Young Writers Society

His tongue is shrivled and burned
from enjoying too much sour candy.
When he was a kid, his dad owned a
convienent store, and one day while
he gorged himself in conversation, he offered
a young girl dressed in yellow a piece of chocolate,
and when she bit into it,
the store was robbed.

This man with a sweet tooth did not speak a word,
he only shared a note with the cashire that said:
"You are a preistess of cavities, and I want
every day that you sold, I want the money that proved
you exist."

She gave him her past 12 years, a thousand dollars
from a hundread thousand encounters of when she
reminded him of lemon candy.
She had a complexity back then, a sour coating on her
sweet words.

In his head he unraveled her from a woman of many tastes
to simple need, need for him and the candy.
She was a receit for his broken teeth, for the burning sensation
that he cannot return.

And when they were both tired of these sweet memories,
he ran out onto the streets, stopping to look back
at the flavorless shop; and not at the police coming
to take what's left of him away.
__
Sorry for raising the dead.

Some formatted poem that I cannot spell the name of. (the type of poem, that is.)

Playing titanic.

Hopelessness makes up the canopey
that hides the sun as I walk
in this hollow sea.

My anxiety climbs higher like a monkey
flipping and turning my stomach, as she stalks
from the trunks of hopes won from the canopey.

Title waves of leaves fall free,
as the jaguar pounces on her prey, hunger talks
of creating loss in the sea.

She hid my body in the shade of the trees,
I am the titanic wrecked on land and mocked
for trying to sink holes in the canopey.

She played her game with dishonesty,
by planting trees where she walked,
personifing the canopey
and locking me in this hollow sea.
___________________
I know it needs more work, I plan to do some more editing still.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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 truly 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.

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.

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

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.

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,
further ignoring the natural
suburbia.

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

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.

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.

Whoa lots of posts!
Haha, I shall review

Let's start with Said Disease, shall we?

I think if my#FF0000 "> 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.

As I wait on the street corner,
by an old #FF0000 ">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#FF0000 ">'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 #FF0000 ">'I love you#FF0000 ">',
sewn into the patches
where his heart should be.

I assume#FF0000 ">ed 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.

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

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 #FF0000 ">I nailed to the wall,
with the reports of failed experiments
to excite my calmed #FF0000 ">conscience. 'Conscience'.. I think that's what you meant, Am I right?

I cannot consider the bullets
that shattered my window
of right and wrong to be anything
#FF0000 ">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)

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.

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 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 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.