Long Critique Poems
Long Critique Poems. Below are the most popular long Critique by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Critique poems by poem length and keyword.
Look out on the music these days,
there ain’t a whole lot to say,
techno makes me feel dead inside,
dub-step, just get out of my way.
Hip-hop just rubs me all wrong,
that stuff is barely a song,
maybe there are some gems in there,
most of it’s just here and gone.
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
putting the fans all on lock;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Don’t get a thing from pop stars,
autotune gets them that far,
hot young thing on a casting couch,
that’s what makes them what they are.
Most of them really can’t sing,
their live shows a recording,
voices like karaoke bars,
I’d say it’s embarrassing.
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
Making all the panties drop;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Some might say I’m out of step,
don’t you known that rock is dead?
Won’t hear it on the radio,
but something needs to be said:
masterpieces never age,
they carve a place out to stay,
sounds just as fresh as when written,
Beethoven rocks to this day!
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
pushing it over the top;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Can’t stop rocking,
the six-string talking,
the base-line walking,
the kick-drum knocking,
can’t stop rocking,
the pit is moshing,
the heads are bopping,
the tight shirts hopping;
giving them all that we got,
I’ll die before I dare stop;
cool licks dropping,
I can’t stop rocking,
I can’t stop rocking it hot.
Tongue in Bloody Cheek
Cheek on tongue he slithers on abundant wilful slime
Checks in with teeth of timeless throaty choking curse
A serpent snail an earth worm fiery dragon in disguise
He cuts the chase incises to the point of razor’s gash
Knows his lingo carves positions through his acid battles
Penetrates fissures of inherent gripping gashing strokes
Battle critique and arguments for combat shed bloody ooze
Serrated edges dribble from articulated uttered discourse
Words can kill as they prepare the ground for deeds and action
Follow seamlessly draped in gusts of gut and gory shrapnel
Prepare the field of poppies sprouting over groans of bones
Make a meal oblige culpability on cumber lands’ sickly sauce
He takes the rough with the smothered smooth and from
the camel’s needled mouth delivers one final twisted slaughter
An eye for an eye tooth for tooth tete-a-tete and tit for tatty tat
He lies in mourning finely tattered slipped from blade’s double ridge
When doctrine implants demise of reason inculcates self-righteous venom
Toxic spittle engulfs gloopy scum as he dies by his very own skewed skewer
20th June 2018
WITNESS
dazzling
rarely seen
evocation of
the unfiltered
& slightly confused
with a reluctance
to upset
the
turbulence
concepts
explored
with
an emphasis of
pride
in
a discourse
on identity
a critique
of reason
an invocation
of the
spirit
with a plea
that pulsates
through
the veins of life
to relish
ambivalence
&
supposedly
suppress
the limelight
then
stir
together again
in an
appetite for
more
THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived
The moment your feet lose their grip
On the boulders which uproot life
Remember I'm only conversations away.
The back of your mind is my quartz-filled palace
Alone, with nobody else to critique
You are the canvas which I want to make perfect.
Harshly, I'm sure, but isn't it loving?
To push you until your fingers fracture
And leave you longing for recognition?
Anxiety is my name, but it sounds too formal
Just call me the footnote man of your thoughts
I'm here to dissect everything like a science project
Carress my chin whenever you feel you are lonely
Sure, it's your fault, but I'll keep you company
But here I am, machine of your success
There are thousands of bristles on a paint brush,
Each one was carefully placed for a reason—
Once the brush is dipped in paint, the artist has complete control.
The first paint stroke on the canvas,
Could be the most important of the entire painting;
It could either lay the foundation of the artwork,
Or it could determine the fate of the art piece.
Each specific individual stroke of paint serves a silent purpose…
The special part about being an artist—
Means there’s no mistakes that can’t be fixed, or serve its own purpose.
A good artist will/can even can cover up that mistake,
Or make it a part of their beautiful muse—
And even make it seem like it was placed in the painting meaningfully.
But at the finished result,
That mistake,
Or those mistakes—
Just became a part of the journey that resulted in such beauty…
However, artist blindness is a real struggle that any artist may suffer from—
No matter how stunning it may look to a passerby,
A painter/artist can always find something in that beauty to critique.
And just as quick as an artist can turn a mistake into perfection,
The more they nit-pick at their hand-made beauty—
The easier it is to create a mistake,
And ruin…
Perfection.
Dear God, I am an accuser, an accuser to the bone.
Most times I accuse because I have been accused and left to fight alone.
So God I pray this prayer for freedom from the accusation into me that’s been sown,
That I may be loved and love others, instead of tackling this life on my own.
Dear God as it concerns love and hatred or freedom and destruction,
Let me not be caught up in categories or words of elitist presumption.
Please bless me to hate the deception but to unconditionally love the deceived.
Please bless me instead of judging those who judge, to with grace their pain relieve.
Please bless me to fight the lies of men, instead of fighting those caught in lies.
Please bless me to destroy pride’s delusion yet relentlessly defend from shame’s guise.
Please bless me, as I fight all error, to always search for the error within.
For none but one have conquered this darkness, that seeps into hearts as sin.
God please let healing be my ultimate goal, much more than to critique or guide.
But please help me to consider, how even in all of my pride,
The beauty I am as your child, every time I engage your eyes,
For true you see all my evil, but more so you see my fate,
To stand as a God incarnate, full of joy at heaven's gates.
This prayer I pray in Jesus' name at the risk of loosing much esteem,
For I am a lowly accuser, but HE is the source of all seeing and author of dreams.
The headline reads: "This contest is the last;
no longer enter poems to be judged.”
How disappointed we'd all be to close
a special door that leads to writing skills.
Each contest offers reasons to create-
and learn from other poems entered too.
To have a purpose to express our thoughts
by prompts for subjects, words, and styles too.
Critique is offered through the comments sent
tween interested poets who all share
the love of poetry to read and write;
so much this would be missed by one and all.
Disbanding contests- surely is akin
to closing schools- where knowledge is no more.
No purpose left to grow, participate;
No pluses left to write new thoughts- create.
To embrace something with full acceptance
for the beauty or the worth that it conveys
is an adventure that offers more excitement;
would this occur if there were no influence?
I've adapted to new ideas and made them my own
to ignite inspiration and do excellent, timeless works;
today there is a predominant need to expose a thought...
when overused words sound bland and are wind-blown.
If new writers have been influenced by famous works,
they must make a greater effort to make theirs unique;
greatness is achieved by worthiness, not by cleverness,
so adjust to any conceivable idea and make it your own
with an originality that stands out and earns admiration.
In this society with evolving literature, science and inventions...
one must adapt to changes quickly to avoid some harsh critique;
be that artist who conjures up real plots to win the readers' hearts.
Written on /29/2016
I confidently plunk down a sentence.
Trixie smacks my fingers. Too blah, too trite, too common.
My confidence rears up, angry at her critique.
Who made you the boss of us?
My other personalities begin to take sides.
Jack is always on my side, of course.
Molly wavers between Trixie One and Trixie Two.
Oh, man! I had not even thought about Trixie Too.
She heard the thought and here she came to bite me,
pinch me, torment me, and tell me how she felt about the sentence.
I watched her tear it into bits. She walked away abruptly.
That’s all you got? I thought.
Trixie slapped me. She is going for the kerosene and a lighter, you idiot.
I cannot help but wonder what a world without muses and multiple personalities is like.
Young Guns is a movie about Billy the Kid,
but it is not at all historically accurate.
The movie makes the Kid look like a homicidal lunatic,
when in reality the Kid was very kind hearted.
To quote George Coe, a very close friend of his,
"He would have been a successful man under different circumstances,
but he got a poor start in life with damaging consequences.
He had a reputation for helping the elderly, the poor and the young
and yet despite the Kid's expert skill with a gun
he was always in good humor, ready to do a kind deed for someone."
Anytime I happen upon the Young Guns movie
I want to pick up objects and throw them at the screen.