Liz

Poetry shouldn't seem like an echo of something you'd say on the phone, it's about heightened emotion and using heghtened language to convey it. Your line breaks don't really mean ...

I love the place you're coming from. Try to make this sound a little less of a rant though, let the reader in a bit. You don't need exclamation marks ...

I think you fall back too much on cliches, which doesn't force the reader to think about what you really mean, or to feel some sort of impact. Your last ...

R.E.M. Spinning nightmares have never been gashed by sunlight, because I cannot catch. My father has never taught me, and each young man likes my tongue and nothing more. Oh, ...

The song composed by the watermelon pips that rained upon the sopping dirt was a lie. And it lay all night. Before you could reach it your leg gave way ...

Thanks for the comments guys. Ok, an explanation? Wow...I can try. Basically I wrote this after a late night hanging out with a guy when a few people were staying ...

Fifty dollar notes pile underneath my desk and i don't know where they originated. Oh poorlittlerichgirl, Poor little Charliered perfume-smothered girl. But i think it's stolen. Oh if i was ...

It's been a long, narrow pathway. I've had to drag colossal shadoes and gigantic blocks of tin. And they fade at times, (or am I going blind - T C ...

Very beautiful. You have great storytelling ability. I also loved the last line. Great work!

True, but if the reader has a feeling that the poem is dragging on, it definitely detracts from the overall meaning that you want them to get out of the ...

Not bad, but I think it could do with a bit of imagery just to spice things up a bit. I would pick this to shreds but I see what ...

Not bad, but I agree with Chevy, you need to work on your imagery and the stanzas did get a little boring. Try to bring in some new ideas and ...

out of neuralgia's dark hotness (sweating and retching), darling i demur all night, except at your contigent contours. i smoulder and smudge tears into blood. were your soporific stories only ...

Last night: a palm of crushed-up Prozac and a throat heated by tea. This afternoon: a black folder polluted with words staining stanzas. You’re the maestro, as you pluck away ...

I'm no cosmopolite. My home is amongst black Billabong thongs, green pinecones and torn envelopes proclaiming love. The quagmire I struggle to stand in has been invaded by loudness that ...