#critic
Maybe I should stop writing…
A grammar ghost lives in my head.
Picking apart each line I’m reciting,
Until I wish these words were dead.
Tears touch the notebook page,
Emotions, fantasy—my heart’s alive.
Oh God… I’m sorry I love this age,
Should I let go of this ghost to thrive?
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 10:10 AM UTC
Exposing the inner self to the universe,
letting the world contemplate our revolving thoughts.
Lying on an imaginary foam cloud,
a soft stage under a harsh spotlight,
we show the spectators what we really are.
Hands and feet bare,
toes and fingers uncovered before the audience
Here we are shameless, faces open, and teeth visible.
They see without barriers
whatever they wish.
They judge.
They jump to conclusions.
They bully.
They unflatter.
They point at us
as if we were vile criminals.
Yet, here we are: naked.
The world can say whatever it wants
about every one of us,
because we stand here
as we were born:
nothing to hide,
nothing to be ashamed of.
They could see, think and say a thing,
good or bad,
we already know ourselves,
pretty well.
But they will never touch
the truth of what we’re really worth,
even when we are naked
before the universe.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 11:39 PM UTC
You can’t be everything to a person all at once
But choose the one that they need at that moment
Be their cheerleader when you appreciate their efforts
Be their critic when they need to hear the truth
Be their companion when they need a shoulder to cry on
Feb 18
Feb 18, 2026 at 6:02 AM UTC
FILLER! - FILLER! - FILLER!
Get me not but what’s killer
STEALER! - STEALER! - STEALER!
Give it back to the scarceful ticker
WITHER! - WITHER! - WITHER!
Rotting w mold n’ forgetful ‘bout a flower
SLEEPER! - SLEEPER! - SLEEPER!
Let solely night be the slumber
TRICKSTER! - TRICKSTER! - TRICKSTER!
Fool not but what u cannot get
WATER! - WATER! - WATER!
That’s what’s to taste
WASTER! - WASTER! - WASTER!
Useful into useless as ‘twas a conjuror
BEGGAR! - BEGGAR! - BEGGAR!
At what’s ephemeral gazin’ closer
CRAWLER! - CRAWLER! - CRAWLER!
Worm it back to where you’re a dweller
Jan 5
Jan 5, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
Be my friend,
See how I weave each dream.
Be my companion,
See my dreams coming true.
Be my partner,
See what bothers me.
Be my critic,
Don’t just criticise, but help me improve.
Be my teacher,
Let me be your only choice.
Aug 18, 2025
Aug 18, 2025 at 8:51 PM UTC
It waits until I’m almost steady.
Not at rock bottom ~
that’s too predictable.
It prefers the moment I reach for light
with both hands.
That’s when it speaks.
“Cute,”
it coos,
“You really thought clarity made you real.”
It doesn’t shout.
It purrs,
low and syrupy,
like a lullaby laced with glass.
It knows every version of me;
the ones I buried to be digestible.
It built this mind like a haunted house
and hands me the key every time I dare to leave.
“You always did mistake coherence for truth,”
it says,
dragging its nails along the walls of my thoughts.
“So good at talking. So bad at existing.”
I flinch.
It recites memories I forgot to be ashamed of.
Plays tapes I didn’t know I recorded.
Slows down the faces, the pauses,
the ones who humored me and didn’t mean it.
“Look at them smile. Look at you, lapping it up.”
It paces.
It prowls.
It pulls up a chair when I sit with someone and dare to feel seen.
Leans in and whispers,
“They’re just being kind. You’re not that hard to pity.”
It keeps me tense.
It’s not a villain.
It’s a roommate.
It knows my schedule, my preferences, my tells.
It trims my self-trust like dead ends from hair.
Efficient.
Unemotional.
Necessary.
And when I resist ~
when I say No, I felt that, I meant that,
it doesn’t argue.
It just tilts its head and says,
“You really do crave applause for surviving, don’t you?”
Then it goes quiet,
knowing I’ll crawl back
the second I start to question
what’s mine
and what’s performance.
Because between the two of us,
only one of us ever sounds like she knows what she’s talking about.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 11:47 AM UTC
My biggest critic,
The one who constantly,
Tells me I can’t do anything,
Ironically,
My biggest critic,
Is me.
Out of curiosity,
Does it ever seem to you,
Like you judge yourself,
More than anyone else would ever do?
Or is it just me?
There’s a shadow man,
Hidden in my mind,
I can’t make out his face,
And I wish that he would go away.
He whispers cruel things,
To keep my anxious head turning,
With meaningless observation,
Leading to condemnation,
Against myself.
“What makes you think you deserve to be heard?
What makes your words better than anyone who’s come before?
Do you believe people care about what they read?
You’re just farming for sympathy!”
I can’t ignore his cries or his lies.
Why, does he despise me so?
Isn’t your mind supposed to be your greatest asset,
And your friend,
Not one who prays that you fail,
And wishes your dreams end?
They say,
“Be yourself,”
Without understanding,
The whole weight of what that means.
Acceptance is a hard road,
Especially when it’s your pain and insecurities.
The shadow man takes me to the mirror,
Tells me,
“Look in the mirror and tell me what you see!”
I refuse and look down,
Making eye contact with the ground,
Because the last thing I want to see,
Is the mess staring back at me.
You see,
To truly be yourself,
You have to look your darkness in the eyes,
Admit your flaws,
And that you are who you despise.
Then,
And only then,
Can you ever hope the shadow man to spare you from his game.
Yet, I remain,
Too afraid,
To look in the mirror,
And stare in my eyes,
Realizing the fighting,
And calamity in my mind.
The shadow man shouts,
And belittles.
What else is he to do?
Chastisement,
How his lies sound so real.
When he whispers in my ear.
“You have no gifts,
You’re just a boy,
Who people pity,
That’s how you’ve got this far.
Don’t deny it or try to fight it,
We both know it to be true,
After all,
I am you,
And who knows us better than us?
I’m the demons,
The ones you hide behind your eyes.
You should talk less,
Hide your face,
No one needs to see that.
Close your eyes,
Stop your cries,
And accept that this is fate.
You aren’t sad!
You’re dramatic!
Quit whining!
Grow a spine!
What would people say about you if this was your last day alive…?”
I freeze,
I don’t know what to say.
He laughs.
Why does he laugh at me?
I cover my ears,
And try to think.
I have thoughts in my head,
But at that moment,
They all escape,
Leaving my mind blank.
I have no response,
Forced to endure his taunts.
Little bits of paper,
Pepper and pelt my face,
As a ruler,
Taps methodically on my head.
How much can one realistically take,
Before they break?
The Joker said,
“All it takes is one bad day…”
I lay in my bed at night,
The time,
3:45,
School will be here before you know it,
Another day,
In the legal form of a circus.
To my dismay,
The shadow man,
Shows his face,
Walks over to my bedside,
And whispers in my ear.
“Today’s your favorite day,
Monday,
The beginning of the chaos,
It’s hilarious!
Just a little food for thought,
Two full years remain,
Till your life changes,
Forever,
No going back,
As you watch time pass in front of your eyes.
Disgraceful,
You don’t have a plan,
No devotion to even start!
Where will you end up,
When things begin to fall apart?
You know time’s fading faster,
Yet, you’re standing still,
And it’s all because of your weak will.
You’ll go to school,
And wish you could disappear,
Just keep looking down,
It’s gotten us this far.
And if they talk to you,
Don’t say much,
Keep them all at arm’s length.
Who needs meaningful connections?
That’s for saps!”
I want to deny him,
And tell him that he’s wrong,
But he’s kept me safe this long.
In my bubble,
Floating overhead,
Watching people live their lives,
And have a good time.
How the shadow man loves to remind me,
Of when I should’ve talked more or less,
Smiled and finessed my way,
Through the conversation,
As graceful as a dying horse.
“Why do people talk to you?
Why do they waste their time on you?”
He whispers.
I’d like to say I’m a good person,
But the shadow man,
Would say something else,
And remind me of my former friend,
The one I couldn’t help.
Sometimes it feels like,
I’m just here,
Living to live,
Surviving to survive.
Without a purpose,
Without drive.
Like a fire,
Sometimes passion dies,
And waiting for it to rekindle,
Is agonizing.
Like writing a long story,
And waiting for ideas.
One day,
I’ll look in the mirror,
And tell the shadow man what he wants to hear.
That I’m selfish,
Broken,
Hurt,
And that I take it out on others sometimes.
That I’m tired,
Irritable,
And perhaps more individual than most.
That there are parts of me I hate,
And parts of me I hold dear,
Like that inner child,
That never disappears.
That sweet somber innocence,
Of times long gone,
Snapping me back to reality,
On days when it can get to be too much.
I’ll look at the shadow man,
And stare into his eyes,
And see my own.
There’s no getting rid of him,
We pilot this ship together,
And the only way we’re making it through the flight,
Is if we work together.
I’ll hug him close,
And shake his hand,
Because at the end of the day,
While my mind is my biggest critic,
It’s also my closest friend…
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 5:17 PM UTC
On the one hand-
A scream- a shout: MAKE MONEY
On the other one-
Why? What for? Who asks this?
It isn't this simple, it
Really is that simple.
I would to nothing more do,
Than fill pages with thought, lyrics and
Amuse me, amuse you.
Yes, it is true.
I am filled here-
With the space to see how to make-
Yet, neither you nor i,
Truly, do wish to- see-
What it is we could amount
To be-
Leave it aside, brush it now.
What more is to be said,
About the blind poetry-
The blind poetry of-
Jan 18, 2025
Jan 18, 2025 at 10:45 PM UTC
Edgar Alan Poe is dead. Seriously, I read it.
He died in October 1849 - or did he?
Do we really know?
Poe wrote about death a lot,
he teased with it, it was his favorite tool.
He kept death close and twisted it like a knife.
His profession was the macabre, the shadow,
the summoned dread and the gruesome aftermath.
He was a writer and a critic - what’s more dreadful than a critic?
They say he died from “unknown causes”
- how absolutely perfect.
May 16, 2023
May 16, 2023 at 11:05 AM UTC
#*The poet is the writer
Many thoughts in his mind
Lay scattered as seeds
To be planted in words
That the birds should eat
The critic is the bird
That savours the fruit
Thus begins the journey
Of the poet and the critic
Together they flourish and thrive
On the tree of poetry
With rhythm and rhyme
The poet and the critic*#
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 10:54 PM UTC
Don't offer the fuel it needs
to set you on fire
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 5:40 AM UTC
YOUR LIFE IS A MOVIE THAT IS BEING DIRECTED BY YOU, PRODUCED BY THE YOU, YOU ARE THE PROTAGONIST AND YOU SHOULD BE THE ONLY CRITIC OF IT.. SO LIVE IT LIKE YOU WANT.
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 5:52 PM UTC
Come Down
by Michael R. Burch
for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists
Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour ...
and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.
Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
blown to the lees
as fierce northern gales sever.
Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.
NOTE: I dedicated this poem to Harold Bloom after reading his introduction to the Best American Poetry anthology he edited. Bloom seemed intent on claiming poetry as the province of the uber-reader (i.e., himself), but I remember reading poems by Blake, Burns, cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Housman, Eliot, Pound, Shakespeare, Whitman, Yeats, et al, and grokking them as a boy, without any “advanced” instruction from anyone. Keywords/Tags: Harold Bloom, literary, critic, criticism, elitist, elitism, ivory, tower, heights, mountain, winter, cold, frigid
Rant: The Elite
by Michael R. Burch
When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say:
Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ...
I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart,
isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better,
and certainly fairer and taller, than they are?
Though once I found Ezra Pound
perhaps a smidgen too profound,
perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito
and the advantages of fascism
to be taken ad finem, like high tea
with a pure white spot of intellectualism
and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free.
I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art
And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ...
but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true,
echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you.
Of course, politics has nothing to do with art,
but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite,
with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet
someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to ****
so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet.
You had to be there! We were falling apart
with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!
Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air,
gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC
moustached monoku critic channels Seinfeld - no haiku for you
© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 12:00 AM UTC
I'm not looking for acceptance
I gave that up, long ago
don't really give a ****
if you've got tickets for the show
Peruse and persevere
as you like, and as you choose
comments always welcome
cherry red or midnight blue
A shovel full of excrement
I'll not tolerate or save
no such thing as your betterment
critique not welcome and/or brave
It doesn't have to have acceptance
art is what art can be
for it's always wild
yet, still running free
The darkest days are fraught
with words that cut
and tear your soul
such the things
you'll never hear or see
from the likes of poets, bards
or from the likes
of me
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 11:36 PM UTC
moustached monoku critic channels Seinfeld - no haiku for you
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
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.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC
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.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 2:47 PM UTC
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.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
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?!
Study,
Work,
Sleep,
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
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
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)
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 8:49 PM UTC
In this day and age,
you can only love or hate.
So simple-minded
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:35 PM UTC
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.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC