No. 16

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Deleted.
Last edited by MUCHO on Sun Jun 05, 2011 6:17 pm, edited 2 times in total.
"This is our decision,
to live fast and die young...
Yeah it's overwhelming,
but what else can we do?
Get jobs in offices and
wake up for the morning commute?

The models will have children,
we'll get a divorce,
find some more models;
everything must run its course!

Fated to Pretend




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Reviews 504
Bolshevik wrote:It's raining,
So I'll stay inside, and write of the world external, Not a huge fan of the noticeable difference in size between those last two lines. Maybe if you relocated the line break, it might sound better...? And "the world external" is a weird way of referring to outside.
battered by the deluge,
knocking on my windowsill, calling for my conformation. "Conformation" is too long and technical-sounding a word for poetry. I know what you're trying to say, but it just sounds halted here.

It's raining,
so I'll write of my bedrock soul,
at the bottom of the virgin quarry, Meh. Not sure about this.
resisting the forces of nature,
raindrops rolling off it, What is "it?" You have brought up so many possible candidates that now I'm confused as to what this means.
and flowing away, like a shunned river of epiphany, "A river of epiphany?" I dunno. I think "ideas" would work just as well. Better, actually. Don't use complicated words just because you can, especially when they don't even sound as good as their simpler form.
diverted by a dam of speculation,
collecting in a resevoir of regressive ideals.

It's raining,
so I'm staying inside, writing of the world,
knocking on my windowsill. Are you knocking on your windowsill, or is the world?


'Kay. Needs some work, but I enjoyed the concept you've established. Keep it up!

-Kafka
#TNT

WRFF




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A very good poem, I think. I couldn't understand half of it xD

It's raining,
So I'll stay inside, and write of the world external,
battered by the deluge,
knocking on my windowsill,
calling for my conformation.

It's raining,I like how you keep referencing to the title
so I'll write of my bedrock soul,
at the bottom of the virgin quarry,
resisting the forces of nature,
raindrops rolling off it,and flowing away,
like a shunned river of epiphany,
diverted by a dam of speculation,
collecting in a resevoir of regressive ideals.Whoa,what?

It's raining,
so I'm staying inside,
writing of the world,
knocking on my windowsill.This is probably the only bit I understand xD


This was very good, amazing (:
Linger on, your pale blue eyes



Generally speaking, a howling wilderness does not howl: it is the imagination of the traveler that does the howling.
— Henry David Thoreau