poetry thread

[Anonymous No.7128861]

I think I have a real sea of maturity I need to get into

I've realized I'm mildly autistic

I played mainstream videogames and watched tv instead of exploring; I let niche forums become my life

And every party I was late to builds up on my stomach
And I can't move when I throw it all up
Being a charade is an unfillfilling way to get attention - and I'm usually gone before another one comes

I see the sea and it's a sea of people

I am bitter when I say I've never been a part of a crowd

[Anonymous No.7128868]

>>7128861
Some people are lying when they brag about their diary

[Anonymous No.7129022]

I look a man I See
A bow inside of me
it plays a sullen tune
i look like the lune

My love is not a song
it does not carry on
no tuning fork or prong
could make it carry on
ive carried you along

[Anonymous No.7129234]

>>7128868
Some people don't need to

[Anonymous No.7129252]

Sexuality is sin from
Ocean and belly deep within
From clang, clinging, clamoring so—
Sensual flagellation at the sound; weaving blood and beau.

With dust and withering stone floor
No one is asking anymore.

[Dungeon Master !tphHcgvFXU No.7129952]

>>7128861
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJ_Andc3ImU

[Anonymous No.7130284]

You made our child A handful of water
Kissed and dripping through my fingers
In sleep I kiss him, in mirrored nights
Mirrored screaming sobbing dreams
You made our child into a handful of water

[Anonymous No.7130303]

Steel that grows: final American fleet
lank grey blades of hair glinting blonde in heat
dripping on over a bandana'd flag.
Banzai, some tie there own across their heads.
Red-backed Americans flower the hills,
our sergeant intimates when we all will die.

[Anonymous No.7130334]

I've written one in Norwegian which I thought was good, but it's pretty pointless posting it here.

[Anonymous No.7130468]

>>7130334
post it bro

[Anonymous No.7130483]

>>7130468
"Alltid i det tredje setet fra hoyre,
sitter hun og leser.
Hun tvinner håret med en blyant,
og biter leppene sine.
Hun er så vakker, og jeg ser henne.
Men hun ser ikke meg.

Hun går av trikken,
Samme sted, samme tid;
Hvem er hun?
Hun er så vakker, og jeg ser henne.
Men hun ser ikke meg.

Det morkebrune håret,
de store gronne oynene,
de vakreste bevegelsene som synger til mitt hjerte;
alltid i det tredje setet fra hoyre.

Jenta på trikken.

Hun er så vakker og jeg ser henne.

Men hun ser aldri meg."

[Anonymous No.7130486]

I sit by the river;
Fish swim by

[Anonymous No.7130530]

Cool, but work harder on form and structure. Well expressed as monologue op.

[Anonymous No.7130543]

>>7130483
leser som en karpe diem-tier pop sang, sorry bro

[Anonymous No.7130550]

>>7130543
Produser noe bedre da din fitte.

[Anonymous No.7130556]

>>7130550
åheeei

[Anonymous No.7130561]

>>7130550
Jeg provde å spille dodball, og innelaget tapte når ingen av de lop, da de var på et fristed
Jeg har lært at umulig betydde mer kanskje, viss ingen av oss turte, så vil ikke en dritt skje
Jeg var kanskje minst og jeg bomma to ganger, traff på det siste, men ingen sa lop
For ingen hadde visst at vi kunne lopt sammen, for jeg traff linja, men ikke var dod
Nå spiller broren min det samme som jeg spilte, og han går på samme skole, men drommen er en annen
Håper han var positiv da hele laget smilte, og at han tenker det er bullshit og loper som faen

Vi låser inn oss i rutor
Vi inte vågar gå utifrån
Då kommer redslan och tar oss

[Anonymous No.7130562]

>>7130561
Jeg sa produser, ikke klipp og lim din fitte.

[Anonymous No.7130594]

>>7130562
"Alltid i det tredje setet fra hoyre,
Sitter hun, lesende.
Hun tvinner håret,
Og biter sine blodrode lepper.
Hun ser meg ikke.

Hun går av,
Samme sted, samme tid.
Hun ser meg ikke.

Hennes morkebrune hår,
De gronne oyne,
De vakre bevegelser, hennes uimotståelige manér
Alltid i det tredje setet fra hoyre.

Hun ser meg ikke."

[Anonymous No.7130611]

>>7130594
Var jo faktisk litt forbedret.

[Anonymous No.7130623]

>>7130611
~

[Anonymous No.7131523]

I'd really appreciate it if you guys gave this a little r8, I'll post a few more after too.

Cranreuch

Hoarfrost, crispen hoarfrost;
That slaps the crossing east-wind,
Over sea and leaf-helms shorn-lost.
Who, to make hoarfrost, has sinned?

High the poplars, solemn bare,
That peek the grazing mist over;
Sweet the shining shadow's swear,
Of boats, Calais to Dover.

For slicing buds of dew on fens,
That sting the numb-swamped face.
Dough-skinned, the harshy hoarfrost lends
Speed to a deathing race.

Those poplars swallowed, by the grey;
The boats of docking do
The throw of rotting cargo. But stay
The ship, no ventures new.

Yet, switch the hoarfrost on the day,
There! New breathen light!
But morning only lasts so long;
Just wait till there is night.

[Anonymous No.7131532]

>>7131523

I saw on the bally bough, a nomad,
A facial, glacial, beggar form up the crest of the hill.
His ten teeth lay like yellow rocks,
And beach-pebbles in his gums.
His stubble grew like white wheat, on his leathery jowls.

His heavy face and berserker-eyes, he looked like
Ulysses, when he enobled himself to the wretch's stance.
He wore a thick coat, he wore a thick hat,
The grey and brown colour, laden somewhere between dye and dirt.

We withstood the plump air of late July,
And the pulsating of the shooting sun.
It had wretched my fire-swollen, gasping mass,
Up each vein and hill.

Yet, he did not vigorously swallow air or grunt,
He trundled a cracking blue bike, dark on the day,
In front of the sweet hay-cocks and reels of fields,
The winter's dark green to the summer's burnt yellow.

He told me he'd hope the weather'd hold a month.
I wished the same, god-willing. We parted.
That Jack Noman, a man of the steppe of Éire.

[Anonymous No.7131534]

>>7131532

I was weedling up a highland tract,
Down to the crofting city of grit and draught;
Where I passed whistling sheepherds with
Stone-stern Corydons;
Bricky stubbles on tarted faces.

Dripping blood o'er these hills, as a lad,
I had skited rock-ways, feeling my
Open elbow after, white with work.
Weeping curdlingly, shrieking over dusty moors,
But growing fonder.

Adonis was not an adolescent.
When I were't, gacky and witless I was,
With long-fodden hair, that was matted with grease.
I pressed a girl's leg once, to mine, and heated;
I was infirm, awkward, boring;
I was my parent's weaken.

Where I am now, though, sailing up the Bosphorus;
The boughs are happier than e'er before.
The green fields of Canada are daily blooming,
And the thrushes on the fen sing, lyreless, to the cicadas.
The fresh, twisted, pale trees on the groves give
Supple whispers; the orchard wipes the land
With gruff beauty.

And around the supple sensitives, the mind first
Opens Alexandrian libraries, fully comprehensive,
And looks at the slickened, cool marble, to first admire grandeur.
Standing as if, a gold-woven eagle, made from lines of lines,
Glimmering, twisted threads lapping on red satin.

Yet, the folly. Youth gruntingly breeds hubris,
Feelings of pointed Cortez, of discovery;
And the brain jokes that this epoch is better for them,
Though it is all quite the same.

[Anonymous No.7131561]

>>7128861
at first i thought you were just rambling about why you need to read more poetry
your poem fuckin sucks

[Anonymous No.7132182]

>>7128861
bad
>>7129022
pretty good
>>7129252
good
>>7130284
okay
>>7130303
bad
>>7130486
surprisingly good
>>7131523
>>7131532
>>7131534
i like the alliteration, but there's too much repitition and silly rhymes.
decent.

[Anonymous No.7132186]

>>7131523
>>7131532
>>7131534
also, meter seems awkward af sometimes

[Anonymous No.7132281]

are the poetry/critique threads always this dead?

[Anonymous No.7132289]

>>7132281
not always and I'll be "critiquing" things >>7132205 but just not now