Galerius

There is nothing here I am all alone In this dark place of my own creation Surely there's a better way you can describe this abyss beyond saying "the dark ...

It did not take Creep one day to heal his wounds. For three months he stayed in Concetta’s room as he recovered, trying not to move too much lest he ...

700 points up for grabs. Who wants 'em? EDIT: Oh, and Snoik is forbidden to participate in this round, because I was mud-splattered by a pig this morning.

The waking world returned to Creep in a blinding flash of light like some divine revelation. He put his hand over his eyes, trying to protect them from the brilliance. ...

If that's what she believes, that's what she believes. Moral relativity. Also, I find it hilarious when, 90% of the time, those who try to defend homosexuality always make sure ...

I couldn’t remember What had happened earlier That day. My head was Throbbing, but my body Was numb. I forced my Eyes open, tearing apart The film that had formed ...

Love shows through your eyes and burns through my heart It’s a feeling hard to deny Bold and happy I'm disappointed; I expected an analogy to the sun or some ...

Creep slunk through the sewers. The noxious smell of human waste entered his nostrils and he grimaced in disgust. He didn’t need to go far down here, just far enough ...

Although I'm there Although I sleep ... Although I'm there Although I died Interesting parallels between sleep and death; however, considering that this is from a existentialist standpoint, does sleep

Since this seems to focus on an idea - concept, really - more than actual conventions, I am not going to concentrate on the mundane aspects such as language, word ...

Hi, Conrad. Your work has caught my eye a couple of times and I figured I should start critiquing some of it eventually. So here goes: It could have been ...

Do you seriously want this to be critiqued? You sound exactly like - and I mean exactly like - Twilight fangirls. The same arrogant tone, the same juvenile word choice, ...

Well, at least you admitted upfront that this poem wasn't any good. This was...a train wreck of cliches colliding with one another to infinity, sorry. I have heard this poem ...

The blood of life is in the movement, The blood of movement is in the dance. Each flick of a finger tells a story, Woven together in movement's trance. Imagery ...

I'm not sure whether you still want this "poem" to be critiqued, but let me know if you do.