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Welcome to Poetry Critical, an online poetry workshop. To post your own poetry you'll need to create a user id by typing a name and password in the box above and hitting 'New User'. If you just want to critique or jump into the discussion, however, you can go ahead and get started!
Poetry Critical 2.0
Hey guys, Donald here.
In a few weeks, this site will be 9 years old. 9 years! And I still know some of the earliest submissions by heart.
But, boy. That’s like 102 in web-years. So it’s time for something new. I’m building that something now with my nights-and-weekend minutes (and plenty of coffee). Buy me a cup?
Development updates from Twitter:
We were younger then. We didn't know that acne existed--how loathing it was. Cramps only gripped us after we'd eaten far too much, and much too fast. Blood was something that only happened to the knees and knuckles of boys with bicycles. We had favorite flowers, preferred cookies, best-friends-forever giggling in backyard tents with flashlights.
It never rained, but on the warmest days. The asphalt would give off its summer scent. The wet grass under our bare feet cool, and slippery, we could sprint, and slide on it like Bambi. When our hair became soaked, the rainwater would rivulet down smooth foreheads, drip heavy from little eyebrows, taste like tomorrow doesn't matter.
Everything was larger than us. Our brothers built indoor forts out of chesterfield pieces. We belly-flopped fearlessly onto the crisp cushion of orange and yellow leaf mounds. Two-handed apples hid our faces while we crunched into them, like round red masks. Pumpkins devoured our arms up to the shoulder, digging their guts clean with tablespoons.
We knew no cold, but for its evidence. There was a potency felt, hearing the crinkle of ice-puddles crushed beneath our pink-booted steps, as though we were getting away with smashing glass. Every word uttered was visible in the air, and vanished as quick as the speaking. This was a pure world, not ready for color, yet we wore cheeks brightly pinched.
We were younger, then. We lent not a single thought to wondering if he likes me; I will wear the blue one--no, the green one--no, definitely the blue one; I hate myself, I hate this mirror, I hate the world!; why the hell is my sister so screwed up?; I'm in agony, give me the fucking epidural!;
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