/lit/ - Literature

>tfw i think i have corona but the doctors won't test me because i haven't been to italy lately
gonna read the plague by camus

Can someone explain to me clearly and in useful terms why my poetry is garbage? Every time I submit a poem to a publication it gets rejected in a matter of days. I know this is very unusual, because my short stories usually take at least weeks (and sometimes months) to get rejected.

What am I doing wrong? One of my latest failures:

To see the thoughts of others is the one
allure we always seem to feel beneath.
In times of calm and lazy, listless peace
a dream of reading minds is often spun.
Or days of frenzied noise ignite the sun
of desperate, clawing envy; "Pulling teeth
is pointless. Let me feel the wishes, sheathed
and dark, the foreign souls of everyone."

Our gnawing mental image, whole and bright,
presents itself in science, as in spell:
Transmitting conscious minds to server sites –
Or hoarding potions, crystal balls, and rites.
By any means! Divine or human wealth,
whatever lets us know each other's plight.

From summers heat to windy howls of deep chills, of dim lighted Turkish lamps presenting the calmest hue, I remain faithful to my chair, my desk; my room. With shutters shut and windows closed, I live with no indication of time. The door, at the corner of my room, is shut with only rays of light shining through the door’s line of space and the glowing lights of the lamp. I like this light interaction; its just at the right level. Chillest music create ambience, and a warm cup of tea to release the tensions. Although I do know not at the slightest: the date or hour, the room is damn freezing; at least I know the season.

Continued...