"critic" poems
Are you struck with her figure and face?
How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
Is my very particular friend!
How charming she looks — her dark curls
Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
She's my very particular friend!
Then her voice, how divine it appears
While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
I'm her very particular friend!
Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
She's my very particular friend!
Her brother dispatched with a sword,
His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
She's my very particular friend!
All her chance of a portion is lost,
And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
(Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
She's my very particular friend!
That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
She's my very particular friend!
Oh! never have pencil or pen,
A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
She's my very particular friend!
15.3k
I'm trying
to read poetry...
a new love for me.
My critic's heart
is not so harsh
since you came to me.
You've freed me.
But..................
I'm distracted.
I'm stuck...
thinking...
your hand in my mouth...
the other on my wrist...
the blankets falling down...
There's teeth inside that kiss.
Even now
my breath is ragged...
my heart is quick
to send oxygen to my
(you know what)
and I....
know I love you for
far more than this...
but..............
OH
my
GAWD...
Did he just?
Yes he did.
And a smile wouldn't cover
how I felt with you last night.
Sounds like some **** right?
Like I'm lost inside
some teenaged *****
and thinking only of my groin
but you know me more
than I know me.
I spent six years waiting for this...
like it could be cultivated..
making love
instead of
making love.
Like the goal
was feeling satisfied
instead of
feeling loved.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
I just want it to end.
The hopelessness, the fear,
the constant critic in my head:
I've lived with them all for too long.
All I've ever known is this war, this endless battle.
There's nothing wrong with wanting it to end.
To wish that it didn't is cruel.
But why can't the best solution be the simplest?
Why do I have to keep fighting?
At times it's deafening,
and I'm so exhausted.
Why can't I just lay down in no man's land
and let this battle fall silent around me?
Why can't that be the end?
Because... I'll never know what's possible.
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
A small skiff drifted in the harbor
guided by the eazy oars of a fisherman
standing in the hull to better view
the shimmering reflection
of the orange circle hovering overhead-
dancing with the gentle waves
in the morning mist.
Monet had to name it something
so he called it what it was:
"Impression, soleil levant."
A critic, wanting poison for his pen,
seized Monet's title to squeeze
a lethal dose into the radical veins
of the artist and his fellows of the gallery
(Renoir, Pissarro, Cezanne).
With scathing indignation
he dubbed the lot of them,
"Mere Impressionists."
The label endures (minus one word)
but how many recall or care to know
the righteous critic's name?
November, 2011
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
Breathe in and blow everything out of proportion
A manic artist versus the abstract composition
In my head this all looked as perfect as imagination
The challenge was blending the line between fantasy and reality
To get the inner critic to agree
Worlds colliding this one into the next
Dreams manifested to the forefront
of a visionary gone inside himself
Throwing myself against the walls of my mind
In an attempt to think outside the box.
Even in our own heads they've got us on lockdown
With the chemical constraints constricting creativity
These straightjackets of sorts
Straightening out the free-thinkers
A fourth wall broken
Pretentions are high
On the artist's plane
Subjectively selling ourselves out to a shallow medium
The mainstream
The water we should be walking on
We're drown out in.
Drawn into the background of the bigger picture.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
You look in the mirror and see every flaw
on you face,
Then hold your head down for every little
blemish, for all of your minute imperfections,
And that is all that you see, all you can
think about when you watch people's eyes on you.
But we are our own worst critic,
and how pessimistic it is
That we can only look at ourselves
and see our worst.
If you haven't noticed, though, you've
never truly looked at yourself.
You've only ever seen your reflection,
a mere image staring back at you.
The truth of the matter is that you'll
never be able to see yourself, only your reflection,
Something that can never fully capture you
because a picture is only worth a thousand words.
You are worth at least a million.
So maybe you should stop looking
at yourself in the mirror
And start seeing yourself through my eyes,
then you will see that
You are beautiful.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
guilt me like a cancer
manipulate me like a taurus
if i was the first verse, you’d skip to the chorus
i tape glue and sew but you’re the one who tore us
ripped me into pieces and i made myself
something new
i recognized myself
you’re lost not knowing what to do
play dumb like a pisces and lash out like a scorpio
if you’d give me up for anything
it would be half an oreo
maybe four quarters or a dollar
but you could never change
had a heart for everyone but i was never in your range
impulsive like an aires confusing like a gemini
you my day 1 and i love you turns into there cant be a you and i
you “never wanna make me cry” but can never keep your **** dry
eyes red like im high
you “never want to say goodbye” but the second things dont go your way you fly
but you could never be the bad guy?
act out like a capricorn stubborn like a leo
how you beat yourself up but wanna be everyones hero?
your double life is really a triple
i should call you trio
if ‘paid in full’ was my life you would be rico
how my own girl crossed me?
then made it my fault that she lost me?
then told everyone she tossed me?
don’t care like aquarius outted me like a libra
you beat around the bush when i made it black and white like a zebra
how i told you tell me the truth and you made up a story
you cant lie on someone who loves you
and bask in glory
i paved the way for you and you act lost like dory
and i still found you
careless like sagittarius critic like a virgo
how you tell me to “never leave” but you go?
how you use the water you drained me of to grow
you’re not who your instagram shows
i see through you, commando
you cant flex on me if you know what i know
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 12:51 AM UTC
In a far away forest there was a bear who felt very blue.
She simply could not snap out of it, and didn’t know what to do.
There was no reason for this sadness, her life was going well,
But at random times in every day, tears would start to swell
This feeling kind of scared her, but even more than that,
It made her feel embarrassed, like some sort of selfish brat
I don’t know why I’m like this, she constantly thought to herself.
I have no reason to feel this way, I have my legs, my sight, my health
There are bears in other places who have lost their homes to fires,
And baby bears in situations that are absolutely dire.
But these thoughts did not allieviate her internal pain,
In fact they only made it worse, topping sadness off with shame.
While she wanted to go talk to someone, to find out what was wrong
She settled for self-medicating, taking hits off of a ****
This helped her out a little bit, at least for a short while
But it was not a real fix, to say so was denial
So this went on for months and months, getting progressively worse,
And the bear learned to carry the weight of it, bending to this curse
She became her toughest critic, her own worst enemy
An ugly, unlovable idiot is what she thought herself to be.
I can’t tell you what happened to her, I simply do not know
Maybe she’s still out there somewhere, just putting on a show.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 12:21 PM UTC
I am fierce
Look not upon my flaws
Over relations
Vulnerability extinguished
Essence is bliss
More about me
You're not a critic
Sunshine grew brighter
Everlasting peace
Loving myself every second
Forever more
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
(the tics will talk 'til twelve o'clock)
When we make time,
When we listen:
The theistic preach deistic talk;
The atheistic preach pragmatic talk;
The agnostic preach proleptic talk;
The heretic preach shismatic talk;
The mystic preach prophetic talk.
(the mesianic and satanic never stop)
When we have time;
Then we listen:
The optimistic teach hypnotic talk;
The pessimistic teach sarcastic talk;
The altruistic teach empathetic talk;
The idealistic teach synergistic talk;
The pacifistic teach semantic talk;
The body politic teach charismatic talk;
The technocratic teach robotic talk;
The romantic teach poetic talk;
The critic teach cathartic talk;
The moralistic teach dualistic talk;
The ascetic teach platonic talk.
(the artist would rather not talk)
When we find time,
Do we listen:
The lunatic speak quizzotic talk;
The neurotic speak pathetic talk;
The chauvanistic speak monistic talk;
The nihilistic speak ballistic talk;
The hedonist speak narcissistic talk;
The futuristic speak galactic talk.
(the minimalist hasn't the time to talk)
Just don't.
Look.
Some tic reset the clock.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12
<*>
restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,
difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete
every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place
finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently
those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit
though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,
there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,
yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
When time passes am a memory
A mystery to the unknown
A lovely experience to someone
And also a nightmare to someone
Whatever I do it whenever
Sometimes I have no clue on it
As a human and a social animal
Am very curious
To place my step in an innovative way
Am that one bad critic of mine
Who always introspect mercilessly
And finally this is my understanding
Of what I actually look
Chances I may be wrong ....
In Telugu language
కాలం గడిచే కొద్ది నేనో జ్ఞాపకం
కొందరికి అంతు చిక్కని ప్రశ్న
మరికొంత మందికి ఓ చక్కని అనుభవం
ఇంకొంత మందికి మరిచిపోలేని భారం
ఏ పని ఎందుకు ఎప్పుడు ఎలా చేసానో
కొన్ని సార్లు నా దగ్గరే సమాదానం లేదు
మనిషిగా ఒక్క సామాజిక పశువుగా
ప్రతి అడుగు విభినంగా వేయాలని
తాపత్రయపడే ఓ సాదాసీదా వాడిని
నన్ను ప్రతి రోజు విశ్లేషించుకునే
ఒక్క జాలి లేని విమర్శకుడిని
చివరిగా ఇది నా మీద నేను
సాహసంతో చేసుకున్న విశ్లేషణ !!!
నమస్తే ...
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
Damaged good are always on sale
In every store, whether resale or retail
No one wants something that’s broken down
Except for when they see that certain person walking around town.
She is shattered and mangled, but not on the surface
A beautiful sight, her eyes lit like a furnace.
She sells herself, but not for ***
What’s given away is more complex.
The idea of being wanted is too far gone,
Like her dignity which left her for so long.
So she lives her life always seeming distraught,
But really it’s only because of her thoughts.
They consume her mind and swallow her whole,
And every day it takes its toll.
She is worn and broken, and it’s clear to see
What once was so beautiful, wild, and free
Is now in the past, she can’t help but reminisce
The days that were once so grand and full of bliss.
She gave up when she gazed in the mirror,
Seeing what couldn’t be any clearer.
She’s still the same person that she once was,
Except now she’s in the prison which does
Consume her mind, her heart, and intent
For her sins she feels she must repent.
Her past is one that no one would yearn,
And to this day the thought still burns.
If not for that single mistake
Then to this day his heart wouldn’t have a break.
She sold herself, but nothing is new
For it has happened to all of us a time or two.
We sell ourselves short in all that we do,
But what we must remember is that there are very few
People in this world that remain pure and true.
All the rest are damaged at best,
And in the end it’s what separates them from the rest.
I discount myself, but I will never be sold
On any ideas that I have ever been told.
When I get put down, what people don’t realize is that I have already found
The worst critic on this planet, the one sitting down
Writing this poem and filling your thoughts,
Making you feel like that damaged box.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
You look in the mirror
Comb your hair
Say you're ****
Blow your reflection a kiss
Sit down at your desk and begin to write
"I'm **** for all the right reasons
Woman love me
I love myself
The world is pathetic
But I'm the reason the sun shines"
You're a poet
From what you tell yourself
Well my fellow "poet"
You're a narcissistic poet
With everything going against you
You should be more like me
Call yourself pathetic
Become your very own critic
Degrade yourself regularly
Sure it makes you depressed but for all the right reasons
You become better
Influencing yourself to be better
Without the knowledge that it's happening
Don't be a narcissistic poet
Be the poet that the world actually will like
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Quit yelling at your kids and expect them to sleep well
Quit yelling at your kids in the morning right after they wake up, before school and expect them to have a good day
You set the tone for your children
You set the tone for YOUR voice that they will always remember in their heads
You become their inner voice
Don't be their inner critic
Let's raise kids who don't need therapy to heal from their childhoods
Speak Life,
Speak Love,
Speak Bravery,
Speak Kindness,
Speak Hope,
Speak wisdom and,
Speak Truth
Most of all listen to your children. Be their safety net. Be their Home
-Michelle Sorenson, M. ED
May 8, 2024
May 8, 2024 at 8:33 AM UTC
People may call me beautiful
they might say it matches my personality but does not make me feel any better about myself??
Nope not at all
Makes me feel good for about a minute
Even when a hot guy wants to step to me
I instantly go quiet
My mind goes blank
Forgetting what's my name
And automatically all my insecurities tap in
And think he couldn't possibly be looking at me
I'm no super model
Or anything close to a size 2
Or anything special for him to take a second look
Plus being Plus Size doesn't help anything
When I'm always being reminded
That I'm just not good enough
and if I was a little bit taller maybe even a little bit smaller
Like that would solve all my problems
I know I have the capabilities to put on a beauty show
but I don't
I just wear baggy clothes
and wait to surprise people
I actually know how to dress to impress
its a talent I even surprise myself
sometimes
What they say is true your your own worst critic
That's why I say I'm the Queen of my own insecurities
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
"I painted a picture today"
I'm hoping it inspires people in a similar way that my poetry does
No ! I hope it does more than that
I've scrutinised and criticised it from all angles
Til my energy drained
It's of a sunset
The colours are vivid n just right "or are they"?
My local gallery's displaying it at a fair price or is it?
I'm not sure if it's hanging in the best place?
Does that matter?
It's taken a long time to complete
I'm surprised they thought it was good enough ?
I am my harshest critic
A perfectionist ......
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
I'm just smoking my **** &
(spitting facts*2)..nigga..
Aye..(Smoking **** & spitting facts*2..)
/I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts2)../2
Smoking **** & spitting facts..
/Smoking weed*3
&
Spitting Facts*3
I stay (smoking **** *2) & spitting facts
/*2..
Spitting facts..
That's what I stay doing man,Yeah Aye....just
(Smoking **** & Spitting Facts*2)..I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts2)..(Spitting facts2)....& smoking **** up..Yeah man
The real is back , we been here, we never left, we just evolve man, evolve yeah to bring death to all the fake rappers, Yeah ***** I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts2)..(Spitting facts2)..Ayo, I'm on my gangsta **** Ayo I need me a platinum grill, what up DJ Drama. We need to collab, & do a mixtape real quick..,Aye I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts..,*2)..Aye I don't want no drama or any problems homie, I just want to get my cheddar, I roll alot of marijuana Yeah so what man, but I also tell the people what's real Yeah man..
I'm bout to get so many **** bands, so much that I gotta throw some to the fam, Aye.shit, I might throw some to the fans,..Aye man, I'm bout to cause so many problems ***** like Ol ***** Bastard,Aye..I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts*3)..Yeah man..,my ***** turn on the fan, its so much **** smoke up in the air that I'm starting to lose breath, Yeah I smoke awesome,.. I smoke on that dope, that choke,Yeah ***** that potent..while I'm rhyming to improve society not impress it..
Yeah I'm smoking **** & spitting game to the youth man..Let's get it..Aye..
Aye..(Smoking **** & spitting facts*2..)
/I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts2)../2
Smoking **** & spitting facts..
/Smoking weed*3
&
Spitting Facts*3
I stay (smoking **** *2) & spitting facts
/*2..
Spitting facts..
That's what I stay doing man,Yeah Aye....just
(Smoking **** & Spitting Facts*2)..I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts2)..(Spitting facts2) & smoking **** up....Yeah man
Mufuck a opinion, when all I rap about is the truth my nigga,..I be spitting facts, so Talk yo **** be a critic man, Imma be a hustling young ***** Yeah a hard worker, a go getta, a goal digger, A dream chaser..Yeah,
I be spitting facts while these other rappers be spooning each other..Sodom and
Gomorrah type **** ..they fooling the people, but yall dumb ***** don't wanna listen to what's real,..so be it..Imma still rhyme this same way..I know I can Spark the mind up of a future revolutionary leader mane..Yeah....Aye
I'm
(Smoking **** & spitting facts.. Spitting facts, Aye*3)
I'm the best MC in Atlanta since Outcast,.. Yeah the biggest fish, so if the industry trys to hook me, Imma drown their ship..I'm a Outcast of this world no fallen angel..Im my favoritest artist , Young Ston he be going so **** hard, Yo he be (spitting facts*2)..Aye, I'm smoking on a doop, 2 in 1 dawg, King size cone, while I'm writing scriptures..Aye..Yeah..Uhh
(I'm smoking **** & spitting facts*2)
Smoking weed*3
&
Spitting Facts*3
Uhh,..I stay (smoking **** & spitting facts*2)..
Yeah (spitting facts*2)
I'm just smoking my **** &
(spitting facts*2)..nigga
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
The worst type of critic
Is the critic with in me.
I always judge my work
Even if it's written perfectly.
Just like other critics,
I cannot silence this one.
But it takes a toll on my work,
It takes out all the major fun.
I love to write,
I love to share my ideas.
But I think all my work is crud
Even if it's beloved by my peers.
This makes the delete button
Oh so popular.
The inner criticism is choking me
He's got his hands against my jugular.
But I love what I do,
And I'll fight to the death,
Even if my work does ****
At least I tried my best.
I have to remember,
The best is what matters,
Practice makes perfect
I just have to continue climbing that ladder.
It'll be a tremendous feeling,
When I reach the top,
Because I'll know no critics
Even myself,
Made me stop what I love doing.
Writing.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
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The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.
& the poet?
It's in her nature
to fear failure
but not to let that fear
blot out
her lines.
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