Self reflected (crit comp)

Pick what you feel is your most accomplished work.
(Accomplished defined however you wish)

Crit it.

Be as honest and thorough with yourself as you can

I will mostly judge this on the content of your response
but if you can present it in a poetic way, hot damn
it certainly won't hurt

don't mind if you enter two or three times
but if you feel you are that excessively accomplished
then you certainly dont need this exercise




Mazel Tov!

I spend hours wondering over one question; who am I?
People think they know me as that guy
You know, who writes rhymes and incorporates high fives into night time
Cause there’s a deep thing inside that roams around my mind and holds it all tight
But really deep down, I’m shy
I put on an act that implies I’m some sadistic hard guy and spill out some white lies
And who wants to live with that kind of life?
I changed my ways to gain these mates
Lost all focus on these grades
Some days I just want to fade into a lake and sail away
Or maybe get layered in chains so I can embrace the pain
I just can’t play this game, not going to be labelled a fake
Save it, mate
I can’t lie; going back I wish I could have stayed the same
And they would name me great because I’m not under Satan’s reign  
But people these days save their change
Just so they blaze some haze, and not to say that’s bad
But it’s just not for me
I’d rather bump a modern symphony
Blissfully see the steam rise out the machine as it makes me some British tea
Does that make me some frigging geek?
Just because I’m not a pretentious teens, who’s sipping lean in a weekly routine
I’m politely living my own dream, despite the fact it’s become riddled with lies
But the question remains, who am I?
That question hasn’t been answered but I will in time, but it’s not the person I have became

Nice idea LB, I picked a poem randomly, though I've always liked this one:

Bricks and mortar


Just north of Joytown
in the old village of What the fuck has happened here
the numb-skulls prepare for a build

funny little fellows
dashing about picking up the bricks
scattered around the place

poor bastards have been building the same wall
for thirty years now
knocking it down then building it up

you'd think they'd just move to a far away cave
or some isolated bomb shelter
where they could get on with being whatever it is
they want to be being
not hearing not seeing not feeling


~~~~~~~~      ~~~~~~      ~~~~~      ~~~~~      ~~~~~

there you go again
distracting
and wearing layers of clothing
to protect yourself

this time
its with images of little men
and talk of walls
but all those street illusions
..sweet confusions
could be whittled down to four words

"My heart is breaking"

One of these days
you'll shed the clothes
and stand bare
where everyone can read your mind
you might even find it
exhilarating



.... .,. .... ..... .... ..... ....

I think the last stanza is the weakest. I've tried to say too much in the few lines. the profanities are lazy and add nothing to the poem, if anything they take away from the voice   or perhaps serve as more distracting. I do like the core imagery however and at the time of writing thought it Was kinda clever.

there is, as suggested a deception, or illusion where I try to draw eyes away from myself and this is prevalent in a lot of my more personal writings.

The title isn't too bad and overall I was happy enough with most of the content 'til I re-read it this evening.

I think in terms of improvement, there needs to be an overhaul of the last stanza and some replacements found for the profanities and also the words 'bomb shelter' which seem to stick out

The Mind Of A Closet Tweaker
I'm living a lie ...
Wearing a mask,
Avoiding the truth,
Running from my past.
I'm so ashamed.
Guilt ices the cake of my heart.
I wish I could undo the mistakes I've made.
Given the chance,
I honestly don't know where I'd even start.
 
I'm living two separate lives ...
I've never felt so lost.
I'm trying so hard to prove them wrong.
But I can't control this inner want ...
I have an undying need for drugs.
Not knowing right from wrong ...
I act on my impulses.
My better judgment is long gone.
 
My addiction is growing stronger,
It's more powerful than I thought.
Buried balls deep in drugs,
My morals are starting to rot.
 
Time keeps ticking  
But I'm stuck reminiscing.
I'm not ready to accept reality ...
Let alone face my demons.
This cycle I must endure,
got my mind spinning.
But I've grown fond of this new way of living.
These drugs put me in a trance.
I'm unaware of my surroundings.
My minds in a comatose.
I'm adapting to this lack of being.
 
But as long as I'm still breathing,  
I won't ever stop believing!
I will fight to the death of me!
I would never let a substance get the best of me!
Because I am the creator of my own destiny.
 
~Mariah Dalli <3
 

I'm my own worst critic ...
Every piece I write,
I dare to enter on this site
Scared of rejection
But not from everyone else
From myself.
I reread everyone of my writes
I get lost in my own words
Trying to figure out what exactly I was trying to convey
Scrambled thoughts placed on paper
Questions unanswered
Words left astray
What's my objective?
What exactly am I trying to portray ...
I write these poems saying I'm bigger than these drugs
But I'm still that same person struggling with addiction each and every day.
Am I a hypocrite?
Am I a liar?
Who am I trying to fool?
Read between the lines ...
It's clear that I am confused and very much lost.
Even while critiquing myself I'm all over the place ...
I need more solidity ...
I need more truth.
I need more depth.

At the end of the day
every poem is a piece of me ...
I love each and every one of them.


 
 

Thank ya'll for coming along

TomS - 'preciate your response, would have liked you to pick a poem and comment on that
Craic, M-Bebe-eater, digging it... Like seeing your thoughts on yourself

Thank you very much lightbaron

CONQUEST OF RHYME

By: Mike R Stewart

I may have combined a million words so they rhyme
It's quite understandable I've waisted some time

And that's my own worst criticism I find
When I feel that the last few years
Have been the gears of my prime


My life engine,
However alive with intention

Has been stuck in the struggle
Of bills to pay, and jobs to juggle


I enjoy writing, and when it's read aloud?

It's better than a freestyle rap


Put to a beat as simple as a finger snap
But here's a slap


People say poetry is not like writing songs
I say that's the mentality of lighting bombs


Well still holding them
(It doesn't make sense)
It's only fun

Demotes my stress
Most confess
Time flows the best


Combinations mostly
But admiration at most be


Few and far between
Spelling is what a few have seen

And thought les of me?
If you knew the word I was trying to spell!

Than I have COMMUNICATED SUCCESSFULLY Lol

My own critique?
Unknown and meek
Has grown a beak


And flown away

It sucks how the true message I intended,
Is only known by me...


Because few people really ask

But the evil which I do unmask



Feels right to use rhyme for
I'm just a surviver

Artistic, a scriber

Always room for improvement
As long as I'm a writer
Perhaps, line them up tighter
Before I collapse from this cider




Cheers!

I'm done... Time for some Zzz

;)>

The Gift

I cursed god a blessing
on the day my daughter was born;
because he allowed me
to be
the mother my mother wasn’t

----------------------------------

This poem is a little disappointing to me because I felt I could have added more, but sometimes more isn't always the solution to making a poem sound exceptional.  In my honest opinion, less said tends to add flavor, character and depth to any poem if you can get your point across without succumbing it to some kind of ramble the way I've done with this one.

All in all, this poem has turned out to be one of my favorite of poems penned, and it becomes that much more favored and cherished each time I look at my daughter.

(My apologies if I sound a bit contradicting)

Self Reflect:
I have grown older
I look at myself, and can not see what it is others see in me
I am much older
and I see this ugly monster
it lays and waits to destroy my eagerness
to bring love, joy and happiness to others
I listen, I watch and pretend I do not exist
I help, I feel, I make it better for them
I have grown older now, I am no longer a kid
something inside is pulling me down and saying I am
I look in the mirror
and all I can see is this ugly monster of a beast
she rips, and claws, and screams, she just tares at me
Saying I am no good, I have never.. been good, I will never... be good
I have grown older now
my words just seem to fall out
I often "crit" myself
when I do I am Never be good enough
by seascape

I feel like this is my most accomplished poem because it has the most emotion in it out of my small amout of poems and helped me get out of a really tough time. Warning it is a bit graphic. Here it goes.



No More Pain

Even though I'm a bad ass,
My heart's as fragile as glass,
Oh you were so wonderful,
And that's what made it awful,
My hearts completely broken,
With words of love still unspoken,
I go in my bathroom and fucking cut,
It only hurts somewhat.

My true pain is losing you,
Is there anything I can do?
No you made that clear before,
And my body hits the floor,
Huge slits down my fucking forearm,
You made me self harm,
Bathroom carpet stained dark red,
It's done, I'm almost dead.

The pain is finally gone,
These bright lights turn on,
Full of warmth and happiness,
Bye bye goes the darkness,
You are once and for all free,
You've finally gotten rid of me.

thank you folks... I appreciate the posts, and whimsical notions of yourselves

But

im really looking for a real honest breakdown of yourself.

does the structure work? Why, why not?
is the content clear and presented well?
Word choice, line arrangement, rhythm, etc...?

Be specific, tell me what works, what doesn't

Sacramental



It is time to lower our heads and prey
on thick tendons, blood-worn thin.
The grey ones stumble and shriek,
necks outstretched past the eucharist.


We bound and leap for tender young,
fresh meat scurrying to futility.
Savage rhythms bless torn verdure —
anointed bones on which we feed.



The themes of hunting and sanctity are consistent throughout, and the combination of both make for dark work. The abstract presentation of images leaves the poem open to interpretation, but also allows the possibility of confusion. Is this about religion? ...about preying on the weak? ...maybe it could be a cryptic metaphor for some horrible event, but it lacks a concrete plot to point the way.

The rhythm is haphazard, following the nature of free verse and daily speech. There are smatterings of patterns in some of the sounds – in the second line, 'thick' and 'thin', and the fourth line with many 's' and 't' sounds – but not in the second stanza. That would indicate an intuitive writing, and not an intentional technique of sound patterns.

There is word play – the use of 'prey' instead of 'pray', the use of the word 'eucharist' as though it were an object rather than a concept, and the idea that something could be 'blessed' by violent actions. These word associations tie the two themes well together.

Overall, a poem indicating skill with word placement and combinations, but lacking in studied sound patterns or rhythms.



(The above review reads like I'm critiquing someone else's work, I know, but I did it that way to try to be objective. I'm not loco — at least, not on this evidence...)  

Yeah, yeah... Thanks atakti