poetry critical

online poetry workshop

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Welcome!

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!

Random Poem:

Howls Restrained By Decorum
Lexie

I am seeing the best minds of my generation,  
 1
       undiscovered to themselves, gorged on  
 2
       societal fantasy,
 3
losing to mechanical dreams in unmanageable
 4
       blue-glow flashing living rooms looking to find
 5
       in florescent screens an end,
 6
greasy haired and crew cut all long-fingered
 7
       tapping frantically at the same black or white
 8
       or silver buttons,
 9
who numb and brittle and broken and strung-out lie
 10
       wide-eyed, beginning to beg for their lives,
 11
       starting to untangle the perfect stitching of a
 12
       world of wires and contemplating their
 13
       vibrations through technological beats,
 14
who shield their brains from celestial billboards and
 15
       see mistresses of man-imagined idols
 16
       plastered high above their streets in colors
 17
       and lights and smiles,
 18
who ask nothing of universities but not to be
 19
       drained and broke and who slouch through
 20
       courtyards hoping not to be seen by
 21
       ten-storied institutional-eyes,
 22
whom academies condone for their unread,
 23
       untouchable thoughts which cannot feed
 24
       economic equations or their beasts,
 25
who hate and (but) live off of gasoline, off of
 26
       electricity, off of food, off of water, off of
 27
       credit and in debt knowing Terror as a
 28
       symptom of their breath,
 29
who make their marijuana income in order to live,
 30
       to give it right back to their debtors in
 31
       cellophane baggies and taxes or in the back of
 32
       caged-in cars and cells,
 33
who eat saccharin in pink wrappers and drink
 34
       urinated hormones from their faucets,
 35
       tempting tumors while attempting to avoid
 36
       defeat
 37
with dread, with prescriptions, with hazy,
 38
       unknowable sleep, syrupy DXM and
 39
       STI’s and endless shushed-up sickness,
 40
incomparable highways of blinding proportions
 41
       spinning the world off its axis, slinging herds
 42
       through concrete tunnels or slamming them,
 43
       mangled, into alleys making choking, chemical
 44
       air their only comprehensible discovery,
 45
Ecstasy illuminated lobbies, fenced in yards that
 46
       peak at the pale-pink hint of an un-seeable
 47
       sun, consumed clear-vodka whispers of old
 48
       truths on fire escapes which dissipate into the
 49
       forgotten sentiments of tradition, the desire
 50
       for connection gasping for an outlet in bottles
 51
       on mirrors through nicotine gatherings and in
 52
       morning-killed love,
 53
who find their protests restricted to basement
 54
       hallucinations and who look up to slatted
 55
       windows trying to imagine beyond the
 56
       shadows of their own bodies  reflecting off of
 57
       wide-screen adds for Klonopin,      
 58
who may or may not know the freeze of an
 59
       oxycontin stairwell or a cocaine bathroom’s
 60
       blurring buzz , but yet who drown in rainbows
 61
       of the psycho farm’s harvest because there
 62
       are dollar signs dripping from their worries,    
 63
who move restlessly through gritty streets
 64
       determined to shake off the armor of
 65
       caked-on korl sculptures, exposing flesh, too
 66
       real in a close proximity in darkness    
 67
a band of wandering savages with words itching in
 68
       their ears, itching to be understood so they
 69
       may jump off in the midst of an oil-slicked
 70
       ocean to rise to nod,
 71
hollering to what they’re immersed in, baptisms in
 72
       social sewage birthing the opening of eyes to
 73
       the horror of
 74
whole empires crumpled in red and yellow
 75
       evidence, edible exploitation that feeds
 76
       families into income-consuming corners, dollar
 77
       by dollar meals killing off classes in the name
 78
       of convenience,
 79
who cringe at the double-bagged mentality of such
 80
       perfectly biodegradable bodies but who panic
 81
       at the perpetuated reflection of such thoughts,
 82
suffering under the assumption that some counter-
 83
       culture criticism will lock them under the
 84
       stairwells of environ-mental “Ists”,
 85
who have seen labels leech passion and leave
 86
       drained do-good carcasses to the mercy of a
 87
       single hungry snicker in a crowd,
 88
who trust no government, no media, no self and
 89
       have left the folklore free-press to the solitary
 90
       scholar’s self-indulging blog,
 91
who silently study news paper headlines in
 92
       migraine-lit kiosks, because they cannot
 93
       comprehend the worldly significance of a
 94
       billion-heiress’ fame though fornicating
 95
       philanthropy,
 96
who have seen their elders wrecked and
 97
       weathered, etching figures in asphalt for
 98
       creatures that don’t breathe air ,  
 99
who pace up and down streets of endless piping,
 100
       listening for their Josephine’s voice weakening
 101
       around corners, and tuning out in I-pods
 102
       afraid of what they hear,  
 103
who are slaves to poorly hidden tremors of
 104
       discontentment, plagued by memories of
 105
       more, remembered from nowhere, going only
 106
       to sitcom-subtleties,
 107
who try translating into a culture of seemingly
 108
       infinite identities but end up waking from their
 109
       dreams reciting lines in gibberish tongues,
 110
who watch themselves disappear into the dark
 111
       ashes of night, stirring up feelings not meant
 112
       to survive,
 113
who can reappear, giving name to the nameless so
 114
       it can be thought, as they are quaking in the
 115
       undergrowth of a weed-whacking nation,
 116
who are the “I” meant to yawp, meant to howl,
 117
       meant to holler, meant to deface the
 118
       destructive façade of decorum,    
 119
whom I write to, in words haunted by past masters
 120
       and mad-men,
 121
       because poetry is not a luxury and because
 122
       I know that as long as
 123
       I can feel, I can be free.
 124

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