The tortential spam that is my poetry.

Said disease

My cheeks were slit,
and handcuffs locked inside
(of my tongue),
hooking my words to your wrists,
where you just seem to swat them away.

While your face is a concrete and white
testament to a man whom you loved,
with obsidian in your eyes,

shining with the resonance of a "perfectly"
handled situation.
From your forehead to your crown,

where a black knot ties your head
to the cold air, reverbating that iron tone
that draws my eyes to your cheeks.

You said your father had gotten into a car
accident, but he's not in any pain.
And I am truely sorry
for this miscommunication
that set the prisioners of our speech free.
This smile is nothing more than their escape.

Although...
I am happy that you're not angry with me.

I think.
__
Not part of the set. Just making note...

The first storm

As I wait on the street corner,
by an old cemetery,
black gated and run down,
frozen in silence.

Except for the crunch of his
boots, each time the ice breaks
nature's pleas to spare his life
echo in my ear.

His jacket is white,
twisted with blue spirals
that run about his chest.
He rips at the color
with a sharpie, drawing
I guess around every I love you,
sewn into the patches
where his heart should be.

I assume that he left his family,
and that is why he runs.
Colliding with me on this sidewalk,
I am knocked into the street
where a car's grill marks my leg.

Now. Him and his problems
are my problem.
_____
I know it's bad, sorry.

The second storm

I search my pockets
for answers and my fingers find holes,
where thought and possession
made their outline on my heart.

As they fall, lost to the snow,
he has the power of ownership,
a care to keep
or discard.
And I must discard him.

His jacked, now red,
justly changed as he changed
to a blue nothingness.
I robbed him of his warmth.

As I begin to move away from him,
the wind sighs, chilling me,
freezing any tear's hopes of melting,
as the sky falls in a perfect silence.

I still feel nothing.
____
Sorry, I know it's still bad.

The third storm

The labeled lost are found
in my orderly home,
where I carry all problems
through the front door
that is mostly rusty hinges.

I pasted a doctor's helping hands,
scared with little white lies,
that i nailed to the wall,
with the reports of failed experiments
to excite my calmed conscious.

The scraps of feeling are overcooked,
burnt limbs on my tattered range,
waiting to be thrown away
like the bodies to my basement.
Where I disect their being.

As I was told to
paint every body a color,
red for those who fought back with anger,
and not fear.
White for those who lived in saddness
and I gave repreive to.
Blue, for the confused.

And still wandering.
_____
No better, I know. Sorry again, and there's only one more.

The fourth storm

I make my way to the stairs,
quickly climbing to "salvation",
as a fury stormed my home,
with flashing lights of red and blue.

Greeting me at the top of the stairs,
new age knights shouting that
this must be stopped,
making a hail with their point.

I cannot consider the bullets
that shattered my window
of right and wrong to be anything
but as a dirty

as the wind. Licking my wounds,
that fell from my bedroom window
into the white impurity.

Where I justly changed
from white to blue,
with frozen hollow feeling,
chasing my death
Like a quick breath after
a freshly ended nightmare.

And I'm still cold...
___
Last one, still no better. Sorry again, it's also my first time writing a set of poems.

Whoa lots of posts!
Haha, I shall review

Let's start with Said Disease, shall we?

I think if my cheeks were slit,
and handcuffs locked inside,
hooking my tongue to my
wrists, I could accurately say that
it would be easier to speak with you.

Wow, I really love this... I'm at lost for words.
Only thing is 'cheeks', not 'cheecks' I think you meant. It's the only mistake I spotted.


Next onto The First Storm

As I wait on the street corner,
by an old cemetery,
blacked gated and run down, This sounds weird to my ears.. is it just me? I suggest 'blackened gates' or 'black gated' or even 'gated in black'
frozen in silence.Love this line x)

Except for the crunch of his
boots <- I would put this word with the line above, each time the ice breaks
nature's pleas to spare his life
echo in my ear.

His jacket is white,
twisted with blue spirals
that run about his chest.
He rips at the color
with a sharpie, drawing
I guess around every 'I love you',
sewn into the patches
where his heart should be.

I assumeed that he left his family, keep in present tense
and that is why he runs.
Colliding with me on this sidewalk,
I am knocked into the street
where a car's grill marks my leg.

Great second poem


Onto The Second Storm

silented1 wrote:____
Sorry, I know it's still bad.

What are you saying!? This is great! Definitely my favorite one


The Third Storm

The labeled lost are found
in my orderly home,
where I carry all problems
through the front door
of rusty hinges. I suggest changing that so it is 'Where I carry all my problems through the rusty hinges of the front door'

I pasted a doctor's helping hands,
scared with little white lies,
that I nailed to the wall,
with the reports of failed experiments
to excite my calmed conscience. 'Conscience'.. I think that's what you meant, Am I right?

Again, I absolutely loved, especially the last stanza


And, last but not least, The Fourth Storm

I cannot consider the bullets
that shattered my window
of right and wrong to be anything
but as a dirty as the wind.
Licking my wounds,
that fell from my bedroom window
into the white impurity.
Is this one stanza? If yes, then I suggest rearranging the lines like this.. (those that were changed in red)

Overall, this is awesome. I loved the emotion in it, your style of writing and all It was great.
Keep on writing!

-Truth-

I can make the rain seem skitzophrenic

So, you're standing in the corner,
staring out the glass doors
at this town that holds change
to every color.

Dripping sunlight over a
metalic black street.
"I can see the sun in this
traveled space, I am the story
on the radio, the one that everyone
will know."

Our games were mere catalysts
to the actions you create.

"I dribbled their concepts,
and shot their voices into black holes
with an orange comet, so I can get away,
to the stars, which I will rearrange
in my likenes, one day."

We only saw what you thought,
from you slightly swaying in place,
with a small motion to walk away.
We could see you mumbling to yourself.

"I have been freed and have traveled far
past the point of light, I am the
hero that the world will never meet.
I retreated from that hell of hardwood
floors long ago."

As you watched the rain,
you muttered good-bye,
leaving us...

Never to return.
____
Practice poem, and I know it's long, sorry.

untitled
Green carpets are shreded
and scattered in blades,
guiding our feet and keeping
them off the lambent brown floor.
As we walk;

through the giant's shadow,
whose body is riddled with black
ridges, like a tapped out faucet
that haunts the shoddy, inhabited
world.

It looks to the endless ceiling for escape,
reaching with pale and braded
fingers, that are just beginning to
grow from old memories, in the form
of an exodus of petals being swept away.
They are shared;

with the concrete stones that dot
the black stairs, resting in the
backround, just trying to hold
itself togeather.
But the gravel and dirt shifts,
making the path more erratic.
With every step

we get closer to town,
where we'll forget this imagination;
the natural suburbia.
___
Just some practice / experimentation.

Untitled:
Green carpets are shreded
and scattered in blades, < Removed “plant-like”
guiding our feet and keeping
them off the lambent brown floor.
As we walk

through the giant's shadow,
whose body is riddled with black
ridges; a tapped out faucet < Faucet. Removed “like” and “drunken” and added a semi colon
that haunts the shoddy, inhabited < removed “yet still”
world.

It looks to the endless ceiling for escape,
reaching with pale and mangled < Rearranged and removed “green”
fingers, that are just beginning to
grow from old memories, in an exodus
of petals being swept away.
They are shared;

with the concrete stones that dot
the black stairs, resting in a
background just trying to hold
itself together.
But the gravel and dirt shifts,
the path ever more erratic.
With every step

we get closer to town,
where we'll forget this imagination;
the natural suburbia.

So a couple of comments here and there and some fairly major revisions along the way. I haven't explained all I've done, but I've just removed some stray words and cleaned up your conclusion, which was too in our faces for what you were saying. It's a lovely poem with subtle imagery. I liked it very much indeed. I may come back later for the others as well.

<3

Hey,
Thank you for requesting a review, but I do have to ask why are you posting all of these poems under one thread? I haven't read the others yet, but I am intrigued. on to your review of untitled:

As we walk

This feels as though it should start the second stanza instead of end the first.

through the giant's shadow,
whose body is riddled with black
ridges, like a drunken tapped out faucet
that haunts the shoddy, yet still inhabited
world.

I feel like your stanzas are a little too wordy, but you are using great description.

with the concrete stones that dot
the black stairs, resting in the
backround, just trying to hold
itself togeather.
But the gravel and dirt shifts,
making the path more erratic.
With every step

It feels as though the line that starts out But... should start a new stanza. Try to be consistent with the number of lines you have in one stanza.

we get closer to town,
where we'll forget this imagination,
further ignoring the natural
suburbia.

I love the way you ended this.

The poem overall was a little hard for me to understand, but I enjoyed the descriptions you gave and the vocabualry you used.

Keep up the good work,
Tiffany
P.s. ask for a review any time.

Hi silented. Here to review "Said disease"

I'm not sure exactly how I feel about the first stanza. The image you create is so bizarre and complex that the stanza becomes pretty wordy. That said, I really like how original that image is. My advice would be to try to keep that image or one similar, but see if you can play with the wording to make it clearer and smoother.

Stanza two is pretty much entirely imagery and description. This gives it a sparkly finish, but nothing underneath. Give the stanza some underlying meaning and connection to the main theme of your poem.
Line three of stanza two is kind of ambiguous as to whether it's describing line one or line two.
I also suggest breaking up the second stanza so it's not one huge sentence spanning multiple subjects. Separating your imagery a little will make it more meaningful.

Stanza three is the reverse of stanza two; I like what you're trying to say, but not how you present it. The first line is extremely blunt for such a heavy topic, and the entire stanza is devoid of the imagery and poetic language of the first two stanzas. The bluntness of that first line and change in style combine to make the final stanza seem like a very abrupt jump from the rest of the poem. Edit the language to be more in line with the rest of the poem, and you'll have an excellent stanza.

Overall, this is a nicely done poem, it just needs a little more depth beneath all of the images. You are far too hard on yourself
The best of luck.

Hi Ed.
I'm here. Completely UNrequested. Deal with it.

My cheeks were slit,
and handcuffs locked inside
(of my tongue),
hooking my words to your wrists,
where you just seem to swat them away.

First of all, nice imagery. The pain, the (little-bit) gore is a very nice attention grabber, and works as an excellent hook here. My own suggestion is that it's kind of hard to picture handcuffs locked inside of someone's tongue. I have a feeling that if you were to expand on this image, it might be a little bit clearer. The follow-up of that imagery is very effective, so I like it and would keep it, just maybe make the sight more plausible.

While your face is a concrete and white
testament to a man whom you loved,
with obsidian in your eyes,

Love this-- the contrast of white and obsidian works perfectly, and I love the imagery in the first line. However, the "man whom you loved" feels like you were talking about a lover or something, rather than her father who is referenced further down.

shining with the resonance of a "perfectly"
handled situation.
From your forehead to your crown,

I thought your forehead WAS your crown? O.o
Aside from that; excellent stanza-- you carry a great deal in three lines, especially in the quoted "perfectly". So, great job on that.

where a black knot ties your head
to the cold air, reverbating that iron tone
that draws my eyes to your cheeks.

This, coupled with the last line of the previous stanza, is actually a fragment.
If you remove the word "where" you can fix this, and create quite a strong image. However, I would beware of incorporating too much imagery without the emotion to back it up. This is a strong image, as I said before, but it doesn't really mean anything to us right now. It's just... there.

You said your father had gotten into a car
accident, but he's not in any pain.
And I am truly sorry
for this miscommunication
that set the prisioners of our speech free.
This smile is nothing more than their escape.

So, the first two lines of this stanza seem to be the meat of the entire poem. This is where the emotion and situation start to leak in, and I think that you could have elaborated more on it. I'm not exactly sure what you meant by "miscommunication" and how it applies to her father's death. I really do like the last line though-- it seems to pull back to the hardship and add in some character to your narrator-person-thing. I think that you could incorporate a couple more references to this concrete image, rather than the emotions surrounding it, so the reader gets to this part and says, "Oh-- it all makes sense now."

Although...
I am happy that you're not angry with me.

I think.

I'm not sure about this part. It almost seems apathetic and a bit disconnected. I really like the last line though.

Overall:
I really, really think this has potential. You have a lot of imagery, and it's all done very nicely and concisely, but you might consider incorporating more emotion. You have a lot of "showing" in your poetry, which is excellent. Most people struggle with this, and it really takes a toll on their writing. However, you need a bit more "tell". Telling lets the reader know what exactly is going on. It's straight up, it's simple, and when coupled with "showing", is the best thing ever in writing. If you do a bit more telling, I really think that you would hit with emotion and character development.
Besides this, excellent piece. You, as always, have a great command of language; love your rhythm and word choice in this one. Just try to beef up the emotion a bit more.

Laments of a well dressed god.

I found my shirt in the woods,
on the black ground,
saturated with the day's tears
and the atmosphere sighed with a
cold boredom.

As I merely walked back
to town, I pulled a bullet off
of a spider's web, -like map
of this world. Where the flies
have given up, serving the black
widow, who watched the sky,
just trying to correct herself.

I told her that I am not god,
but like god, she thought... I was gone.

And back in town, I found
my pants on a stop sign, still
aching to run, as I picked them
up, time seemed to pass like a
ceiling fan's shadow, slowly turning
through the shades of day and night.

I saw in the (time)stop sign,
the strings of weavers,
all sheding their skin to clothe my
body with a suit of my life's bisness.
While my personality was ignored and
scattered,
in the garments that I loved.

I might as well be burried
in my refrigerator.
_____
It needs a lot of work, I think. Mainly at the ending. Sorry for poor quality (yet again).

Okay, Eddie. Reviewing... RE: I can make the rain seem skitzophrenic.

Alright... It was interesting, Eddie. Definitely interesting. The imagery was amazing, and flow and rythym were good. Despite the oddness of it, I love it. XD Either way, it makes for a very interesting and somewhat ironicly amusing piece. The imagery brought to mind was wonderful, though sometimes somewhat disturbing. lol

Sadly, I don't really have any nitpicks worth mentioning. Overall, a brilliant poem. I really do like and adore it. Thanks for the brilliant poetry, Eddie! Keep it up and never stop writing. ^^

~Scar.

Hey silent, like promised I'm here to review this. I'm going to give you the typical work-over and a note on imagery along with word choice.

silent1 wrote:Laments of a well dressed god.

I found my shirt in the woods,
on the black ground,
saturated with the day's tears
and the atmosphere sighed with a
cold boredom.

ok, so I'm guessing we should read the title and take it to have a connection to the first stanza, which, is fine. Without the subject "god" the first few lines would be confusing. Now, I'm confused as to what the connection is between the images you have in the first stanza. BUT, this is not a problem if you can bring it together later on. You seem to like to pair abstract & the "tangible" with human emotions, line 4 & 5 show. It's an interesting idea, though we'll see if it adds depth. Overall, I'm getting that this is a dressing of the...lost sense of self? Lost sense of location? Hm. I can't get the right word.

As I merely walked back
to town, I pulled a bullet off
of a spider's web, -like map
of this world. Where the flies
have given up, serving the black
widow, who watched the sky,
just trying to correct herself.

Merely walked. Hm. So you're approaching something about the drive of the "god" or you're trying to dig into...pointlessness? This is an odd addition, so perhaps it has to do with the god's ability to do more than just walk. Hm. What happened in line 8? Your intended formatting? I'm not sure what to make of it. Ok, so from "Where the...to sky," I really, really like the feeling, but the last line, line 12, doesn't add anything in terms of theme or depth. What is she correcting? What does this do with web? Bullets? I see you have a tendency to deconstructionism in your poetry, and that's perfectly fine. Even with that, the flow and crispness of lines is essential. You don't a coherent, singular idea, since that is counter to the deconstructionist; what you must have then are lines which further the descent into confusion, into nothing, into the perceived void of meaning in art.

I told her that I am not god,
but like god, she thought... I was gone.

Again, the beginning here is great. This has real potential because you're addressing a concept and then dismissing it, a duality and a dichotomy. However "but like god, she thought...I was gone" does not flow schematically. What is gone? Who is originating what? I get that this speaker says they aren't god, but then is this spider thinking the speaker is gone? Parse the ideas here, and then reconnect them. Please, this could be brilliant with a little adjusting.

And back in town, I found
my pants on a stop sign, still
aching to run, as I picked them
up, time seemed to pass like a
ceiling fan's shadow, slowly turning
through the shades of day and night.

Ok. You're getting rhythm and feeling and that's good. However, you're tossing too much in at once. Ideas and ideas are ideas and ideas with ideas and moments with time and things leading to stuff. That was a bitch to read right? I like that you're keeping the clothes idea here, it justifies the title and also obfuscates an easy reading. However, you need to bring clothes up more. It will solve the problem of weird phrasing I've pointed out, really. Such reworking will literally solve the problem for you since you don't have to compensate later on. The end here brings in time, though to a god, time would seem like a nebulous nothing. And I think that's the perspective you present. But that's not too deep for my tastes. It's a beginning, but you need to divide and then reword the separate sentiments.

I saw in the (time)stop sign,
the strings of weavers,
all sheding their skin to clothe my
body with a suit of my life's bisness.
While my personality was ignored and
scattered,
in the garments that I loved.

I might as well be burried
in my refrigerator.

Hm. This first line isn't working for you. There's an art to parentheses in poetry, and your idea is ok, but reading it actually makes it a chore and not a fun task in deciphering meaning. However, after that line, you lose me. Some misspellings, no idea if you intended them, and you present concepts that were touched on at all before. I almost wonder if you stopped writing it here. Really, not a bad ending in those two lines, but you need the rest of the poem to complete the bridge. It doesn't need to read linearly, not at all, but it should feel like a hangover concoction: disgustingly refreshing, but satisfying to a hard ridden mind.

_____
It needs a lot of work, I think. Mainly at the ending. Sorry for poor quality (yet again).

It needs work, but be real man. This isn't terrible. You have an ability with words, its the ideas and concepts that need be married your representation. Let loose. Don't feel like words dictate anything. They're holding you back. Fall in love with the poem itself, the speaker, the people in it, etc. Examine what you want to say, what is being said now, and re-approach it again.