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KateKarl Feb 1
I like the words they use to tell what a poem is
better than any poetry I've read.
Like: fragments, ghost, allusion.

I like the way my ribs move
when someone talks about storytellers;
It's a pride I taste more than during a story told.

A review says 'intricate' and 'masterful'
So I put the thing on a pedestal of stolen adjectives.
My crown jewel is 'aesthetic' and I own it, lying.

What is a creator without his critic?
Condemnation and commendation
mean more to me than original construction.

But then--poets are just the translation of Creation.
And never has a word of soaring perfection
surpassed the garden, fallen.
KateKarl Jan 30
All that lies here are my bones,
A wooden box, this new gravestone.
My mind is left where it was born;
Go to my bookshelves when you mourn.
Epitaph for a creative writing course. Any criticism welcome!
KateKarl Jan 25
The contemporaries show the world at it’s best as a panoramic pane of glass,

     Clad in bloodless steel.

But it has never looked more a forbidden garden than between prison-bar windows,

     My view is the sweetest fruit.

And I wouldn’t take the modern architecture because what now looks like paradise,

     Is probably a parking lot.
For a creative writing assignment. Any and all criticism, constructive or cruel, is appreciated!
KateKarl Jan 15
scratchy and damp do not harmonize underfoot
and fear and the ocean should not coexist
but like this elevator missing the thirteenth button, my comfort sinks with tantalizing, lethargic anxiety.

the boards are a smokeless fire underfoot,
grit rolling between me and chipped brown paint,
as i beg for cold, thirst for salt, but do not run to the provocative, promising body beyond the dunes.

and my clothes are underfoot,
and this lemonade pink towel whose corner grabs at the sand,
and the hot dry fades into something that is sturdy and packed down by bounds like mine.

carbon slices at my underfoot,
the sharp home of a long-dead thing,
as my heel strikes the iron, water-pat shore, and the shock of it stuns my bones.

shock! cold underfoot
lace between my toes, smoking from wood and run
and then my face is in the sea, because who needs air when life is the sun trapping itself in the pink of my shoulder blades?
I haven't written poetry in a very long time, but am putting together a small portfolio for a writing class assignment. Any and all advice is more than welcome, even if you're the type who can't say it nicely!
KateKarl Mar 2018
Caterpillars on my bones
Sealed in my skin
Cocoons growing on my ribs
Where heartbeats should have been

Unraveled silk slides down my lung
Look! The moths are free
They dive, wings lost in foamy waves
They settle in the deep

A hole the size of galaxies
Fragments left in me
Mothlings on the ocean floor
Tangled bathymetry

Quiet, strands of sinning
Cling to me, long and thin
But better pieces of myself
Escaped as earth's new skin

I'm buried deep within it
I feel worms on my bones
Cocoon pieces become dust
But my heart: a smooth sea-stone
All criticism is welcome! I'm definitely looking to improve.
KateKarl Nov 2017
I lift myself up,
pointed on toes
tipping at the edge.
A wind molds to my face.
I'm held there by grace,
as my mind begins to dredge
         Up memories
         of you and me
         seventeen
         blessed with resilience
         none are faded by time
         in feeling
         if not in sight
        some are good
        some are bad
        all are mine



I take a breath
inhale this wind
bowing me back from this cliff.
But I hear waves below.
It's a siren's song so
strong to my ears
as I sniff back tears
          from memories
          sent by this breeze
          so old to me
          of when you would tease
          so I'd unfreeze.
         The only other thing
         that could put me at ease
         is the violent sea
         I stand above now so desperately



And I'm tipping
                tipping
         at the edge
      of my sanity.
  Oh, I'm tipping
                tipping
     on this ledge,
questioning your humanity,
                          as I tip above
                            the oceanity
                    of what could be
                         in front of me.
                     And I'm tipping
                                    tipping
                             at the edge



I take a step back,
release my breath,
settle my heels
into this earth.
Let the wind roll my tears
back towards my ears,
the sound so much quieter than
          these memories
          I hid from me
          to let myself
          relearn how to breathe.
          They swell up again,
          just as wind dies down.
          I grit my teeth,
          say an amen,
          and prepare to drown.



And I'm tipping
                tipping
         at the edge
     of my sanity.
Oh, I'm tipping
               tipping
    on this ledge,
questioning your humanity,
                          as I tip above
                            the oceanity
                    of what could be
                         in front of me.
                     And I'm tipping
                                    tipping
                              at the edge  



                           Air at my face
                       Earth at my feet
                      Seas in my heart
         to drown you out of me
Then I cry oceans away
   with the saltiest tears
  I can taste all my pain
   And my leaving fears
                    Cause you left me
                           and I can't see
                     this edge you left
                           in front of me,



         And you left me tipping
                                       tipping
                          tipping

                                                                  tipped
Any constructive criticism is welcome!
KateKarl Nov 2017
is there any such thing
as too much ink
too many pens
more paper
than the human heart can fill?

the heart does nothing
but pump the blood that is necessary
to fill my fingers
to move
to scrawl too much ink
with too many pens
on more paper
than such a treacherous ***** deserves.

but the heart will get its ink
if it has to bleed dry in order to fill
the pens that it thinks it should have
to defile more paper
than any forest should have to give.

the heart will have what it wants
forests
nibs
and veins
be ******
Any critique is welcome, however harsh.
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