I recently wanted to challenge myself, so I decided to try my hand at poetry. Since I’ve written a few poems, I’ve really wanted to get some kind of feedback, I’m not sure if they suck or not. So I’m creating this discussion in the hopes people will share their amateur poetry and stories. Only constructive criticisms guys, not everyone is literary genius. I’ll share a poem, if you want to here another of mine, just ask.
An Explorers Ode to Earth
As I see her from afar,
I obtain an inkling of who we are,
Here I sit in this frigid waste,
As if running from her warm embrace,
Just as children must move from home,
Here we travel deep into the unknown.
Short story/poem combo thing:
Today I painted a picture.
I painted with all the colours of the rainbow
All the colours of the sea
All the colours of the galaxy
I painted with brushes of the finest quaility
I painted with my fingers with diligence
Lines collide, colours mix
I painted with everything thought to be beautiful
-but when it came all together my canvas was a mess
The colours of the sea drowned the colours of the rainbow
and my dilligence didnt cut it
The quality of my brushes must have been a lie
I had everything i needed.
I took a walk to collect my thoughts
I stolled down the streetand wandered up the path into the park
Where the beggers and poor stayed
I came across a man grungy as all the rest with a broken canvas stand at his feet
He was painting on news paper with what looked like children’s paint
I stepped around his shoulder to see ;
all the colours of the rainbow
all the colours of the sea
even all the colours of the galaxy
He didnt have quality paint brushes
-but what looked like old tooth brushes
He didnt use dilligence but pure inspiration
I then realized, money cant make you an artist
Money cant make you happy.
I went home and took all of my products
then brought them to the man
I layed them at his feet and walked away
One day i’ll get my inspiration , one day.
How does this story go,
How will it unravel,
It seemed to occur quickly,
Within the strike of a gavel,
As all stories must, this one has a beginning,
Filled with expectation, and potential, like the onset of evening,
An then it occurs, the inevitable terror,
A night of misfortune, and ultimately error,
And what is the the recourse our hero may follow,
Revenge, justice, or pills to swallow,
As this story continues I will not conform,
To the maddening platitudes society has formed,
Instead I will travel a different route,
One of reason, and thought, which has more clout,
So ultimately this is a story of discovery,
That through intelligent discourse we find recovery.
“The Quintessential Tale”
wrote this the other night and made a thread, no-one commented D: but enjoy! it’s a draft, any tips on improving it will be much appreciated… by the way imhotep, your poem was so simple and neat, loved it
My wife Michelle and I moved into this house about a month ago. It’s a small, cosy, cottage-like brick house with a blue roof and white walls, and it’s on a very secluded rural property, surrounded by tall, looming trees. It’s about a 30 minute drive out of town, which isn’t too bad. The house has two bedrooms, a kitchen, lounge, laundry, bathroom, so it’s a pretty standard house. Except for the old tin shed.
I can’t explain why, but the old tin shed out in the paddock has always frightened me. It’s just how you would imagine an old tin shed to be, it was rusty, covered in moss, and the wooden door was nearly off the hinges. When we first looked at the house to buy it, the property manager showed us how great it could be to store all of our tools in. At first I agreed with this, because I have many tools, being an electrical engineer and all. But something made me shudder when I examined the inside of it. Cobwebs were hanging down everywhere, it had a damp dirt floor, and it seemed weirdly warm in there – considering it was cold and windy outside.
When I questioned the property manager about it, he had this to say. “The last owners of this house were spiritual nutters. They said that they sensed some sort of evil “boogeyman” entity in here. Personally I just think that’s hogwash, they were crazy to want to sell this house for so cheap. You don’t believe in that sort of stuff, do you?” I was just about to answer him when my wife interrupted him and said “Of course not, right John?” I just mumbled in an incoherent groan. Truth was, I did believe in sprits, and I could sense that there was one here too. But Michelle seemed too happy and I didn’t want to disappoint her, so we brought the house.
At first everything seemed great. We paid for the house straight away with our collective savings. Our two cats Minnie and Fritz settled in quickly and so did we. Michelle enjoyed being away from the city as she had grown up on a farm. “Oh John, it reminds me of when I was a kid, doing all the farm-work with Dad and spending the night watching television and drinking milo. I love it!”. I just put on a fake smile and agreed with her. It was all I could do. I didn’t bother telling her that the old tin shed was the only thing on my mind.
About three weeks after we moved in, I had a very strange and vivid dream. I was dreaming that I was my tabby cat, Fritz, and I was walking around the inside of our new home. Now, we’d always talked about how Fritz was a weird cat, he was very jumpy and he would always stare into our old fireplace for hours on end, even when it wasn’t lit. We named him Fritz because of his irradic and seemingly peculiar nature. Anyway, in the dream, it seemed as if I had become my cat in every possible way, it was like my thoughts and perception were that of a cat’s. I walked over to the cat-bowl and ate some food, licked my fur, typical cat behavior. But that wasn’t what made this dream so strange.
I suddenly bolted out of the little cat-door at the back of the house and ran across the paddock towards the old tin shed. Through Fritz eyes, it had a pulsating red glow, with a very menacing undertone to it. But I kept running anyway, something was drawing me to it. I sat down at the front of the old tin shed and stared at the wooden door. It was very big from where I was sitting, or should I say, where Fritz was sitting. That was when I heard the heavy footsteps from behind the door, thud, thud, thud, like someone wearing steel-toed work boots was treading the ground in there.
Then all of a sudden the door swung open with a loud BANG! against the side of the shed. There was barely time to look at the grotesque, tall figure that stood in the doorway. I got such a fright and to say the least, I ran the hell out of there, faster than the wind itself. I remember thinking how free and powerful it felt to be a cat, as I ran back into the house through the little cat-door.
I quickly made my way back into the bedroom and jumped up on the bed, and started nudging at my owner’s face. This was where the dream ended and I awoke to my cat panting and headbutting at me, trying to get my attention.
It has always been said that cats are more in-tune with the spirit world. Guess I know why now.
Bare limp, the hanging mirror rocking
consuming her absence, devouring his presence.
Remnant love begged for
crying for it to touch skin.
What he saw were etched tattoos
vacant black holes for eyes.
Darkened pits, complete emotion
raw bared nothingness.
Guilt and pain
eyes found decease.
Cries from underground sewers whisper
wails from the beggar, the blind soul mumbling.
Angel’s howled above, wishing they could stop nightmares
wild heart bubbling, tangled vain.
Sorrow built upon her, time had come to pass
watching the very soul wither before her.
A covenant from long ago, broken.
Unable to outlast human emotion’s firm; white inescapable grasp.
He’d hoped for benediction
revelled within merely a drop.
Single breath, life was gone
human interior succumbed to love’s violent abyss.
A slave to puppetry, left at the mercy of the sea
ripped apart by ferocious black waves, throat torn and mangled.
Yet hallowed be thy name
crimson red petals rain down from above
man, who glimpsed a golden sun
man, who thirst for love.
Is about Joseph and Mary. How he realised his wrong decision when he let Mary be impregnated by God haha. Mary was never attached to him..
Her heart plugged into
the beating crucibles of
beams of hope.
Until she wasn’t worth it;
the time and effort
the blood and guts
is it real?
I swear upon
my own machines
to sacrifice my passion
if my rot is needed.
all your flying kites
and tangled gasps
in my small drawer.
To see if your passion
could be set afire
upon the bones of
someone’s smouldering forest.
To watch you board that train
I would trip over
each and every single
Waiting for you at the station
so you could brush me aside
and tear at my heart
until I told you hate.
I would wave my wilted cap
dispatching dust across
the cobwebbed stations
the rusted trails.
Invest my entire spirit
for a taste of your
Half about my sister who passed away after they took her off support and half about my girlfriend…
Fleeting echoes reach out
for your hand
And this is my best
my body made of plaster
upon poor yearning soul.
Ivy channels whirl about
chiselled pillars marble stone.
Clinging to softened hopes
and pardoned smiles.
Wondering for you
if our meet, was the day
you gave up on the search
for a perfect guy.
And wondering if you
feel the pain I feel for you
and what sorrow must come for you
in my saying love to you.
Here you are this morning
bound in the wraps from some Chinese shop
pretending not to notice
how much I will ever give you.
And feel the emotion brewing
pouring into your carved veins
Joining hands in quiet company
selecting my words from a
shattered glass jar
About a girl
I am the precipice
bury your stones on my edge.
Forget the birds
and they’ll forget themselves.
Grated teeth will bare
and understand why I should love you
all the while
your eyes to the sky
But the birds are weeping
to feel the ground and it’s embrace
The birds are weeping
it is you that they envy.
and the tolling bell calls out
bloated lungs failing
search for the reason.
And all the while
the birds, they can’t escape
longing for the edge
quietly falling for their death.
Sparrows caress the winds turning creases as it goes higher and higher
they have no wings.
They sway and they sweep
fallen victim to the sky.
Your body, some chiselled marble pillar
lust beneath my plaster rooftops
for anyone but I
you take only my shelter.
Spit on me and my crucifix
bore in blood and rag
I long for your love
and I am your prison.
About people who search for fame so much. Search for “high existence” without thinking enough about what they have, they can’t get off the ground because of their obligations, and they birds envy their abilit yot come back to earth after jumping, birds can never fall. Thanks, I have been writing for two months and need people to criticise
tick tock, I’ve lost my sock
perhaps it’s stuck to your crimson frock?
excuse me m’dear, there’s no need for fear,
you’re not my first, this is practically a career!
now close your eyes, it’s time for a surprise,
a bash on the head and there’ll be no more cries,
I smile, you wail, but to no avail,
was it good for you, m’dear?
now here we go. your pulse is slow,
that’s all she wrote, now on with the show!
hold on tight, this is your big night!
too late! the late jane doe.
I christen this poem…socks!
“@mimic, I hope this isn’t about a serial killer.”
It was about socks, silly! you’ve got a very dark mind, if that’s what you see when you think of socks!
The maggots repose, a feast for crows,
a gourmet meal, a stone cold pose.
Nobody better, to leave her unfettered,
and fix her right up for the box.
But her storie’s not through,
for her artist in lieu, is truly the best in the biz!
he’ll make her look dapper, the slim little slapper,
for this is a penchant of his.
but as he prepares his tools and his wears
a second course comes to the table.
“how did he kill her?”
as she’s wheeled in for for dinner
“I hope this isn’t about a serial killer.”
you can name this one!
Where am I?
Where are you?
What am I supposed to do?
Sitting here all alone,
Broken, beaten, lost, unknown,
Wasting away on a summer day
Without even the discretion to say
Hey I need you.
You, all of you
Together we were always much more than amused,
But what did I do to lose all of you?
Where did all the magic go?
Why am I surrounded by nothing but atheist in foxholes?
But why are all these bridges burned?
Fire everywhere without concern,
Children still playing amidst the flames
Seeing it as one glorious game.
When will I fully see the light
And fully leave the world of black and white
Ignorance surrounds me like stones
Never moving on its own,
Stuck in its ways and dull in its mock sphere.
What is really there to fear?
Where is the release from these living catacombs?
Where is the way of truth to make my new home.
My mouths sealed shut
What the f*ck?
How can I spread the news?
Now all I can do is wonder
Why do they not see what I see.
No I will not give up on you
I will try to show you the way,
I will separate the darkness from the day
Where God can be found today
In you, me and all around.
So keep on fighting the good fight,
And hope that one day WE can sit here in harmony.
@imhotep, i love your poetry! it’s rich yet economic, insightful and with meaning but people have room for different imageries and particular interpretations :D
A blobby world
where there are no fine lines or sharp edges
Only blunt corners and smudged ovals
Looking out over the balcony
And seeing a floor of spilled india ink
Scattered with glimmering points of gold
Under a red velvet cupcake shade of sky
Imagine a world of strangers
Where people are featureless, almost faceless
Except those nearest to you
But a glowing, flowing bright thing
That’s quite mesmerizing to gaze at
I put [my glasses] on
And the world is stark again
Starkly clear and bright and
I take them off.