoing the greats (because this is almost impossible), but it is about being the best (in terms of your relation to your capacity and to your contemporaries). all-or-nothing; pursue it until you are the best, or don't pursue it.

i get the sense that so few people here read poetry seriously. you see it all the time: "I dont read but i like writing it....." these people are trying to create art while knowing nothing about it
Are you the best at life?
Do you think you will be the best, ever?

If not, do not pursue it.
Seargant Johnston didn’t quite make it out of the crater where he died.

In the damn observatory, up against the window, and elephant had thrown herself, into the river and was stuck against the window. Half submerged, it’s unclear how long the elephant has to live. A man, John, decideds he must do something about it, everything he can do about it. There is no way to get the elephant to float out against the current and the debris that make up the damn. Almost accepting defeat the man looks out through the window, past the elephant, to another room in the observatory. A little girl there is signing to the man to try and open the window. Opening the window would destroy the damn observatory, but it might give the elephant a chance to avoid drowning to death. The window is open and the baby elephant looks at the man in a sad and happy way and asks, “have you ever met my mother?”

The man is now in an airplane many thousands of feet above the sky. He is thinking about
while he chooses a song to jump out of the airplane to. The hatch door in the back of the little plane opens and all the man has to do now is jump. He waits an additional 45 seconds, timing the jump to just before the lead singer goes into a beautiful solo and sings with energy and pru.

The man is outside of the airplane free falling to the ground. The ground is at first not approaching very quickly and the man feels like he has quite a bit of time, which is good because the man has never jumped out of an airplane before. He has a parachute backpack which is not adjusted properly. The man must hold the backpack in a way that will ensure the parachute will open above him. He is looking on the left and right shoulder for a straps and decides the left strap will open the parachute. The ground is beginning to move in very quickly. The man pulls the strap that he hopes will open the parachute and it is unclear weather he is slowing down now or not. In any case the man is moving in more of a slant and not straight into the ground.

He passes either just above some trees or through them and into a field. He is too focused on the ground. The man lands, still in a slant just outside of a crater, with his head propped against an old ammo box like a pillow.
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