poetry critical

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slips of fingers

I am a strange man who stares into nothing.
I am a man who has seen the darkest side of his barren mind.
I know more about the inner workings of souls than the birds who feast unending.
I watch the sun setting on my cold heart once again.
Bleeding I hold it to the gods of nothing.
This course that is flowing from my veins
these candle light dinners that only sing of pain
I wonder when and why the sorrow will settle
A bonnet and kettle set to tame
This fiery heart of which god has rained
Down a pain so tight
that for 3 years I did not see the light
I must write these things, for in creation there is stirring
I am expressed through a hazel glass,
the long wrought works, A curious aftermath,
BUt that clock simply stares, Times etching does not care
I wonder at the numbers that simply cannot believe
That there was one creator who conceived,
Everything, infinity never stopped, A giant bucket
That multiplying ever more,
This play... that gods act out in a stupor
Turn with me as the beat and the songs change
I will write this for my family and those whom I love
I know not what this is, A maniac depressive love note wrapped in a sad attempt, this is me, more than I have ever shown
the one man whom I have barely known,
As the days turn I Landon have grown,
Brilliant people have filled my life
I was not content to sip in peace,
No my words had to spill from every crease,
This chaos I know now will never cease,
Who are we all, and where do we go?
There are some who believe in glow of a light,
Where I look deeper into the night
Fading now is this restless chatter
My minds attempts to flatter,
An ego such as mine,
And a petty simple mind,
I truly am nothing, and every day I know that more and more,
Oh what plans do I have stored,
Have I saved winters feast, Or do I still have to slay my beast,
Whom is the muse? Can you refuse her?
Is she blessed or damned,
I stand near her hand,
Trying to fit a pen to the windowsils
Let us speak of loss and joy,
Both playthings to mechanical ploys,
We are simply a channel for the thoughts we touch waking,
These simple minds shattered to breaking,
Once in a great while,
We are burdened with a great undertaking,
I can only see the horizon slip,
Along with my name and soul,
I write in hopes that you will know,
What it is to feel the flow,
Oh which gods and goddesses have bled their souls
Fading and falling this my last attempt
You may read this with contempt
I care not for it is my gift to the world
I stolen much from it's earthen bowl
Yes yes yes yes yes the words have returned in force and I can't stop the workings of this thing. I stare slowly into the maw of darkness that stares back. I know that I fear death, and all it entails, it hungers for our inevitable return.
why do we fear it? why do we run? how much time do I have left
How many beats to this sad dance
what is life what is it?
it is too much for me to tangibly touch
I have to try, I have to yearn to learn everything, I must before the rust of nothing spins me into a sphere of coldness
what sense lies in these mad thoughts
or a ideas so valiantly sought

24 Feb 07

(define the words in this poem)

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I mean this to be helpful -if you are really serious about writing you need to know that this kind of journal type writing (I, I , I , I , I, I, ...) is not poetry. The point of poetry is to draw the reader into the experience but your use of language just doesn't do that. You use abstractions, a few cliches. You talk at the reader instead of trying to really get the reader to SEE what the poem is trying to convey. An excellent resource for beginning writers is a book called "workshop in the palm of your hand" - not sure of the author, but I am sure if you google the title you can find it - I am assuming you are interested in improving or you wouldn't post your work to a workshop. If you don't want critique find a website that just showcases poetry - there are many of them.
 — unknown

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