someday, someone, somewhere, somehow, sometime, will know

some days i feel like metal
like my heart is a thousand pounds heavier
like my soul weighs more than god
i take such long walks i must have circled the earth
and each step i take is one second closer to my death
i would sprint for you, but who has that time to waste?
so watch me step back
watch me walk away from you, as i do every waking moment
but when i rest, i sleepwalk back to you
my subconscious takes control of my body in a way i don't understand, but wish to
it knows something i don't, but aim to find out
so string your bow, use your valentine arrows and aim for the head, not the heart
because my brain pumps thoughts faster than the blood in my veins, and that is what keeps me alive and breathing to sprint to you
and sprint i do
faster than you can imagine
a thousand miles an hour
i swear i grow wings
and some days i feel like air

Hi Zenjoy,

I'm trying to decide whether this is brilliant or terrible. Currently, it's a mix of both and while it smells like fresh wood and scents of silk, it tastes not nearly as good.

You have something going on here that can be cured. The poem is diseased by its lack of focus, it's utter religious devotion to the stream of consciousness, and we all know how dogma can sour like milk gone dry in the sun. I want you to take a good look at this and work on it as you would with the left-brain, not the right. You've already cooked the poetic aspect of this meal and with a flourish that the finest chefs in Florence could not compare. Alas, all that comes out on the plate that's supposed to be sent to the paying consumer is a glob that nobody wants to put into his mouth in the first place; how will he know how it tastes? Have some sort of consistency between the lines, arrange and re-arrange them so that the reader can skip from one to the next without having the feeling of climbing ten-story boulders every time.

Speaking of which, your poem's scope is either too broad or too shallow and all in the wrong places. The entire weight of the soul and heart is too much of a mouthful to be impressed into anything more realistic and relatable later down the road. Start small. Start with a metaphor, a kind of curtain-opener that teases but does not plunge into the ocean at once. Build up like a symphony.

Blow the reader away at the end, then draw him in just as quickly, assuring him that he is safe. Poems should be music without music, notes trapped in language whose only means of escape is through the reader's mind and imagination. The reason I am telling you this is because your poem is better than much of what has come out of the literary forums recently and deserves to survive and thrive in the future.

I'm not going to review the other poem that you have put up, but this critique applies almost directly to that one, with perhaps the addition of a suggestion that you crop out some of the useless, but natural cliches that your mind uses while in the stream of consciousness.

I want to see more of this kind soon, posted here. Make it so.

Hope that helped,
Galerius

(a galerius parody)

Hihi
Zenjoy, the reek of putrifaction from the decaying carcass of this homunculus which you have grown in your laboratories is a testament to your sparks of genius insight, and your woesome inability to follow through with them. Like the best taylor of Venice or the legendary carpenters of Munich you must use more then one hemisphere of your brain, if you are ever to transcend the limitations of a pudding left too long in the sun somewhere in Yorkshire.
This blot of vomit which you call a poem is still whole planes above the level of the acrid bile covered embryos in sarcophagus spewn babylonian fields of malignat purulence. Inside it shines the ruby of a promising yarn. You need only change the arrengement of the sentences, the first part, the second part, and the way it interacts with the reader.
For centuries I have combed these lowly levels of the multiverse in morose and futile search of a poem deserving of not being blasted into the pulsating voids of Naghlarh.
In your sin of pride you have assumed to have the right for authenticity. I shall spare thee this time, my moronic friend, but you must lock your narative into a matrix of a shallow hollywood film. There must be a buildup, then a crisis, and then the consumer must be assured that everything is still fine, and there is no need to be afraid, or even to think, there is only the need to consume more.
Here, let me assist, you presumptious puss covered mongrel with decaying synapses:

some days i feel like cupboard,
some days i feel like aluminum,
some days i feel like metal,
not exactly me - a certain organ
like my heart is a thousand pounds heavier
and now - from organs to mysticism!
like my soul weighs more than god
a weary, ancient god, not the current one,
i take such long walks i must have circled the earth
and each step i take is one second closer to my death,
this is why my priorities are shifting,
i would sprint for you, but who has that time to waste?
so watch me step back
watch me walk away from you,
watch me run away from you,
watch me flee gyrating into the mist,
as i do every waking moment
but when i rest,
astounding things happen, with mere mortals can not fathom
i sleepwalk back to you
my subconscious takes control of my body in a way i don't understand, but wish to
it knows something i don't,
Something no one knows
except an ancient prophesy in the damp jungles of Kazoo
so string your bow, use your valentine arrows and aim for the head,
you crude headhunter from the pits of Kaa,
not the heart
because my brain pumps thoughts faster than the blood in my veins, and that is what keeps me alive and breathing to sprint to you
and sprint i do
faster than you can imagine
a thousand miles an hour
a million miles a second
a billion pasecs in a neutrino's orbit
what is this strange sensation in my shoulder-blades?
is this the prophesy?
But i don't want the responsibility
What is this? Noooooo!
i swear i grow wings
and some days i feel like air
swirling in the streets
But then i realize i'm in a cafeteria.
A policeman is passing by - there is no cause for alarm

Napal, you are an evil genius
Emphasis on the evil
But I kind of agree with Galerius. I don't want to like this poem but I do, it's original and cliche all at once. And I kind of enjoy it. If there was to be something embodying the modern world in its poetry. it would be this. It feels so young, so old, so unique and so universal.
So there's my two cents.
STAR FOR YOU
xxoxx
The universe
To Napal,
I know you didn't have any malice in what you wrote, and you're still an evil genius. And I liked your overblown remake of Galerius comments, but I feel the same way as he does-- in milder manner, not bruised up with pruple prose as his was.

Argh, no,
I also liked the poem very much! A bit at cross-purposes here we are, dear Empress, I made that post as a poke at Galerius's evil style, not Zenjoy's
Very nice poem, attractions, repulsions, futility, hope, whatnot

hahaha thank you all for the creative, yet unorthodox, input

Unorthodox comments for the win! XD

I kind of agree with everybody here. I like your other poem a million times more, but this one is okay and I want it to do something with me, but it doesn't. I would suggest seeing what happened if you trimmed it down a lot or making the tone a little more cynical and bitter since it's on the borderline of that, so it seems like it's having a personality problem. Because I love the last couple of lines... not sure about everything else.

Haha... yeah. Have fun tweaking it... let's see what will happen.