I will be posting my poetry here, please feel free to critique and suggest. n.n

Judgemental

My eyes are too wide,
my nose too large,
my mouth too small,
and my face too round.

I'll feed them to a passing dog,
he won't mind.

I'm too fat,
too thin,
to wide,
too boney.

I'll drain away my flesh,
until there's none to disagree with.

I'm too white,
too black,
to red,
too brown.

I'll peel back my skin,
we're all the same on the inside.

I'm too tall,
too short,
too lanky,
so stout.

I'll bury my bones,
no one can argue with dirt.

There's no me left to complain about,
and no me left to complain,
after all, no one knows,
where I hid my brain.




My own feedback:

When I was writing this poem there were several things I was trying to get across.

I had a compleately sarcastic tone going, and of course it is not supporting the human instinct to 'fit in'. I'm trying to make a point through out the poem that people are detracting from who they are in order to fit in with the people around them until eventually you get large groups of people with little identity othier own.

The last stanza, in all it's rhymyness, has a double meaning. First, that people don't look for persoanlity as much as they do apearence, and second, the peopl that try so desperately to conform are foolish, and aren't using thier minds.

I will say now that I hate the theme of this poem. It was an assignment for my creative writing class, but I think the reaction to 9.11 was over done, as are most reactions to tragic events. YEs, it was sad, yes a lot of people died, but people are dieing all over the world for varieties of reasons. I didn't know any of them, so yes, it's sad, and yes, I will respect thier deaths, but the media's way of crawling over the event like flies on dung is just sickening. I like the way I wrote this poem, but I don't like the subject, or the conclusion, only the way that I wrote it.

9/11

I'm sitting at the glass kitchen table,
my skin sticking to the cold and mess.

I didn't have time to clean yesterday.

I'm eating an English muffin,
I'm twenty minutes late.

I still need my tea.

I'm frantically writting a paper,
homework due in an hour.

The paper too, is sticking.

I go through my day,
life going on as usual.

I have no idea.

I go from class to class,
I'm compleately unaware,

that two pillars of our nation,

Just fell.

Sticky fingers spread wide,
the palms slappign together.
It's a wonder she can pull them apart,
to clap for her birthday clown.

His white teeth gleam between dark lips,
his hand swings from his ear to meet the other,
resting motionless on his knee,
eyes curved up like hats on chocolate cheeks.

She doesn't blink, she doesn't smile.
Her fingertips tap rythmically against her palm,
In a suit, in an office, in a building with her boss,
is not a place for laughter.

He smiled and laughs outloud,
his hand slapping across his knee,
as if it were the back of a friend,
His bright eyes denying the wrinkles of age around them.

She tapps her powdered fingers together,
quickly andonly a short while,
the soft skin of the elderly weak and docile,
conservative, she is a lady.

It's strange that something so simple,
as common as a clap of the hands,
can tell you so much about a person,
like a taste of the rhthym of thier life.






I would like to go back and expand on this poem, since a person's hands can say a lot about them. I was looking around the auditorium after a play and noticed how many different ways people clapped and how their clap seemed to match their look and personality.

The results of a spaghettie western...




The sea of horns
and soon to be leather and steak
parts for a bow legged man,

His groin resting on the saddle
of a magnificant beast,
His eyes shadowed by the white brim.

The wide legs of his pants,
his boots in the stirups,
a gun at his hip.

He tips his hat,
at the ladies he passes,
an of course they swoon.

There ain't room enough in this town fer the both 'f us.

I think all of your poems are well written and evocative. I especially like the clapping poem and the cowboy one :)

You write on very diverse subjects too, and there's very little fantasy in your poetry. I don't mean that they're not imaginative, just that you take subjects from real life to write about.

Thanks for sharing!

^-^ Thank you!

I find a balance of fact and fiction makes it mroe enjoyable. n.n

How do you manage to stay upbeat in your poetry? None of what I read had a sonorous feel to it.

I've tried to write happy happy poems, but I fail miserably. hahaha.

I've posted some of mine, if you'd like to read *points to one thread up*

I'll look it up in a minute, gotta head to class,


Here's one I did using a word list, it was a lot of fun. And proof that not everything I write is happy. XD Actually, I love writing about emotional struggles and conflicts.


The Angel of Motel 6

The smoke from the cigarette curls and loops,
blocked from the heavens by a popcorn ceiling,
it may find there are angels on earth.

I stare in the mirror bathroom mirror,
the reflective paint peeling in back,
a flakey image of a flake of a man.

I regret, I broke my angel.
I forced her in a moonless room,
to suit my own pleasure.

The single rose I bought her,
lies forgotten on the carpet,
The tears glitter on her perfect face.

My common sense faded to oblivion,
as I had stripped off her top,
from there I went to far, breaking my angel.

My ciggerette smolders away,
I put it out on the bathroom counter,
and leave my angel in the cheap hotel.




I'll post the word list here in a minute.

If you want to write about happy things, first find what makes you happy, then describe every aspect of it, positive and negative, and how it affects you as a person. ~hates sounding like a text book~ XD

I look around and write about things that interest me. It never feels like I'm writing it, but more like my hand is moving in it's own, letting me follow along. It's very strange...

These are a few exercises we did in class... the first on just popped into my head, it's a bit... dirty, but it makes me laugh. n.n;



The Aftermath

Jack be nimble,
Jack be quick,
Jack pull out your little wick,
unsatisfied, I sit and pout,
Jack, you put my candle out.




Rice

I wish we had a rain of rice,
for every unmeant I love you.

I wish we had a plate,
for every word of hate.

I wish we had a glass,
for every beaten child.

I wish we had a slice of meat,
for every racial slur.

I wish we had a drop of water,
for every word unkind.

If I wished, and if we had,
We'd feed the world with hate.





Don't tell me that sink's not broken,
I see the water spill.

Don't tell me lies aren't spoken,
bending to your will.

Don't tell me the foundation,
doesn't slightly lean.

Don't tell me there are no problems,
because they are not seen.

Don't tell me we have enoguh money,
because you work nine to five.

Don't tell me our daughter's fine,
just because she is alive.

Don't tell me the roof won't leak,
Because you patched it up.

Like my patience with our love,
Paper towels won't hold it up.

Sunshind and Rainbows

A brightly shining spectrum,
across a vivid sky,
A cheerful glowing sun,
The wind's contented sigh,
A sweet summer scent,
and a bitter-sweet good bye.





Hobo Hope

The stars wink at me,
as if coaxing me to join them.

As if I in my poverty and filth,
could shine among them as their peer.

The moon smiles down,
it's soft glow anything but taunting.

The streetlamp flickers good night,
before burning out.

People pass in a hurry,
rushed to beat the dark.

They don't notice me,
my rags a symbol of invisibility.

Lend an old man some change dear?
So I might buy a smoke?

I cannot reach the beconing stars,
but the wisps of smoke...

floating higher, higher still,
let me dream I can.

Mother Dear


Mother dear,
Your eyes faded,
Cream skin’s gone to gray.

Mother dear,
Your heart has stopped,
Rest you on this day.

Mother dear,
Who cries for you?
Cry night, cry day?

I do.
Mother dear,
I do.

Mother dear,
Sweet white roses,
Rest upon the stone.

Mother dear,
You past this day,
Reason too well known.

Mother dear,
Who buried you,
Through a preacher’s drone?

I did,
Mother dear,
I did.

Mother dear,
The lawyer granted
Father all you own.

But mother dear,
It is I who won your love.
It is I that keeps the memories.

It is I that remembers the things that made you smile.

Mother dear,
In that chilling ground,
The velvet against your skin,
Do you smile still?

Means

If she fell from the sky,
One might have to wonder,
What might have been the blunder.

Just what sort of blunder,
Could send a girl so high,
From solid ground to pale sky,

Perhaps a trampoline,
Who’s spring was wound to tight,
Could have sent her out of sight.

Maybe a pogo stick,
No ‘Po’ and lots of ‘go’,
Bounced her to clouds white as snow.

Of course there is a chance,
That we may never know,
Though her landing just might show,

The means of which she rose.



Bolder Strokes

I’m living in a world,
That’s colored black and white,
The thoughts are all one sided,
Yet none of them are right.

No one dares to see,
From eyes other then their own,
Opinions of the shy,
Will never be too well known.

Arm me with my brushes,
My paints litter the floor,
Hold my pallet steady,
I can’t stand this any more.

I’m tired of this monotonous place,
This world of only black and white,
I’m fed up with the only change,
Being the switch from day to night.

As I try to fill my pallet,
With hues of glistening red,
I find the paint a dull gray,
Matching a world long dead.

I continue to try until finally
From the tube comes a rainbow swirled
And finally with long bold stokes
I will forever paint the world.

I REALLY really really like this poem. >>


Blind
Some say that you are blind,
Because you cannot see,
But you can see the world,
Just differently than me.

I see only with the eyes,
Implanted in my head,
But you see through the tears,
That other men have shed.

Your eyes are in your heart,
Imbedded in your soul,
You do not have to try,
You see me as a whole.

That penetrating gaze,
Can look beyond the skin,
You cannot judge appearance,
But instead what lies within.

I think that they are wrong,
Perhaps you are not blind,
Where others see a body,
You can see a mind.

Some say that you are blind,
Because you cannot see,
But I’d give my vision,
To see what you can see.

Man, and His World

The world is slowly dying.
Cars shoot fumes from metal pipes,
While snowy lilies wilt and die.
The clouds grow dark and heavy,
Bearing the burden of mankind.
The sun no longer can warm the earth.
Though the once clear waters shine,
Though no longer with beauty and life,
But with the thick sludge of the factories.
Man has saddled the world,
Pollution is its bridal.
Each and every stroke of damage,
Wears away at what some thought,
What some truly believed,
Was replicable,
Replaceable,
Or worth loosing.
For every car on the road,
For every factory,
For every litterbug,
For every electricity wasting man,
For every new stack of lumber,
For every gallon of gas,
There’s one white cloud,
Gone gray.
One smooth scaled fish,
Belly up.
One shining star,
Faded away.
One man out there,
Struggling against thousands,
To make a better world,
For a world,
That no longer cares,
About the world.

Dance Dance Revolution

Neon arrows flash brightly,
Across a glowing screen.
Feet move to the rhythm strong,
The foot to pad to beat.

A catchy tune plays loudly,
Each step shakes this old home.
Windows rattle violently,
Threatening to shatter.

“Good job, one hundred combo!�
Declares a male voice.
You blink at the sudden sound,
And look up in surprise.

Your foot slips against the pad,
The arrow now is missed.
You curse the game for this flaw
And yet, you still must dance.

A brighter view

I never thought I would stare at the sky,
as if I were a dreamer,
to stare for hours and hours and what is ours,
and yet no ones.

I never thought I'd dare to dream,
of my feet leaving the foundation,
that's been my solid ground always,
and yet a binding I couldn't understand.

I never thought I'd long so much,
to play among the stars,
as if each were an old friend,
meeting as friends after a long time apart.

Perhaps it is because the sky,
holds more oupertunity.
As if I've burned out this world,
and the sky is the next task.

Perhapse I've used up,
all that life has had to offer me,
When the sky can offer more,
at the price of leaving everything behind.








I wonder, will anyone realize? This poem... it's about death. ^-^

I got rid of this poem because it was crap. o.o;;

Before you read this please understand that I am not against my country in any way, despite the negative passion behind this piece.



Unspoken Speaks the Loudest

I bit my lip and I spoke not,
The words I claim to have forgot.

Lost the ideals for which we sought,
Lost the respect which our parents taught,

Beneath a flag the wind had caught,
Beneath the symbol, our nation fought.

It denies the soldier shot,
It denies the oil bought.

In my throat, the words, they clot,
Itching scratching burning hot,

My mouth for words a vacent lot,
I cannot say the words once taught.

The words, the pledge, I have forgot,
One nation under god we rot.

Judgemental I liked. it had a nice rhythm to it and throughout the poem it had a very steady flow. The last verse stands out the most I think, or at least to me it did. The people in my writing class would love your work. =D Hello by the way xD

n.n Well hello. Welcome to Mene. XD

thankyou :D

You have an amazing talent. I could really see and feel the emotions in each of your poems as I read them. Many of them have a very real and gritty feel to them. (for lack of better term) Much like those sensitive topics everyone thinks about but no one speaks of.

Ah, thank you very much. n.n

I love to write about uncomfortable topics, since no one likes to adress them they're less common and thus it makes my work more original, and it's a challenge to write about them in such a way that it doesn't come across as just vulgar.

I detest writers that rely on the 'shock' factor of words. For example, they'll say the most bluntly vulgar term because it upsets the reader rather then artfully hinting at it as they could.

I'm rambeling aren't I... XD I just got done with my writing portfolio for my writing 151 class, I'm very nervouse about it. My teacher really doesn't like me, and writing is a very subjective thing to grade...

I read the first one and my favourite couplet is this one:

I'll bury my bones,
no one can argue with dirt.

It captures the tone well, I think.