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Nick Jul 29
That phrase makes me shiver
Makes some solemn silent (?) resounding
Sends me flailing: **** **** **** (word choice is dodgy)
Supersedes sentience

Overall, I’m somewhat confused and disappointed by your work. Please reconsider your ******* of the English language.
The critic becomes a part of the work. Twice.
There’s something in me that wants to destroy me
A voice that works to punish without reason
A hand that is brought down undeservedly on an innocent conscience.  
A cane that leaves ****** lines across my mind
As it beats the positivity into submission
And a spear which impales my confidence
Like a soldier would do to its enemy.
When I look back on my time through dreams of Helen and those memories and every time I do It's like a replay of our life together

Almost as If I'm sat In the cinema watching a film true story Helen and Johnny like a critic whilst watching the film I see things not quite right maybe just simple things that could have made our marriage even better

I have a pen and paper and I'm making notes and at the end of the film Instead of credits on screen there Is a list of all thing I could do to Improve our marriage

I wake from the dream but still remembering but I'm sure there message in this dream there somewhere
A dream Im sat at a the cinema
but I'm a critic our true story playing on the big screen  I'm making notes In order to Improve our marriage
Liv C Jan 13
Watching my own show,
my inner critic gives it a one star,
but what does she know?
Why can’t I be the critic to my inner critic?
You don’t own me, you’re pathetic!
I give you an F for telling me everything I can’t do...
I hate you,
and all your stupid reviews!
You stop me and make fun of everything I want to do!
Why can’t you go find a new host,
because you and I will never be close!
I want to hang you out to dry
on the nearest close line
and lie that everything will be just fine..
Then you’ll know what it’s like...
I’m done with you get out of my head,
I’m going to bed.
Death Horizon Oct 2018
A Quiver Of Hope Stabbed My Heart
When through the dark of my soul
Your purity teared me apart

Where is my soul, Where is my bliss
I´m floating in the pain river, I´m in the abyss

Can´t control myself
What the **** am I supposed to do

Walk along with the others?!
Cry all night cause I´m the black sheep?

We live our lifes through a loophole
A tunnel that tears our soul

Do you wanna stand here and just wait?
Or do you wanna go and hate?

Cause I can´t stand myself if I stay here alone with all of you
Cause that´s what we are doing right?

We´re together but alone
cause the loop won´t end
and I just want to comprehend
How to not get myself blown
Freedom heated inside, burning in the crying teardrops, cult like chants drawing me in, struggling to master myself, perhaps it’s because of this world.
Limitations not on account of dogma and its religion, society or peers. I’m happy to converse with the devil, and sell my soul.
I can keep secrets, lover, we’ve got to be blood in and blood out. Freedom exists elsewhere and finally I’ve transcendent.
(knowledge variable)
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
In this day and age,
you can only love or hate.
So simple-minded
Gone are the days where you can sit, have a stimulating conversation about something and have your agreements/disagreements but still RESPECT EACH OTHER'S OPINION! Are you so primitive to believe that one can't love something and still critique it? And I've noticed that when you argue with such people, YOU are the one who looks like an idiot in the end.Just because you have a **** opinion...
******* with that BS. If I truly hated something, I would say it's **** and move on. I would not bother to list what is good and bad about something.
I'm that type of person, to give credit where credit is due and still call out the *******! And somehow, I'm a 'mindless hater' - _____-

...I hate this generation so **** much...
I'm so peeved right now, my blood is boiling and my house is like an oven.
Be back soon.
Lyn ***
Not being dead, generally doesn’t mean you’re alive, gold is not always noticed. But someday, the world will end. Poets have been mysteriously quiet, outside of comfort. I shut my eyes, I part from this world, where I was born and everyone had grown accustomed to and I become alive. Freedom, I shouldn’t get lost in the gift of dreaming, what happens to a life given freely and never to live? Poetry shouldn’t be a derivative of emotion vented, a poem shouldn’t be continued to go unread, a poet should be upheld as some random romantic, knowing the harshness of life in intimate forms. Freedom, for I live here too, along the side of reality.
PatrickHertveld May 2018
Use words
As your swords
To cut any border
Of any many
Use words to give birth
To everything worth
Speak words out
An action no doubt
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