There are a small handful of decent poets on this site
And then there are the manipulators, the cliques, and the trolls
The manipulators will re-post their poems to the same collections over and over and over to get likes and attention

The cliques all re-post and like each other's work just because and they probably never even read a word, they just want the likes in return

And the trolls, well, we all know about them

But I'm extremely tired of this site's "best poetry". Most of it sounds like a five-year-old wrote it while they were drunk. A sentence is not a poem. I don't care what anyone says.

Poetry has no permanent definition. But I will accept a smear of boogers on a page as poetry before I consider one measly sentence an entire poem.

Did your brain get tired? That's all you could bother to write, today?

And it feels like we're all running out of original things to say.

I'm feeling rather cynical and "*******"ish right now.

How does
It come to pass
That no one in Catholic church
Realizes it is traumatizing to a
Child
To tell them they're
Eating
"The body of Christ"
?

at 4 in the
morning the sun
is never up
but i usually am

i worry
about things
that are out of
my control
even more about
things that are

get up early
when i work
and earlier
when i don’t
the older i get the
more i learn
sometimes you
need to cry it out

alone
at night
into your pillow
the blankets
wrapped all
around you

sometimes you
need to cry
and cry
and cry

until the morning
sun falls across
the tears dried
under your lashes

and the lump
in your throat has
dissolved so you can
breathe with ease

you need to get up
let hot water
wash it away
let the steam rising
from your mug soften
any sorrow left around
your morning eyes
take a deep breath
don’t mention it
to anyone

and
just
keep
going

i will
just
keep
going

She had galaxies
In her eyes
And her tears
Were falling stars.

It's 3am

I'm on the phone
No one's awake and I'm alone

It's 3am

The radio's on
Songs are played on lonely station

It's 3am

I'm in my bed
My eyes are open and sleep has fled

It's 3am

I'm on the balcony
The sky is dark and just quite scary

It's 3am

Some windows have lights
Could they also not sleep tonight

It's 3am

I'm still awake
When will life ever give me a break

you still pick at the scabs the blade has made
pencil in your though on your face
i can still feel you underneath my skin
you're lost and scared to let me in

you've abandoned all your beliefs
the relief you felt when you go to sleep
within your mind you cannot find
the point of sanity has gone blind

and all the rest just lay in bed
when you leave this place these walls will rest
oh be grateful
your time is all but spent

At the laundry

6:26 pm

And all im thinking about is laying up in my bed

Just writing

Writing

And writing

With a good cup of coffee

In this drowny New York weather.

we rushed from the warm inside
to the cold outside
of a New York City night
Hailed a cab
then caught sight
of a lonely figure
slumped in the night
Someone help
Someone said
she’s in trouble
her soul is dead
and I thought
it is indeed
but what makes her different
from everyone else
I’ve met
Tonight