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oblivion_08's profile
AGE:
22
LOC: Dallas, TX
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: April 25
LOC: Dallas, TX
GEN: Male
LAST LOGIN: April 25
I’m an English Major at UTA and want to minor in creative writing. The first time I discover that I could write decently was my sophomore year in high school when the teacher told us to write about what would be our favorite meditation spot. I wrote something about the rippling verdent grass of Ireland or something like that. Then my teacher went nuts and even read the thing to her other classes…i was so freakin’ emberrased. After that I started writing other stuff like essays, which she liked too. I really started writing and short stories and poetry like a year ago. When it comes to this, I’m really an amateur. I wanted to be a high school teacher and didn’t practice my writing, but I’ve changed my mind. I want writing to be…
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As I walk among the misty phantoms, In the veil of fog, and grass that’s crisp, I see you, colossal ominous monument, Cast the place with stone and ether. Solitude among multitudes, Silent clamor of many hidden Underneath my dirty shoes and tired feet, The soft earth growling at my presence. In this place I breathe desolation, Sweet scent of whirling compasses. I know where I was headed, But now can’t seem to find myself. Some grass is long since dead, Brown locks of hair now soiled. Some anc...
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As I lay on the burgundy couch, Like a log fermenting in the forest, Next to an aromatic and forgotten body That is seduced by flies and maggots Under the foliage, I see smoldering Beams burn through my curtains, lucid Orange lances that puncture my aloneness, Reminding me of trees and boughs ablaze. The TV radiates azure spectrums, which As well reflect spectral footage of haunted Living rooms. I wrap my feet in the shadows Folded neatly by my couch, for as the agony Of the sun appears, cold...
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You have never had Dinner at Death's, Never sat down on her Beige mushroom ottoman. She has been the most amazing hostess. Her cathedral home has vaulted ceilings, Arches rise and fall from the soft brown earth. I bet Whitman would have liked the grassy rug. Her posh apartment is missing windows, Though the lack of walls east and west Allows the air and scents from outside To wander into this dark and humid home. She has no TV nor radio to fill the place With lively sound. Silence resonates A...
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The moon is a gorgon’s head. Instead of snakes, she sheds shiny star-lice. I feel them crawling on my skin, piercing me with their nuclear fusion, as she bellows at my contortions in the dark. I taste her light as it impales my tongue. Ozzie Osbourne told me the same thing happened to him in Lisbon, around fall. The moonbeams really just tickled a tad; no lances of light pierced through my tongue. The raccoons and the possums roam about. They think I’m pretty glib because I didn’t eat the che...
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Listen! The Angel sings, Across the arid land Where jackals roam And night is frigid, Against the fire That sprouts from metal wombs, Which cry the labor pains Caused by Spartan brood. Land once chosen, Resurrected from the ashes, Is the grand portal From where the final answer is to come. No beasts have risen from the Atlantic; Nor have the stars soured the Pacific; No horn delights me with speech, Yet blood has been poured all over. Inverted crosses have ruled; Iron fists and bloodthirsty e...
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There are a lot of cliches here: overflowing emotions, won and lost many battles, riping the heart out, battling demons, etc. You have nice images that can convey some of the abstracts like the waves of the ocean conveys the rage. Also, the "fists made of silver" is great. I don't know why, but if you reformat the poem, keep it. Theses images of unholy gates and demons from hell are to overated. Use more specific images, images you find personal. What else would remnind you of the gates of he...
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This is original. The images are intimate and totally related to the title. The detachment of the phrases reminds me of walking in the dark, with hands stretched out to feel anything to guide the way. The narrator conveys the power of touch and feeling. Really great.
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Too short. It's like the narrator doesn't want the reader to read the poem at all. More images. More specifics. It is just random. Why does the narrator embrace her? What does the narrator feel and believe? Answer these questions through specific images. The sound of the sea is a good start.
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The poem is too simple. It could be prose rather than poetry. I like the specifics and the images though. You need some sound and rhythm devices like alliteration, rhyming (true or slant), maybe a little metric foot here and there. I like the image of the red tricycle and the intimate tone, but it needs more. Also, the parallel thing going on the two stanzas seems farfetched. If you expand it more, maybe it will seem more believable. Also, you need to pack more wisdom at the end. The poem cou...
You need more specifics in the poem. When you use a specific image, it impacts the reader even more. For example, when the narrator talks about the first love before the teens, be more specific. Where were the narrator and the "love" when this feeling arose. Where they in school? Eating ice-cream at a dingy ice-cream place? etc. Also, the first stanza could be put in the end. Save the wisdom for the end of the poem. Whenever you write a poem, right after go over it and circle all the abstract...
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