Original Poetry Critique

[Anonymous No.6839234]

OC poetry thread.

Post one critique one.

Bukowski fags pls go

[Anonymous No.6839243]

Lamentations of a Thunderbird's Son


Storm on the olive branch
Gutted by sick and saliva
I can touch the brick with the arch of my foot
A digging mole beneath me
A thunderbird above
As the tradition of the Kwakwaka' wakw
I taste its sweat in the air
I kick the dirt of Vancouver Island
If the Unk Cekula swallowed me
I, made serpentoid, would creep.
I would not cut my own stomach
I would bite my maker and never let go
The Garden of Eden
has a lake of drano and fat
propane, butane, tetrafluoroethane
my now colorless father draws his chin to the beach
his lips to the venom
his heart explodes and implodes
sniffers death and cardiac arrest
The Nuu-chah-nulth would cry
he would tilt back his beak
he would bellow and bawl and shriek
with lungs shredded by torn aluminum
He would scream at the Wakan Tanka and the Gitche Manitou
and the Supreme Mystery
and tear the feathers from his shoulders

[Anonymous No.6839250]

>>6839234
tell me what you think

[Anonymous No.6839261]

>>6839234

[Anonymous No.6839329]

>>6839234
Not poetry but fuck you. Wrote this back when I was pretty suicidal.
Some stories are not meant to go on, not meant to reach the ears and hearts of others. Some stories are simply meant to be lost in timelessness and apathy as people move on to newer and grander things. And so too are some lives. The idea that each individual should somehow be everything is a broken truth that seems to have been taught all too much to children, at least of this generation. We tell them that everyone loves them, that no one would truly want to hurt them, and that they could be anything they want. Of course this is wrong, a simple white lie told to stunt the realization of how painful this world can really be, done with as much mercy as is humanely possibly, but creating a pain much more than should be humanely possible. Not every man in this world can be Shakespeare, not every man Mozart. When all of mankind creates who views, who enjoys? The simple truth is that most of humanity is banished to mediocrity, and most of humanity enjoys itself there, finding such simplicity and relaxation to be a comfort unmatched by any else, and they would be right.

[Anonymous No.6839333]

>>6839329
The issue which stems from that truth is that not all are designed for such simplicity. Some, as much as they may want or need such a beautiful simple life, can’t seem to find it. There’s beauty in simplicity and happiness in the basic things of life, yet as hard as I try I find myself sitting feeling somehow disconnected from everyone. For a man charmed by the seduction of the blue sky and bright sun I find myself unable to maintain such an attraction. I simply enjoy the day only to be disrupted by the night, and yet it is that same night that I crave. It’s a hunger I can’t seem to sate, I look to it as if it can solve these mysteries of my life without realizing that it is the greatest mystery of all, and try as I might I can’t lose myself in them. I find myself retreating from it, running to some unknown savior of whom I swear to be real, but can’t seem to find.
But I guess it’s as a band once sung, “Happiness is a warm gun”.
Of course they were talking about heroine rather than suicide and other grim things, but my point remains that this idea of escapism seems intertwined to happiness in such a way that it impossible to untangle. I find myself wondering if happiness itself is not simply escaping from the cold reality of the world, and the scope you present relative to it. How meaningless you are to the world, without even the faintest consideration that the world is just the start of the things you are meaningless too. I find myself filled up with this motivation for something that I cannot really describe, to find something which likely doesn’t truly exist or at the very least is not reachable. I find myself dying to reach the faintest height of recognition before I inevitably move from this world, wishing to remain in the mind of at least on individual. But the truth is that I won’t. Days will pass, and then months, and then years and I will be nothing but a body in the ground, all thoughts of my time slowly dying as the dirt eats away at me, and truly that is my greatest fear
I cannot say what constitutes existing, consciousness, or another form of what truly amounts to being sentient, but I find myself terrified of being forgotten, almost as if it somehow meant that I, as an individual, would no longer exist. Individualism in itself is something that also boggles my mind, leaving me speechless, or at least relatively so, as I attempt to understand the reality of my mind compared to anothers.

[Anonymous No.6839339]

>>6839329
Not only is this false, you also know it is false.

[Anonymous No.6839340]

>>6839333
Truth be told it’s become impossible for me to think about, as I end up running in circles trying to see if I’ve missed some key information to fix this puzzle. I’ve wondered if the mind was simply a highly advanced machine to an extent, like a computer, constantly storing memory and using past experience to form a plan, to the best of its knowledge, on how to continue life. That made sense until the realization that, as far as I know, no machine, creature, or otherwise would purposely hurt itself for no reason like the brain does. Unless humanity truly needs tragedy to survive, it continues to make little sense to me why it chooses the choices it does. You can blame that all on the idea of free will, but even the concept of that confuses me. What does that even mean? We have the choice? Well if I have the choice I will always pick what I consider to get me the furthest, and if I don’t it will simply be because I’m trying to prove that I don’t have to. How is that, in any sense, free will? That’s just basic logic, even less really, as its basic instinct. But as it’s said, the rabbit hole just gets deeper and deeper as one explores it, and the concept of time, individuality, and other such things are beyond the current realization of man. Maybe there will be a day where an epiphany hits me, describing to me my purpose, role, or at the very least reason. As of now, I just find myself desperately clinging to trying to end each day as contently as possible, trying to find methods of making my time seem worth it in any sense of the word, and maybe that’s why I sit here now, writing to no one at all as I stare at a blank computer screen and a blinking cursor. The only two conclusions that I have come to, in my short years, is that life is worth living if only to see what tomorrow brings and that all things must end.

[Anonymous No.6839341]

>>6839339
Like I said I wrote this when I was suicidal, so its likely to be a bit on the dramatically pessimistic side of things.

[Anonymous No.6839467]

ew

[Anonymous No.6839603]

>>6839329
>>6839333
>>6839340
fingerless gloves/10

[Anonymous No.6839694]

>>6839603
>fingerless gloves
nice 1

[Anonymous No.6839697]

eating at
my flesh
i vomit
on to
your chest