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:

bare feet

and if the sun ever did
peek through the honey-dipped rooftops again
and make her cheeks shine in sweet tea sweat and
her stray strands of hair dance like candle flames,
like the kind of beauty she had in the fourth grade
that could never be found in a bottle,
i might finally be able to sigh
and fall back right here, right now, in this skin,
tilt my face up to the dying sky
and let the rain drip muddy mascara
across my face.
because otherwise it's hard to tell what beauty really is.
that day, in that sun,
she looked like an angel
and while we were perched on her front porch
she told me that stars were like fireflies.
well, i've saved stars from that night
in a small glass jar and i'm hoping that someday
when i can finally show her
they won't be just be a mirage
of something that died years ago.
that day on her porch, she laughed
when i told her that i liked the
complementing colors of you and me.
i remember thinking that you'd probably laugh too
because you never did have a way
with paint or colored pencils.
and sometime in the mist of midnight
i drained my heart out to a stranger
on her bedroom floor
because i figured that he'd understand me better
than anyone who had ever known me as myself,
and between carpet stains and torn tissues
where i had nothing to hide
i was right.
now i feel like i'm playing with fire
because my words tend to tangle and trip themselves
and i've ended up too many times
with my nose burried
in the concrete.
but i've burned candles
drank sweet tea
counted stars
found redemption in a puddle at my feet
and decided that the only love
is a stranger on her bedroom floor
and a painting that will never be painted
and wild, raw summer beauty
like the kind she once had
when we were just girls catching fireflies
on our palms.

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