poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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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:

Follow @poetrycritical for more!

Random Poem:


Grave dwellers no more
A disgusting stench lingers here evermore
Fingers clawing at dirt
A head squeezes out from under the mound of earth
Black wiry hair, skin a pale gray
Veinous and peeled from its decay
Eyes blankly staring and lifeless
Here there is no comfort except the darkness
Sickening sounds uttered from its mouth
Impossible as it seems
For the dead should not speak
Yet its moans are loud
loud enough to startle and scare
To captivate and  make one well aware
Its body rises dirt falling all around
With an eerie purpose and no sound
The tattered and torn funeral clothes
Cling loosely to its putrid bones
The yellowish sneering grin from beneath half rotted lips
Opens up to reveal another spine tingling moan that you just cannot miss
The tombstone behind the animated corpse
Makes a mockery of life of course...
Somehow cheating death
Again returning
For some unknown reason
A corpse not content to sit still
But wander aimlessely until its had its fill
Now completely out if its grave
On its hands and knees it will not stay
It struggles to rise and clenches the fresh soil in its fist
Its grave determination not hard to miss
On a face that's been dead for decades
Alive and yet lifeless the drool cascades
From a rotten mouth an unearthly moan can be heard
Spoken aloud by a disheveled corpse that once inhabited this earth
Trying not to make a sound
Desperately quiet, praying not to be found
By this denizen of dirt, this hellish sight on earth
These thoughts fly by when
All of a sudden it's interrupted by something lumbering nearby
Is it the walking dead?
Or simply your imagination instead?
Perhaps all of it is a dream, and you are asleep
You cannot remember, and you are unafraid
But behind you, your  grave surely awaits

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