I will begin this project by posting several poems to be critiqued. Feel free to do your worst, this is a working space for opinions and impressions, and no comment will be ignored. Please post your own poetry in the comment space and I will copy it to its own page where others can critique it as well. Try too to post photos or images that relate to how you feel about what you read here. These poems should inspire other feelings and senses that can be better described through imagery and sound. Poetry traverses all planes of emotion and as the internet generation, we finally have the means to bring that all together.
I’m not promising
I’ll ever write anything that will touch you
But I’m willing to try.
I’m willing to try to put my fingers
across these sticky keys and
Come up with something chill-spurring
Something that strokes your skin.
Even though it’s not skin anymore.
I want to…
I want you to know the truth,
That she would have cannibalized you:
That her insides are soot-oozed
And rotten. Moving her marionette face.
That you put too much faith in everyone and not
Enough in yourself.
We’re a room full of strangers
Clinging to your memory,
Strangers who didn’t know you well enough
To see when you broke.
When you were broken.
When you took a bullet
Set into motion by your tremor-ed hand.
Or maybe it didn’t tremble at all.
I apologize. I don’t know you well enough
To guess that detail.
I’m done guessing.
I’m done fighting.
What’s mine is mine whether I don
That armor, or if naked I wander
Wine-inspired into the colleceum.
Spectators to my demise
They judge from behind glowing screens
With bloated egos and well masticated versions of
But since I move through the calendar,
since you fell from this earth,
I’ve found there are only versions, and no
But that doesn’t bother me too much.
I’ll still try.
And I’ll never be worthy.
The frame of your face falls
From the wall each time he wanders
Nude in the low light
Into my sheets and over my body,
As if from behind the tracing-paper walls
You leap to catch me, to save me
But you gave up your voice, brother.
They all get to have opinions.
But you handed yours to me
When you picked up the gun.
Perhaps, it was a fair trade.
All our decisions are bullets.
The real tragedy:
We will survive them.
Poem 1 Editing – Poem 1 Revised