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Seema Oct 2017
I have been told that my writes are vague
Too vague that it sounds fake
The poem gets off track and basically floats
I do use symbols at times and quotes
But the message within my writes are unclear
It's ok, I accept the critics and I don't shed a tear
I apply a playful twist in my writes, some transparent, some translucent, some to the point and some with open queue
Whatever you might think, I actually like your view
The theme I choose are simple to one's mind
Yet, with fiction, imaginary and factual stories I bind
It's up to you to call it a pathetic write,
But I write to craft and I call this an art
Not to be perfect, as perfection is hard
One message could be interpreted differently
As the theme plays in my head structuring mentality
C'mon poets each write is a definition of our own creation
So read, smile and show your appreciation...


©sim
I am not judgemental, I just write coz I like doing so. I accept the critics :)
Clive Blake Jul 2017
Literary critics don’t always like
The poetry what I do do,
They say it should all be recycled;
Flushed down the nearest loo ...
They say they cannot find a metre;
Although one works for the Water Board,
They dance all over my dignity;
My self-confidence they have floored,
They say me grammar is somewhat bad,
I think the word they used was appalling,
Their taloned claws, grip sharpened knives,
They give me quite a mauling.

But kind, gentle reader (grovel),
I’m sure that at least you understand;
That my thoughts are erratic explosions,
Not controlled, orderly or planned.

As long as my simple poems
Make you ponder, weep, or smile
I’ll carri-on regardless,
For it would all have been worthwhile.
This is what I know of strength;
Its running headlong into detractors,
standing in the ring while the smoke clears,
then embracing the epiphany
when you can admit to yourself;

'I didn't know I had that in me.'
George Krokos Feb 2017
We all do try and write for a reason
and each have different things to say
at some particular time or season
we've got to express our thoughts that way.

It doesn't really matter who you are
or in what part of the world living
even if you're unknown or reside far
they're likely your words to be reading.

The 'net has brought distant people to us
who now can read what we have to say
in sharing our inner thoughts between us
together spending some time each day.

At times we do touch on the same subject
which isn't surprising there to see
for then we look forward to the prospect
of helping each other better be.

Many poems posted are badly written
so are, it seems, a few of my own
and takes lots of courage if you're smitten
when you're told or by another shown.

The world has so many problems of late
that some people out there try to fix
because a lot of them are based on hate
where both greed and lust are in the mix.

It would be wrong to ignore this fact now
which is tempered by rising anger
if they don't get what they expect somehow
that reward to offset their languor.

There are also many who suffer from
some kind of mental illness or stress
aggravated by their fear of that bomb
which if ever it's used cause a mess.

Such are the symptoms anyone can notice
when some of the poetry is read
that people have posted with their focus
on the internet by what they've said.

But this isn't mentioned here to scare you
only to highlight what one can see
and would be wrong here to say if untrue;
we'll try to help all those to get free.

There are also some who are harsh critics
and dispute your work to ridicule;
if it's on religion and they're cynics
asking clever dumb questions to fool.

Some of those last mentioned are persistent
and attack your work most of the time;
being doubtful poets laced with words bent
they'll try and accuse you of a crime.

They remind me so much of John X:Ten
or the Pharisee and Sadducee
that were written of long ago back then
finding fault with the One Who was free.

Being amidst them as the Living Truth;
speaking and acting with deep wisdom
He was destined to do since early youth
to help all people find real freedom.

From all of the things holding them captive
whether in body, mind or spirit
with divine knowledge, also to forgive
those who had done wrong and knowing it.

The 'net is a vast database of knowledge
and where poetry is there concerned
those who write, post, and read it all to pledge
never to forsake what has been learned.
______
Written late last year over the Christmas period.
Amjad Alkadasi Aug 2016
The
                            Moment
                                You
                         Say goodbye,
                         I'm dumped!
No I'm not dumb, it's just that my day left time will be missing you and wishing u always beside.

                             Some
                            Might
                          ­  Scorn
                               or
                          Criticize
                          ­    my
                       Exaggeration,

I will not respond and make a clarification, still not weakness but me being simple stating that true love must have such sensations.

No
     not
            an
                 opinion,
                                perhaps
                                               this
                                       love
                                   is
                              no
                  longer
   existing

Senses would rather be conspicuous, thus love won't reach a demise.
All I see is fools and lies upon the name of love,
All
I
See
Is
Fooling
In
Love
NOT FALLING !

***** u all, I bet u know nothing but Lols. In the name of love I say doom u all, go love like real or make it seal.

It's
       Not
              Worth
             Breaking
                   A
               Heart !
s u r r e a l Aug 2016
hark near!
speak knives upon ears...
make them plea,
and beg upon swollen knees.

for we are truly so,
the ones in which we sow
coagulated clots into a beaded necklace,
blood berries--blood berries
of an aching vocabulary's.

waiting.
begging.
pleading for one swipe.
aching for someone to hurt,
and hope they fully bleed at night.

we merely want to help,
aide the eulogies and add a scissor kiss,
to the concoction of labor,
and amalgamation of agony,
in order to spice,
and to cease.

nothing but a sweet disease
for the white blood cells,
and wish you deep luck,
on a tall grass journey.

we simply wish for ****
after ****,
and smile when you still go up running,
blood stained grin after blood stained grin,
and spitting saucers of cut lips upon your hurt cheeks.

spit teacups
and an half full glass
have nothing to do with a child
or years of class.

you may think we're nothing but a nuance,
and don't mean anything but to watch you cook your own brain,
but we are simply here,
to help you on the chair,
and tighten your own noose.

save the ache of being petty,
and moans of disgrace,
we're here to swallow your pity,
and make you drink your own ****.

simply--surely--simply and surely so,
but we don't mean anything but to guide you to the ditch,
with slices of paper from rusted scissors,
and help you die with your pitch.

you're one of those, are you not? a ******* and nothing more?
you'd best be reminded,
that what is a song,
without its poem?

you have nothing to fear but your own tongue,
and your own blood,
and your own tears,
and make you think you're nothing but clod.

but you'd best be sweating salver if you really are what you say you are.

a place with no shelter?

no story to show?

no roof and no halter?

no place to know?

for the earth mirrors the heavens
and you place what lays between.

you are truly pathetic--but you scribble that.
you are truly meaningless--but you bleed that.
you are truly wordless--but you speak them.

and no one--not even us--can tell you what you really are.

and if you really are what you say you are--then show us.

but don't prove it.

remember, you have a noose that is tight.

all you need is a chair to kick over...

and paper--and pencil--and keyboard--and mind.

now, go ahead and tell me what you are...

the naive scholar for all mankind.
For the critiques and the wordless man.
Isabelle Apr 2016
So what if I use simple words?
So what if I use cliche scenarios?
So what if I do not rhyme?
So what if my metaphors are lame?
So what if my stories are incoherent?
So what if my thoughts are obscure?
So what if I prefer free verse than iambic pentameters?


I write to express,
not to impress
So please, mind your own style.
Another old poem of mine. No worries, I take any kind of criticism.
Shay Jan 2016
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s 4:03am
but the ghosts of her past are catching up again.
She wants to forgive herself for the mistakes that she’s made,
but she’s her own worst critic and she thinks of all those she may have betrayed.
Tonight her sadness is her blanket and guilt is her insomnia keeping her awake,
and her tears are drowning her; she’s breaking down, there is unfortunately no mistake.
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