All criticism
Comes from the illusion of bravery,
From the pedestal
On which the lowliest men sit highest.

All criticism
Is someone’s projected false confidence,
From the pedestal
Upon which those who can do no wrong fall.

All criticism
Is a descent to egomania,
From the pedestal
Above small specks of blinding delusion.

All criticism
Derived from eyes whose lenses are mirrors,
From the pedestal
Elevated by its isolation.

Bring it on
I will fight
Let your words loose upon my
Infant heart
Whip and whip again
Gaze at me with your
Estranged lens
Leave me to fend for myself
Let me hurt
Whether or not I shall rise again
I will be the victor
Of my end

My dreadful..
Dreadful
End...

Be gentle
Show me your hand
Be gentle...
Lighten your gaze and
Uncloud your lens
Let me love you
Before the end..

For estranged
With estranged
From estranged

Penny vase made from
the brown voided canyon rusting.
Friends that were made of waste,
they said time was simply turning,
the boat spoke back and said the depth of ones nature
could walk on water
But a deep voice
Was all that sprayed in pungent
aerosol and
displeasure.

Do we need to be on the same boat?
To drift into the beguiling surf?
Altogether
Better if we were dispersed
Dropped by the caving soft curve
Sliding through the unseen wash, watching your muddy glare.
Track the force in
blueberry motion
pulling and pushing us,
a sollen hand
and flying sleeve
The touch of flaunting fingertips and strings,
The fluttering wick
Swing and swished.

The chest of wonders beaming
Transmitting
a map
and lines like hay and wires
They were all exposed in the lines of her eyes
Maps

You frightened me that sleepy day
The dusted arsenal stick
Casted me on a rod made of hibiscus dew and syrup
A venomous hook that entangled my earrings
The push and her wave of desire,
Maps
To her treasure,
Reeled it now all over her wet webbed feet.
Caged,
Maps
and pressure
of the rocks falling against the time ticking
Hours away from the swaying shore.

Complain about my life to internet strangers in an effort to get sympathetic comments that allow me to justify my antisocial behavior that creates these situations where I feel invisible in the first place.

Let’s be honest Madeline, this is a small sample size we are working with here. You said “Hello” to three people and they didn’t respond.

Maybe you could try again?
Maybe say it louder?
Maybe swap up the strategy, and smile and say hello at the same time?
Maybe, just maybe, the problem is that you cherry pick and construct these situations to build a narrative that absolves you from any responsibility for your own happiness.

“They didn’t say [hello] back.”
Why does your happiness revolve around getting the attention of a passerby?

Do you want to know why those people are smiling and you aren’t?
Because you chose not to.

Happiness is a choice.
But if your eyes always focus on the pessimistic view you’ll just sit and stew. And you’ll write lackluster poetry to boot. It takes work to be happy, and it starts with yourself. Try looking at the bigger picture, broaden your perspective, and it’ll help.

Instead of people ignoring you, just remember they are human, and are busy too. Instead of forcing happiness from missed opportunities, just look elsewhere, there’s more fish in the sea. Instead of doing weird manipulative assessments by creating fake instagram accounts, just go outside and meet people. Instead of pretending you’ll never find love, (although your use of “probably” implies you already doubt yourself) go seek it, it isn’t just going to fall into your lap. Instead of worrying about statistical stereotypes involving people assuming you don’t like spicy food, just tell them you’d prefer it spicy and move on. Instead of wondering why people are “idiots,” and blaming them for your own shortcomings, do the thing you want so desperately, empathize with them, and learn to forgive them for their mistakes.

Life is made up of moments, “sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind. The race is long, and in the end it’s only with yourself.” (Baz Luhrmann’s “Everybody’s Free [to Wear Sunscreen]”)

Our worth is granted to us
By the sum of our lovers,
By how many times we have craved
Or been craved,
By how much our skin longs
For another’s touch.

We are taught to withhold,
And to not take for granted
The immense altruism of company.
Where do we belong
If not in the arms of another?

How dare we for a minute
Accept our own love as enough.
How dare we seek comfort
In our own searching minds.
How dare we think of ourselves as anything other
Than a half in search of the whole.

Success never came without critique & hate
No matter friend or foe, they'll close down their gate.
The smile will turn into a smirk
The eyes will change into a lurk
Some may even walk on to the other side
But that's when you'll know you're doing it right
Your light maybe blinding to some
and some may even turn to ash
but don't give heed to the glare,
whispers and oh all the gnash.

Dance on your victory, you've made them so proud,
the ones who love you; so bring down the shroud;
of darkness and dullness & shout out to call,
your strength and beauty that some may appal.
Cause' you are a diamond that shines oh so bright,
but some may not see it,
so why don't you guide.
Cause' you've got it right
So stand tall with pride
Cause' you are the light
and you shine so bright.

A.S.

We know because we saw a title.
But you can’t write if you’re dead.
Your boring melodramatic recital,
Is better left unsaid.

It may sound harsh to bare,
But honestly, look at what you wrote,
And explain to me why anyone would care,
To read something so trite, and I quote:

“...confession,”
“...pain,”
“...depression,”
“...rain.”

These cliché nouns,
That every “injured” poet seems to wear for attention.
Don’t forget to take “drown!”
On your path to descension.

Where the people without regard,
Follow the herd of the uninformed,
They’ll take their poems up under their arm,
And expect to be warmed,

Showered by the masses,
Their beliefs confirmed.
While I’ll hope this passes,
And that this “art” is termed.

But I fear it’ll never stop,
If poetry like yours,
Continues to enter my inbox.
Like a bag of **** on my doorstep.

The doorbell’s been rung,
And god ****** I’m answering,
Screaming at the top of my lungs,
That this pandering,

Needs to stop.