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Rated: E · Poetry · Romance/Love · #2170047
Please give the harshest criticisms possible.None of them have proper names or editing yet
J.M new poem

When we are most upset
Astounded and amazed
By infallible failures
We retreat most into other somber affairs
Somber music, art, company
It seems to be retroactive, cause and effect.
Questions which blossom from wandering eyes storm the forests of our reactions.
Why? they ask. Why? we ask as well.
Clearly a mirror both receives and answers.
Strangely this jewel encrusted bizarre empathy
Which God bestowed so lovingly upon us, to the detriment of everything else
Must be utilized in self reflection alone.
We not only do, but should retreat into these somber chambers.
Grief is best accompanied with grief.
Misery best accompanied with pity.
Because if we do not indulge ourselves, if we do not pity our own state who will?
This universe, which laughs at us mercilessly?

Jeez new poem

In order to impress her, or impression myself upon her
I became unique. I became the lost poet,
The tormented artist
The man of external joy and internal strife
All this I assumed, appropriated
Many I already was, but motivation came in the form of a row boat upon two parted seas.
Opening only to let through the most prestigious of passengers.
However, in attempting to be something,
the genuine is surpassed, overcome, undermined.
I became myself once again. The self I had partially misplaced.
But in becoming myself, I undermined myself.
In many cases I’ve heard, you find her but lose yourself.
I lost her and myself I think.
As love came, luck left.
And as my eyes diverted from one field to another, my whole harvest was spoiled.
These bitter plums I’m left to enjoy, away from myself, away from her.

Poem new poem

How can line after line
Of empty verse
Book after book
Of hollow prose
Falter so greatly,
Be so irreparably incapable
As to diminish their entire form as useless.
Novels are but elongated versions of impotent prose,
poetry but a stylized version of melodramatic rhetoric.
What need does literature have in its entirety,
When it’s hooks cast from ashore
Can not capture in any sense
Her face, 10 inches across
Within which I can consummate my being
And undoubtedly confirm, it’s the whole world
It’s the entire world of course
Today I learned, within a single wave
Within parted tides,
or that aberration which unknowingly makes it to shore, to greet my legs
I have known the whole ocean.
Just as in her face, I have known everything that knowing has to offer.

Neruda new poem

He said Even if you cut all the flowers, you cannot stop the spring from coming.
But if the garden of my pleasures
Is ravaged
And each plant with great care removed
With bare hands and some with tools
And the weeds overgrown and infesting
My palace, and grow over my fence
And insects which dominate as warlords
Tribal conflict reflected in mounds and hills
Ancient battlegrounds of dead grass and dead mice
Even then spring will come he said.
For you can bring all the world to its knees, and even then spring will come
But with even the slightest twitch, the slightest flick or fleeting glance
Love recedes into oblivion, never to be seen again.
I fall in and out of love, with the passing of moons and buses, or the wind in one way or another, a raindrop on my forehead or my cheek.
Yet even then my love is stronger than any bonds which spring can fathom.

Strange new poem

I walk as if
The horizon has illuminated something great
Beyond this
The cool bliss
Albeit briefly
Allows chilling winds to caress my thoughts
And my face
Once again I realize; I am always reflected here.
Movement in space, is never empty. Always
a quite constitution is and will be, everything.
Behind those small jitters advancing
What within my mind is constant?

Meandering on the ground
Every inch of movement
And within my own world
The walls my own domain
I have wandered countless times
And every segregation
As first
The jewel encrusted pavement
The prayer mats of concrete
The solar system of street lamps
Of which my orbit is more precise
And inevitable than any other
I have distinguished all
Within a line, doubtless countless times
And I am one whom is never mistaken
Over which path to be taken.

And yet
Whether we walk the same path
Whether the whole world I traverse, in mind or in verse
In reversed eyes or rains of thirst
If I walk with her. Then she is first
Mind purged of witness
Of the minute worlds of ants and such
Of this grandeur of life
Except her face which does come first
Forever within my heart, this curse.
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