#critics
Critics critique my work critically
Continuously
My words
My purpose
My worth
Like a ****** of crows circling above
What I thought would fly
Why do I even try
I bare a piece of my soul as I type
The keyboard still warm to the touch
With prying eyes and cold fingers they judge
Searching and searching for cracks I never seem to see
Bare feet and calloused hands, Panic Attacks, A Lesson And A Warning, beautiful something somethings
Written off as childish, mundane, and boring
A kind of smudge if you will
Like a stone with no uniqueness
Critical their words try to weigh me down
Yet even the most harsh of lines
Will never rewrite the things I have seen or the truths my words carry
Line after line
When I write
My poetry comes alive
It speaks to me
It is beautiful before any harsh judgment arrives
That is all that matters
All that one needs
So let their words crack like thunder
I will keep on writing in weather they’ll never predict
Survive the damage their words are meant to inflict
I’ll ignore their rules so hollow and strict
Like a symphony only I can hear
The truth in my words I hold dear
They are like music to my ears
I will keep writing and sharing till the end is here
Leaving you all a reason to laugh through the tears
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 3:16 PM UTC
Some people wander through life
with a thesaurus and grammar rules
stuffed in their back pocket.
Your words disturb them,
disrupt their boring lives.
They correct your syntax,
judge your verb usage,
condemn all adjectives
while their writing lies flat and impotent,
no depth in their vision,
an imagination locked in a basement
full of cobwebs.
I’ve seen them flex their knowledge
like muscles built on steroids
in a gym only they attend,
lifting weights of nonsense,
prideful cowards.
Life’s too short.
The moon still smiles.
The ***** still burns.
The poems don’t care
about your footnotes.
Let them play critic.
I’ll stay in the morning light
of my own page,
writing without permission,
without ego,
without fear.
All that buzzing—
where the hell did my fly swatter go?
Jan 27
Jan 27, 2026 at 5:53 PM UTC
fabric
became mutual agreement
enough to make us silently lie.
Apr 4, 2025
Apr 4, 2025 at 10:52 AM UTC
Who decided it was crazy,
To capture yourself in a poem?
I must have missed that part,
When I read the rulebook you wrote.
The fact is I am a defacto poet,
So when I write poems that you read,
Don't slander me like you could do it better.
So hold your tongue,
Till it's your poem you read with it.
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 10:19 PM UTC
Working in an office with a lot of girls mainly
Suddenly it was that time of year again... Christmas
And the Office party it was looming
As I went toward the pub where we were having our gathering I was feeling nicely laid back and relaxed
Primarily because I'd just been to another pub beforehand and had a few quick scoops/ drinks
Now I was bolstered, all pumped up, I was like a Boxer ready to step into the Ring.
Our pub it was festooned with decorations, lovely colours and glittery things
They were hanging out of the ceiling and stuck on every wall
Above our table a big jovial Santa Claus
Looked down, beaming at us all
As I sat down one of the girls asked rather suspiciously "Where were you?"
Holding up my alibi, a little shopping bag with some items in it
I told her, lying beautifully of course, that I had to go down the shop to get some things.
As I sat there I noticed the atmosphere was a bit subdued, people weren't talking much
I said to myself, this... this won't do
So I took it on myself to take the lead, I'd be the one to spread some Christmas cheer
So suddenly I blurted out "Wh..Wh..What does Santa say... after drinking a bottle of *** ?
"I don't know" they all said, "what does he say".
I paused a moment for dramatic effect...then I hit them with the punchline...he says "Yo ** **
They all looked at me blankly
You don't get it, Yo ** ** and a bottle of *** is the famous pirate song from Treasure Island
Santa's catchphrase is Ho!Ho!Ho!
He drinks the *** and suddenly it's Yo! Ho!Ho! (Jeez I thought, I got to explain my own jokes)
Still there not impressed, one shakes her head, another raises her eyes to the heavens, another comments "A silly joke"
But really I don't care, I say to them
I suppose you don't want to hear my Snowman joke then
"O Go on", they say, "get it over with"
It's a bit risque I warned them
What do you call a Snowman... standing outside the window of a Brothel ?
"A hot Frosty", someone said
No! ... The Abominable Snowman.
I say to myself, well at least I tried, I made an effort
I done my bit, now I can sit here quietly for the rest of the evening
Some of the girls have now started to talk amongst themselves
One girl sitting right next to me who I hadn't spoken to in awhile
She suddenly inquires after my wellbeing, she asks"How are you?"
I tell her O! You know me, I'm just... just hanging on in there, yea! just hanging on to the Ledge of Life by my fingertips trying not to look down at all the crocodiles circling below
"Things aren't that bad, are they?" she says a little concerned
I smile and say Well I might be exaggerating there... a little bit
She smiles and offers "You're a real Drama Queen".
Suddenly one of the girls announces that she's done an evening course during the Autumn, she's done Bellydancing of all things
I thought we'll have to get her to give us a demonstration later on (but not before dinner LoL)
This girl then starts asking everyone did they do any courses and what their hobbies were
Finally she comes to me and I say Well I've been making some music on this little keyboard I have, yea! I've been playing...I've been playing around with my *****
(this gets some laughs)
I go on, Actually I've been writing a song
"Writing a Song!" says one of the girls really impressed, "we know you write stories, now you're writing songs, my! you are talented. What's it about, your song ?"
I tell her it's about a girlfriend whose... well she's a bit of a Goldigger,
Then I smile, I have a great title for it, I call it (I pause for a moment then I say proudly), I call it...Octopus of Love.
"Octopus of Love!!" says one of them dismissively, "what kind of name is that for a song. There should be a Society for Prevention of Cruelty to songs"
I ignore her and then suddenly launch into a verse of the song
She said she was a dove
But she's my Octopus of Love
A hundred hands in search of one thing
only
Yea! My wallet, my Pride and glory.
When she whispers in my ear
Her fingertips they tiptoe across my rear
and into my back pocket
O! She's my Octopus of Love
She"s not at all what I dreamed of.
When I hold her in my arms
She sets off all my alarms
She tells these great big whopping lies
Man! She's got a finger in all my pies.
She said she loves me dearly
Visiting the most expensive shops
Buying the most expensive gear
I say, could you not make it more cheaply instead,
O! She's got me in her grasp
Her tentacles they hold me fast
Then she asks what's all the fuss
And she's so innocent looking
Man! She's a lovely Octopus.
"I wouldn't be giving up the day job just yet" says one of the girls,
"That's funny" says another
Then someone ups and says "Tell us another one of your little stories",
"A good one, this time!" adds another
"Yea! A good one! We need a good laugh" says another,
I feel a bit slighted by this for some reason, the way they say it, their attitude
It's like their making light of my Art, my labours, my great works
Like their just bits of fluff for their titillation
So suddenly my mood it darkens and my voice it takes on this ominous ring and then I say a little threateningly
"So you want to hear a good one, do you!"
With this I smile and then say menacingly"I'll give you a good one"
Then I look at them slowly one by one
And it's almost like I've gone into this trance state, switched into ghostly mode
A distant remote look comes into my eyes
It's like I'm looking through them into the far distance somewhere...
And then suddenly I intone real solemn like and with great gravitas
"The Great American Novel!"
"What's that?", asks one of the girls
Now most of the girls are married Moms with kids
They wouldn't have gone to college, they would have gone straight into work after school
So they probably wouldn't have known about English literature and the Classics and all that high brow kind of stuff
Their only exposure to literature would probably be the so called Chicklit books down their local supermarket,
So I say to them 'You never heard of the Great American Novel'
"No!" says one of the girls, "what is it?"
Well, I start to explain, it's like the Holy Grail for all writers, novel writers anyway
How can I explain...how can I put it... The Great American Novel...
It's like this amazing fantastic legendary mythical beast of such great beauty and magnificence
That roams free and unfettered on the literary plains of a writer's imagination,
Many an author on his death bed admits, "I seen it once, I had it in my sights...had it in my grasp but I let it get away". They then turn their heads away and cry bitter tears of regret...
Or...or it's like... it's like this Great Mountain
that's no one's ever been able to climb
It stands there defiantly, supreme in its isolation, it's peak glistening in the sunlight or shimmering in the moonlight
Unreachable, unattainable... unconquerable
(I'm really on a roll now, I'm waxing lyrical and there's no stopping me)
The Great American Novel...it's like... y'know it's like that old fairytale, what was it called
Was it Snow White. No! Snow White had the dwarves in it
What was the other one?
One of the girls whose always been a bit negative, she suddenly says rather unhelpfully
"It wasn't Pinocchio was it?"
Of course I get her reference, when Pinocchio would tell tall tales his nose would grow longer
Then I point to her and say rather surprisingly "That's it!! Sleeping Beauty!" Remember Sleeping Beauty
The King and Queen have a beautiful baby daughter
At the christening all the good fairies come and bestow Blessings on the child
She'll be the most beautiful
She'll be warm and kind and generous
She'll have a lovely heart
She'll be so wise and so artistic...
Then suddenly who should arrive but the Wicked Fairy
She wasn't even invited to the ceremony and she's really angry
She storms into the Palace right up to the child
Then she says "When this Beauty, this Child grows up she will have an accident"
It's like The Great American Novel is the Beauty, the Child
And it's like she's saying "This Beauty no one shall have, no one shall ever write The Great American Novel"
And of course, when the child grows up she's so wonderful and so amazing
But then she has this accident and falls into this strange deep deep sleep
And everyone in the castle too, they also fall asleep,
And suddenly this big thicket of dense thorns springs up around the castle so no one can enter it
Many a brave young man having heard of the Great Beauty behind the Wall of Thorns
They valiantly try to get to her but are invariably driven back by the thorns
Alas! They fail and gradually the story of the Great Beauty passes into legend.....
That is till one day, a Knight appears, a Knight so noble and pure of heart
The moment the blade of his sword touches the Wall of Thorns
A path opens up right through the thorns leading to the castle
He finds everybody there fast asleep
He climbs the Tower and finds in her chamber this incredible Beauty sleeping
He is so taken with her that he must kiss her on her lips
In that moment her eyes they open and she smiles a radiant smile. And the whole world awakens again, comes alive.
I look around at all the girls, their all a bit spellbound by my story (at least I like to think)
I go on 'It's like I was walking in my mind one evening, seeking some inspiration
And then I just turn a corner and there he is, in all his glorious splendour
Remember your Greek myths, the fabulous white winged horse... Pegasus... this beautiful mythical beast
Just there drinking at a pool right in front of me,
So quietly I sneak up on him and then suddenly I jump up onto his back
He rears up and then spreads his mighty wings
And starts to rise way above the earth
My eyes they are suddenly opened, and I see what I had not seen before....
I look at the girls but then just as before, a strange dark look comes over my face and I say
" I'm really afraid but I think, I think I've done it
I think I've nailed it
Yea! ... I think I've written The Great American Novel.
I go on 'Yknow whenever a new book comes out the Critics, they all wonder
Will this be the One, will this at last be The Great American Novel
Of course, their always disappointed, the candidates they all fall short
It was a good try but...but not quite
A valiant effort, maybe next time
In the Critics Room one of them will be given my book to read
Slowly as he reads, his eyes will grow wider
And his jaw will start to drop in awe
When he finishes he'll sit there in his chair stunned, almost like he's been shellshocked
Then he'll rise unsteadily with his finger pointing at the book
He'll be stuttering and stammering
"What's wrong!", people will inquire of him
He'll look at them in a mad crazy way
"My eyes... my eyes they've seen it" he'll say
"Seen what?" they'll ask
"It...it... it's The Great American Novel.
They'll all stand up and gather around the Book
Suddenly someone will grab a pair of binoculars and look up at The Great, the Holy Mountain
And there on the top, on the summit
There'll be a lone figure standing with his little Irish flag
"Truly he is the One", they'll say, "and a feckin' Irishman, wouldn't you know".
"So what's it about then", asks one of the girls interrupting my flow
What!', I say
"The Novel! What's it about"
I look at her and then I smile and say rather mysteriously 'Well, that's another story isn't it'.
"Wait a minute", says the girl whose usually very negative, "so the valiant Knight with the noble heart, that's supposed to be you is it ?
I raise my hands innocently as if to say what can I do
"O! I think I'm going to be sick", she says. Then she continues "Where did you get the time to write a Novel anyway. All the time we thought you were working you were probably just there daydreaming over in the corner".
"It's not very long", I say to her "my story".
"How long is it ?", she asks curiously
"Actually it's only about ten or eleven pages".
"What! Ten or eleven pages!!!", she says jumping on this with exaggerated disgust, "that's not a Novel, it might be a short story but it's certainly not a Novel. For it to be a Novel it has to be several hundred pages long ".
I tell her But 'I didn't need a few hundred pages just ten or eleven was enough, it's all there, the whole thing'.
"But it's not a Novel", she maintains
I answer, it's the spirit of the thing that matters, the Spirit!
She then gathers herself and I can feel an offensive coming
"I don't want to rain on your Parade", she begins, "but One you're not American, Two it's not even a Novel, and Third if it's anything like your song I for one won't be holding my breath".
I look at her a bit crestfallen and then I say
"You really like to burst my balloon don't you" , then I say, "I'm reminded of the classic lines of W.B.Yeats the great Irish poet
And then I declaim theatrically
"And Great Art... beaten down".
Anyway now the spotlight moves away from me, the girls start talking among themselves
"Let's leave him to his delusions", one says and now our meals are starting to arrive, I'm forgotten about for awhile.
For some reason the word "Parade' has stuck in my mind
And the pub has suddenly grown more boisterous, some people are singing and blowing whistles (those paper things that roll out and then roll back in again) their throwing streamers and confetti about
Suddenly I'm reminded of those old ticker tape parades they used to have over in New York when they'd be celebrating something or someone
All the faces looking out the windows of the skyscrapers and all the streamers cascading down, and the cheering crowds
And up on a big Podium there standing, the President himself.
I look up at the wall at Santa Claus smiling back at me
And I say to myself "Hello Mister President"
I can see him welcoming me up onto the podium, then with his hands he quietens the crowds... and then...then he speaks
"Fellow Americans, we've waited a long time for this day
Many thought I'm sure that it would never come but some...some still dared to believe Yea! That one day a man would appear and that a Book would be born"
(holding up the Book) I give you the Book
It may be a slim volume
But don't let that fool you
Sometimes good things come in small packages...
Yes! I give you the Book,
The Great American Novel!!!
And I give you... the Man (motioning to me)
"He told it like no one else could, he said it like no one else could say it
Let the bells ring out across the land, in every city and town...in celebration"
So sitting there I raised my glass to Santa Claus smiling on the wall
And said quietly and secretly to myself
"Here's to you Mr. President, Merry Christmas!
Dec 16, 2022
Dec 16, 2022 at 10:38 AM UTC
To criticise others seems soothing as cool breeze
People say anything without a single heed.
Without aknowledging how their words might impact someone's life
They keep passing opinions with ungrateful pride.
Some are able to overcome these comments and try to move on in life
While some are demoralized and end up with commiting suicide.
People must know that its not an achievement to criticise someone at every point
Maybe that person is already going through a hectic life.
No-one knows what it would have cost him to reach at a specific point
And some unuseful words may leave a never-ening depression in his mind.
He might not be able to excel in any aspects of life henceforth
And might end up thinking his life nothing more than a unbearable load.
If you think of yourself in the shoes of the person you critice
Then you might understand that its not a thing of pride.
Years of hardwork, sacrifice and dedication comes to an end with some criticising words
And thats the point where we might lose one of our precious jewels on earth.
So lets stop critising someone just to put him down in life
Despite help him in overcoming difficulties and achieving great heights.
No-one knows how your small support can lighten up someone's darken soul
With such deeds we might end up being a true human as a whole.
May 31, 2022
May 31, 2022 at 6:17 PM UTC
The Critics...
Ahhh The CRITICS... !!!
So What is it... ???
That Makes Them THINK...
They Can CRITICISE Things...
You Choose To Bring... ?!?
Like LOGICAL Thoughts...
That EXHIBIT MORE...
Than Being A... "Sheep"...
Who Follows The Weak... !!!
They're RARELY Objective...
When It Comes to Collectives...
Who They Choose To BREAK BREAD With... !!!
Because Their Objectives...
Are RARELY... OBJECTIVE... !?!?!
In Fact They're SELECTIVE...
When It Comes To Perspectives...
That EMBRACE The SUBJECTIVE... !?!
I Guess Sometimes...
Within My Rhymes...
And Thought Designs...
That SUCH Insights...
Reflect My Life... ???
But TRUTH Be Told...
I DON'T THINK SO... !!!
See WITHIN My Scripts...
Critiques Take LIKS'... !!!!!
So AREN'T Welcome...
In... CRITICAL Gums...
I'm NO Sherlock...
But U N D O... K N O T S... !!!
Because My Mind Is NOT Consigned...
To Living Life As If I'm... "Blind"...
... When I've GOT SIGHT... ?!!!?
I Have A STRONG MIND...
So Have NO TIME...
To LISTEN To Lines...
That DON'T Sound Right... !!!
"Can't take critique Virge ?
For a man of words,
who speaks on the world,
that seems a little perverse ?"
"Okay, are you done ?
cos' I ain't the one,
to hit with attacks,
that dismiss facts !"
Facts Like THIS...
When You See How I Live...
Do You See Me Enlist...
And Then... PERSIST...
With Things That CLEARLY...
............. Do NOT FIT... ?!?
Like Lyrics in Scripts...
That Make NO SENSE... ?!?
Or... ARGUMENTS...
That Then RESIST... ?
LOGICAL Collections...
of... SUITABLE Directions...
UNLIKE CRITICS...
Who Like To CRITICISE... !!!
Just To STRESS The Minds...
of Those Whose Vibe...
AIN'T Down With LIES... !!!
... I DEAL In TRUTH... !!!
While They Tend To CHOOSE...
...... AIRING Views......
That When PERUSED...
Are FILLED With ABUSE...
They SHOULDN'T Infuse... !!!
Rather Than DEALWith The Artistry...
That They're Supposed To CRITIQUE...
...... " IMPARTIALLY "...... !!!!!!!
CRITICISMS Have Made...
Quite A Few... Give In... !!!
BEFORE Their Beginnings...
Because of... ABUSE...
Some Critics Have Written... !!!
It's The Same Ol' Same...
WHATEVER The Game...
The Game of CONNECTING...
WITHOUT Then INFECTING...
Connections With INFECTIONS...
That Then IMPEDE Progression.
Leaders Now Are MOSTLY FOUL... !!!!!
And Are Being... CRITICISED... !!!!!
Because of What They... "hide"... ?!?
Their GUISE of Being WISE...
And Directing Peoples Lives...
As If... Their Slice of Life...
Does NOT Have Things To Hide... ?!?
TOO MANY People... "Hide"...
BEHIND... OTHER Peoples' Lives... ?!?
THESE People ARE The Types...
Who DON'T Like To Be CRITICISED... !!!!!
I'm GLAD That My Life...
DOESN'T TOE Such Lines... !!!
My Line NOW Is...
That... " Y'all Are Right ! "...
So Right Now I'll Just Write My Scripts...
And CONSTRUCT Rhymes...
That Simply Are... ARTISTIC...
When It Comes To LIFE...
And What Is Said By... CRITICS...
Ahhhhh.....
... " The Critics "... !!!
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 6:10 PM UTC
They stole a word
from a poem I wrote
Stealing
the meaning
leaving just a note
“We’re sorry for the damage,
we hope you don’t mind
we’ve just taken a lend
of a word from a line”
They left no name
no number to call
Just a few words
and that was all
Then just the other day
I read on the news
a poem became famous
for a word that was used
that made the world weep
over their lies and their theft
critics hailed it
‘the true and only’
‘honest poem’
in the world left
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 7:04 PM UTC
My cat’s become so critical
of the pieces that I write
he kneads to express his opinion
and he always thinks he’s right.
He twitches his ear-itation
if I don't write in Senryus.
If what I write displeases him
he’s under the bed for refuge.
He’s worse than many teachers -
his reviews are seldom neutered -
he pointedly wags that twitchy tail
or cat-calls disapproval.
He laid across my laptop
for half the afternoon
‘til I promised an ode to tuna
which earned purrs of hallelujah!
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 6:49 AM UTC
An Obscenity Trial
by Michael R. Burch
The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints
against whom several critics cited numerous complaints.
They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd,"
and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud.
The prosecutor alleged himself most artful (and best-dressed);
it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed.
He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity;
twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality.
The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind,
though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind.
Clerics called him the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin.
Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in.
The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face,
knowing the trial would be a farce.
"It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!"
The recorder (bewildered Society), well aware of his notoriety,
greeted this statement with applause.
"This man is no poet. Just look—his Hallmark shows it.
Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer!
His sense of rhythm is too fine!
He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs.
This man is an imposter!
I ask that his sentence be . . . the almost perceptible indignity
of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster!"
The jury left, in tears of joy, literally sequestered.
The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Might I not answer to my peers?"
But how His Honor giggled then,
seeing no poets were let in.
Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad
and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad.
Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 3:41 AM UTC
Do I write for an audience
or for myself.
There is a struggle
to distinguish between
the voices of critics
in my head
and my voice
of reason.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
About Costumes and Customs
Wear, wear whatever you dare,
Tho, the global locality has no morality...
Animals with human customs,
Humans with animal costumes
Form the world into a modest mode-
In which the smartest ones are silent
While the mass dress in rumbling drunkness,
In happy hues of the humbling violent,
Of the primitive homo-geniuses.
Does ****** equal with the human nature?
Which? Human as savage or creature?
Born or grown?
While sensations design human customs,
Is predestination more than a fake costume?
Does the world hold anything divine?
While we follow an immoral aurora-
Its warming colours in a frozen desert,
That implies no divine unseen scenes?
Questions are colorless, unseen but existing,
Alike to God's infinite fineness-
Probing our customs if they are probed.
Methink costumes as a colorful ocean,
Mesee customs as the change of the world.
We sink in the dying world's dying ocean.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 2:42 AM UTC
You must do it the right way
YOUR way is the only write way
They say nothing rhymes with orange
Well I am here to encourage
Yeah, go ahead and laugh at it
You don’t even know the half of it
Our poetry is for us, ourselves
Whether you’re ninety nine, or twelve
We commune within our souls
Another etch upon our scrolls
Our soul inverted, exposed
Something only we compose
Don’t ever be discouraged
Your writing is encouraged!
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
Nothing matters to me
I might as well be
In a different galaxy
I’m disconnected from reality
I sleep my nights dreaming
I could be someone else
And lose sight of me
I hate my anatomy
Chemical bonds gone wrong
And I choose to dissect
Each and every one
I never lose focus when I criticize
My imperfections
I intend to improve myself
But that won’t change my perception
And there you go
I figure you’re prefect
In every sense of the word
Nothing can stop you
Not even the cosmos themselves
But you’re just like me
A flawed human
In this world full of impurities
We bend like metal
And sway
Wherever the wind takes us
That’s the price we pay
Each and every day
Our insecurities
Hide the best of us
But we wake up in the morning
And continue life
But one thing for sure
We’ll keep fighting
Until we perish
Life can be beautiful
Never forget it
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:45 PM UTC
the cross of the critics
nailed the duo with a despise
they showed no mercy
for the pair's demise
crucified
crucified
by the venom of a viper's bite
crucified
crucified
there wasn't any scrap of respite
crucified
crucified
in a rancorous mean spite
the pack of detractors
wanted the dyad beaten down
so they served up a caustic vitriol
to claim an undeserved crown
crucified
crucified
savage the meter's punishment
crucified
crucified
ever vile this scathing torment
crucified
crucified
none being fair in treatment
the cross of the critics
nailed the duo with a despise
they showed no mercy
for the pair's demise
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 7:26 AM UTC
Oh, the critics,
When you use,
Your fleshy and sticky tongues,
Or,
When,
You scrawl your sharp pens,
To peel the skin,
Of your alleged offenders,
Then,
You look like a butcher,
Chopping and mincing the meat and bones,
Or you like a vulture,
Sipping the blood of a half-dead cattle,
Come shed your literary arrogance,
And wrap your forked tongue,
In a cozy shawl of praise,
And prove that,
To correct the torn skin,
A pair of surgeon’s scissors is needed,
And not a butcher’s knife,
For sure…….
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
You are so strong,
But feel so weak.
Only thinking wrongs,
And never the things,
Making you,
Nothing to hold,
Nothing to rue.
Don’t ever fold,
These feelings of love,
Know of your strengths,
Shine with your sun,
Not with your hate.
Life is too fast,
For fearful fate.
Please make it last,
Caress every day.
Hold your heart,
Don’t let it go,
I know it’s hard,
But you’ll never know,
If you keep holding back,
Never lighting matches.
You ask why you’re sad,
Cause you’ve never had it.
You’ve done it before,
Now do it again,
Walk fear’s shore,
Make it your friend.
I feel your pain,
I hear your cry.
I’ve felt your rain,
With tears of your sigh.
After I close,
Remember this,
If there’s something to know,
Know you are His.
The night may change,
Infinite difference.
But reject its pain,
Cause you’re never different.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
The Artless Artist …by Jessie 12/05
Art historians, Art Critics, Art Brokers and Dealers
Pompous bags of wind, inflating the sails of a ship that will never sail
Full of hype, full of themselves, full of crap
Turning nothing into something
Spewing toxic dribble from their mouths
Talking to hear themselves talk
Who is listening?
Impressing no one but themselves with their circular talk that leads no where
Believing they are on the cutting edge of creative thoughts
If you understand what they are saying, then you can’t possibly comprehend
If nothing they say makes sense, you are lifted to a higher plain of consciousness
Noses in the air, Merlot in a glass, and masks
Standing around; everyone stroking each other’s egos
Pretending to see into the artists mind
Hoping no one will figure them out
Afraid to question the other
Exposing the scam they have all created
Bold, brush strokes, color, composition, genius
Buzz words to throw around in crowed, snobbish circles
None are artists, but submerge themselves in art
Thinking they can create… if not the art…the artist
Misguided, and too blind to know it
Take away their ignorance and what do they have left?
The false façade of empty creativity
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
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
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
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.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC