Any English profs out there? Roast my poetry
The Immortal Soul
My soul
A forsaken, darkened, forlorn enigma
Amalgamation of the wretched and undesired
Forever sworn to carry the burden of life
A decrepit cesspool of hollow infatuation
The abhorred vagrant with no aspiration
Meandering about a myth of Shangri-La
Destined for a life of sorrow
A sea darkened with algae and rot
Where neither demon nor angel yearn
Forced to roam endlessly with repent
Immortal
Cmon i expect some real hate soon
No one has to 'roast' your poetry, it did that itself.
Damn, that bad?
You put too much effort into making it gay.
I should've put more gay innuendos
>repent as a noun
>no clear premise
>simple lines mixed with rambling and verbose ones
>calling your soul dark
Are you in highschool, by any chance?
Honestly, your choice of words isn't bad, its just very edgy and screams of repressed angst. I mean, objectively speaking its not terrible, but its not original, and really doesn't stand out to me (BA in English). People have written about sorrow and misery in way more complex and meaningful ways.
My best advice is to read more poetry, study up on it, and try and write something that hasn't been written before
never finished elementary, Cant even get into HS
You should go to the library and read as much as you can. Why can't you get into HS?
Thanks man, I like to stay in the sorrowful side of poetry but i see what you're saying. Ill seriously take your advice to heart.
English teach here. You would kill urself fagoot
Im joking, im a college sophomore. I slacked in reading all throughout my life. I probably only read 10-20 books in their entirety. I mostly read journals, essays, and excerpts.
Ahhh. But everybody starts somewhere. And in all honesty, as long as you put the time into learning it, you'll get better. People shit on poetry for being pretentious, and in some ways it is. I feel you on reading journals, most of the shit I have time to read these days is related to my field, and it can be really hard to take the time to read something just for fun.
If poetry is something you enjoy, keep working at it. I believe in you user
college professor here. you need to ask your professors to give you their opinions.
because they know you (some), they can give you the feedback you need to get better. if they are any good that is.
Thanks man! Ill keep it up!
I teach biology, sorry.
that was painful to read though. pretentious, self-absorbed word salad. You might have a diagnosable condition. Seek help.
Decent vocabulary. Nothing really artistic about it though. It feels like you used a thesaurus to write down how sad you are.
"The abhorred vagrant with no aspiration
Meandering about a myth of Shangri-La"
you were going somewhere with this. I usually find free verse poety to be somewhat trite unless the author is particularly engaging. My advice is to read more poetry and study poetic metre a bit.
my poem is tight
my poem is blight
dont bring it to light
or you will suffer the bite
The only thing I have to say is this: you're absolutely stereotypical in your aesthetics (c'mon... angsty emo maudite poète?) and, therefore, you're predictable and annoying.
Gee, the dark and forsaken burden of life... I never read that one before! *sarcasm off*
What makes it come off as pretentious.
English prof there
you a edgy, beta emo faggot, please kill yourself
ok true, i just wrote down what i felt. history is bound to repeat itself right?
nice man, better then mine.....
There once was a guy posting on Sup Forums
He said I wrote this please roast roast me
I need an English prof
to tell if my writing's off
But it turns out it's just all faggotry.
>What makes it come off as pretentious.
I guess that was a question?
it's pretentious because you don't need those words to say what you're trying to say. So we get this pile of words that were chosen simply for style purposes and not to convey meaning.
If this wasn't 'your' poem, just a bit of crap scrawled on a bathroom wall, would you like it? It's shit. Disconnect your self image from what you're trying to say and perhaps you'll produce something that's not shit.
if you can do that.
Every writer and poet in the world writes about what s/he feels. My main concern with your text is that it abounds in clichés and stereotypes of the annoying type.
Ok, you feel that existence is a burden. Tell us about it with words and phrases and tropes that nobody has used before. Be original.
ok, i see what youre saying
A cheese hamburger.
Why are you so many calories?
Does my body know not what I put inside?
The pain.
The torment.
My bathroom crying as I unleash hellsfury.
Why.
Why they cry.
As my roommates prepare to die.
what a beta fag OP is
geez just cut yourself already
top notch shit right here
i can see Eminem perform this
Ok you win, that was superb.
...
I once met a girl by the train.
It was late at night I wanted to be sure she was alright
so I took her in out of the rain
As soon as we got to my home
we started to bone
She let me do anything in bed
I licked her cunt then I came on her front.
just too bad she was missing her head.
Figured the title wasn't too bad, so here's a shot at something.
The Immortal Soul:
Once a modern man, successful
With a life not borne of dreadful
things that plagued the poorer sort of folk.
He had his cake (and ate it too)
And feared not of the time he knew
When Death himself would come in clouds of smoke.
As life, like all good things, must end
He'd treat the Reaper as his friend
And say "In peace let us go to the night."
But time flew by on eagles' wings
And still the fated day would seem
To stay forever hidden out of sight.
It never came
Forever now he prowls this earth
Millenia after his birth
Had cursed him with this torture yearned by fools.
There's no escape or end in sight
Not even by the gun or knife,
Nor poison or some other deadly tool.
All that's left is darkness now
The end is here and still somehow
He floats along still forced to be in life.
But then a thought comes to his brain
What if it all could be, again,
And then he shouted out "LET THERE BE LIGHT."
Damn thats good.
I am not nearly half done with your deliciously-asinine pole quarter
in the maelstrom of Tom Verlaine's interpretive, breakin' goal sorter
'neath red Heinz factory vats a rat, vole & chipmunking-mole porter
screwed to elongate linearly a pornocratic guy's deader soul shorter
For you girly love I shall militantly refuse to relinquish & squander
provisions for amateurish gynecologic care that'll inwardly launder
stem to stern tissue clumps from your Fallopians to way out yonder
to broad ports, portals & portions of which I cannot be more fonder
even of your fuzzy muffin tuft bleached 30 Sassoon shades blonder
under a D.H.S./Orwellian 1984 hoax where medic is first responder
A bunch of good words with no substance. Try again
I like this
Kate, our love's blacker than that queer Martin Luther King, Junior,
yet mucho darker than the wrong side of the moon that is less lunar,
& no less valid than the legally-sound verdicts of Lysander Spooner
or Johnny Cash's sister-in-law, Lionel Hampton or Daniel Boone or
a crooked cop who ratted out the mafia & should've croaked sooner
as mobocratical assassin contacts volunteer no hint or clue nor help
in solvin' the big croak of Frank Sinatra's son, the tone-deaf crooner
whose patrónes didn't crash L.A. in 1 armor-plated prairie schooner
nor deliver to Mayer a queerness more gay than the queerest pruner
Late George Bruns & George Burns: I coöperate, I don't participate
when my blisters become pustules & when my washer is on agitate
I spend money like a drunken sailor dating a conniving cheap-skate
who flashed her 'possum in Pittsburgh alleys at whores she did hate
God Bless all animals that were in the loving care of Lizzie Borden
'cause we are afflicted with a Jesuit pope who's always busy lordin'
In the dark all prostitutes are equal, dependin' on how you're sortin'
as gonorrheal discharges mean nothing to the babies they're abortin'
'cause amputees leaned on stuff before Lucy Ball wed Gary Morton
& hatred grew 'twixt Desi & Lucy when Lucy & Gary were courtin'
before Desi could win back Lucy's hot love which was only sportin'
even though it was with tramp-sluts that Lucy caught Desi cavortin'
in Cubano bars under tables tequila-drinkin' & cocaine-line snortin'
on the Black Isle Peninsula of boggish ol' Scotland's West Shoreton
home to sodomitically-apt girls espousing an Apocalyptical portend
that's shittier than Barb Walters' make-it-up-as-you-go-along reportin'
on a rookie L.A. pig with C-4 is preferable to a fugitive with a 4-10