FREEDOM WRITER

Do I have a right to speak?
Take to the street and preach to the weak,
but only if it isn't about governmental leaks
or top secret plans to get rid of the meek.
But when a crowd starts to gather they call the police
and the tell the media I'm a freak
with medication lapse that's lasted three weeks.

I'm a FREEDOM WRITER,
an endangered species, considered feces for what my pen releases.
Destined to have my words cut in pieces
and my life cut short from this poetic thesis.
I just can't forget all those forgotten speeches,
those silent voices killed by truths leaches.
The "I have a dreams". The mortars I've seen.

For the views they knew were just new to a few.
I'm alive with there voices inside
spiritually filled with revolutionist who died.
The heart of a KING the streanth of a X
and the looks of a publicly executed ex-president.

Today I'm not a writer, but a freedom maker,
charged to be the next bondage breaker
sent to be your minds protector
the next truth injector that will make you a pain and lie deflector.
But pay attention
for the price of this freedom will be a cementarial section,
or a few quotes that I've mention recited by a soldier in formation.

I'll have no regrets when it's time for reflection.
My head stone will read

"FERNANDO BOOM FALLACY'S RETALIATION"

RE: Poem Critiques

Please help. It doesn't feel done yet


Because I am dull and I don’t shine
They tell me just to get in line
But if I stand and if I wait
I’m not worth half what I am paid
But if I let loose and throw a fit
They tell me I’m not worth the risk
Because I know the words I spit
Drip like honey and taste like $#!*
They want songs about birds and bees
I tell them to go hug a tree
“Write about passion, pain and love”
But that’s not what I’m dreaming of
“We deal in anger and sell heartbreak”
But if I don’t feel it I’m a fake
“It’s not who you are it’s what you make”
I’ve made nothing but mistakes
The people here all get caught
Between the hands of a clock
I just write, but money talks
A word lasts longer than a thought
So here’s my words, as yet, unsaid
It seems tonight my pen has bled
The drippings of my fragile soul
It seems some things just can’t be sold

RE: Poem Critiques

The Voice of Nations and Generations

The mountains across India
They speak loud and vast
The prairies among America
Talk with words that last;

The flowers that bloom
In the late Irish snow
Sing just as loud
As the valley grass below.

A brook whispers softly
To all that bother to hear.
She speaks not only to man,
But also tiger and deer.

From glaciers to deserts
They all speak in tongues
Not just to the known
But also the unsungs

Waves break against the coast
The sand is pulled away
The moon looks the same
To all at the end of each day

Why separate black and white
The young and the old
We all can hear her voice
And the marvelous stories she's told


--jj1562 thank you

RE: Poem Critiques

http://www.originalpoetry.com/home/poems/view/title/the-grand-drama

I'm asking for a critique of flow and structure, or really just asking "does it make sense?" Other opinions are nice, but that's what I'm asking for. I'm not as depressing to talk to, I swear.

RE: Poem Critiques

"How We Live On Earth"

A poem from my book "In Forbidden Language" ©dah/Stillpoint Books 2012

Reads and comments are encouraged —smiles))

RE: Poem Critiques Please critique my poem.

Fate

The end of time has come
Days are getting older
The enemy has won
Nights are getting colder
I see the signs above
Hearts feeling the pressure
I see the loss of love
Ladies dealing pleasure

We are in the end
Just around the bend
Waiting for fatality
Running from reality

The end of time is done
Burden on my shoulder
Light is left to none
Dark is the beholder
I see the signs above
Good is hard to measure
Evil killed the dove
And buried all the treasure

RE: Poem Critiques

Fate

The end of time has come
Days are getting older
The enemy has won
Nights are getting colder
I see the signs above
Hearts feeling the pressure
I see the loss of love
Ladies dealing pleasure

You are in the end
Just around the bend
Waiting for fatality
Running from reality

The end of time is done
Burden on my shoulder
Light is left to none
Dark is the beholder
I see the signs above
Good is hard to measure
Evil killed the dove
And buried all the treasure

"Tears"

Tears, don’t shy away. Falling, slowly down my face.
Yet strength, which once was here has disappeared
Tears, tell the story clear. Staring, people want to hear
Help. Help they can, yet guilt seems to be all I have.
How soon will it be gone?
Tears. Show your innocence. Now stop, just be.
Courage, stand up and face, face it.
Tears, shy away. Let me be, let me embrace.

RE: "Daddy Left" LET ME KNOW PLEASE!

[Very well done my friend I'm glad to see there are still poets who know how to rhyme and write something I can understand and whose words can touch the heart or soul!!!


quote="LGDisturb"]Daddy Left
My daddy left home, a long time ago
He went somewhere, and said I couldn’t go
Mommy cried, when he left for that place
And before he left, he had tears on his face
I don’t really know where Daddy went
But I know his time is being well spent
Daddy’s going to be awhile, before he’ll be home
So I stay with mommy, so she’s not alone
Sometimes I watch Mommy, but she doesn’t see
That I can tell, when she misses Daddy
I know Daddy misses us too while he’s away
And I know for sure he’ll be home one day
He made me a promise, the day he had to leave
I was the only one that heard, and I believe
He’ll be back one day, and never leave us again
Then it’ll be me, Mommy, and Daddy again
[/quote]

RE: "Tears"

Try to make your verses rhyme. Its a little harder but have a much greater impact on the reader, also don't run your lines together. Make each line stand on its own. I think your theme though is on the right track!!:I myself wrote a poem titled Tears. red:

RE: Poem Critiques

This is the first time I have made any of my poems public or asked anyone to critique them so I would appreciate anyone's honest opinion any tips I can get would be appreciated.

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL
I'm so tired of all the guilt and pain I feel
Is this my life, Is this even real?
I don't know how my life got this bad
One day I was with my kids the next I was sending them to live with dad
I gave up everything to dance with the devil
And he's got me dancing on a whole nother level
When I thought things were bad, they got even worse
Now I'm walking around with needles in my purse
I have scars on my arms and my hands
Why didn't anyone warn me this wasn't what I planned
I wish I could go back and change my decision
My only hope now is one day to be forgiven
I want my kids to know I'm sorry for being so irresponsible
And I will make it up to them if that's even possible
And to my kid's dad, I apologize for all I put you through
I know you wanted to fix me but there was nothing you could do
But I am learning as I go but it comes with so much shame
It was my fault and no one else I should blame
All I can do now is take one day at a time
This is gonna be one hell of a mountain to climb

Lindsay

Last edited by lindsayt9276 08-04-2023 at 04:24:34 AM

RE: Poem Critiques

IM TIRED

I'm tired of bitching and complaining, IM IGNORED
I'm tired of all the procrastination, IM BORED
I'm tired of working but having nothing, IM BROKE
I'm tired of being the star of his comedy show, IM A JOKE
I'm tired of never feeling good enough, IM UNWORTHY
I'm tired of having no place to shower, IM DIRTY
I'm tired of living in regret, IM REGRETFUL
I'm tired of always forgetting, IM FORGETFUL
I'm tired of not being with my kids, IM OMITTED
I'm tired of being the only one in my relationship, IM COMMITTED
I'm tired of not having anything to say, IM SILENT
I'm tired of being so shy, IM PRIVATE
I'm tired of never improving my life, IM DISGRACEFUL
I'm tired of feeling so much anger, IM HATEFUL
I'm tired of not having the right answer, IM CONFUSED
I'm tired of being taken for granted, IM USED
I'm tired of always feeling left out, IM LONELY
I'm tired of pretending I'm someone I'm not, IM PHONY
I'm Tired of always thinking he's cheating, IM PARANOID
I'm tired of always feeling bothered, IM ANNOYED
I'm tired of being on drugs, IM ADDICTED
I'm tired of trying to be what everyone wants me to be, IM SCRIPTED

Lindsay

RE: Poem Critiques

IM TIRED

I'm tired of bitching and complaining, IM IGNORED
I'm tired of all the procrastination, IM BORED
I'm tired of working but having nothing, IM BROKE
I'm tired of being the star of his comedy show, IM A JOKE
I'm tired of never feeling good enough, IM UNWORTHY
I'm tired of having no place to shower, IM DIRTY
I'm tired of living in regret, IM REGRETFUL
I'm tired of always forgetting, IM FORGETFUL
I'm tired of feeling like I'm left out, IM OMITTED
I'm tired of being the only one in my relationship, IM COMMITTED
I'm tired of not having anything to say, IM SILENT
I'm tired of being so shy, IM PRIVATE
I'm tired of never improving my life, IM DISGRACEFUL
I'm tired of feeling so much anger, IM HATEFUL
I'm tired of not having the right answer, IM CONFUSED
I'm tired of being taken for granted, IM USED
I'm tired of always feeling left out, IM LONELY
I'm tired of pretending I'm someone I'm not, IM PHONY
I'm Tired of always thinking he's cheating, IM PARANOID
I'm tired of always feeling bothered, IM ANNOYED
I'm tired of being on drugs, IM ADDICTED
I'm tired of trying to be what everyone wants me to be, IM SCRIPTED

Lindsay

RE: Poem Critiques

Taking a respite from the bustling freeways, I found myself immersed in the tranquility of Boca Woods Country Club - one of the best gated golf communities in Florida. Amidst the embrace of nature, I felt compelled to capture the essence of this place, and thus, with pen in hand, I began to write.

Inscribing my thoughts, I delved into the competitive aura that envelops the golf course. The air seemed to crackle with the excitement of each swing, each putt, as players challenged not only their skills but also the sprawling green expanse itself.

Yet, beyond the sport, it was the harmony with nature that truly captivated me. The whispering breeze through the trees and the gentle rustling of leaves seemed to applaud the efforts of the players. Surrounded by this lush sanctuary, it was as if the course and the landscape were engaged in a dance of camaraderie.

Amidst fairways and greens, something even more profound flourished—the sense of community. The country club served as a meeting ground, a place where people from all walks of life gathered. Laughter echoed across the meticulously maintained grounds, bridging the gap between competition and companionship.

And now, to encapsulate these emotions, I've crafted a poem:

Upon the greens, a tale unfolds,
Competitive spirits, stories untold.
Nature's embrace, a tranquil song,
In this haven of green, we all belong.

Swings that break the silent air,
A dance of skill, a focused glare.
But amidst the game, a bond takes flight,
Uniting hearts in pure delight.

Community thrives, a cherished thread,
Gathered 'neath the sky's vast spread.
Laughter weaves through every tree,
In this haven, together we are free.

Boca Woods, where life takes flight,
Where nature and camaraderie unite.
As I write amidst this vibrant hue,
Grateful for moments, both old and new.

May this ode to Boca Woods Country Club and its vibrant blend of competition, nature, and community capture the essence of your experience.

RE: Poem Critiques

Step into the world of memory with me, where I invite you to join me on a journey back to the days of my childhood at Bonita Bay Club - one of the finest country club in Naples. Picture those sun-drenched moments when freeways sprawled like ribbons of possibility, and golf courses transformed into realms of sheer wonder. As we embark on this poetic venture, I'll be painting the canvas of my reminiscences with vivid strokes, capturing the very essence of those captivating times.

In the days of my youth, I found myself captivated by the allure of the fairways, where golfers would weave their magic. The sun, like an artist's brush, would paint the grass with its golden touch. The air was alive with stories waiting to be told, and I was right there, a wide-eyed witness to it all.

In the heart of this upcoming poem, I'll share with you the enchantment of those instances. Can you imagine the scene? A young me, standing in awe, watching as my elders wove an intricate dance between club and ball. The fairways became stages where dreams took center stage, and every swing was a brushstroke on the canvas of possibility.

As I put pen to paper, or rather, fingertips to keyboard, I want you to feel the very essence of those sepia-tinted memories. It's like strolling through corridors that time has touched with a gentle hand, where innocence and curiosity were our constant companions. The greens were our playgrounds, the backdrop for a symphony of elegance and skill.

So, I warmly extend an invitation to you. Let's journey together through the landscapes of my recollections. Let's explore how the past becomes present through words and emotions, and how the echo of each golf swing still resonates in my heart.

A Rendezvous with the Fairways

Upon the canvas of youth, my gaze unfurled,
Where freeways traced stories, and golf courses swirled,
I, a spectator of elders, both wise and old,
Bearing tales of greens, in narratives untold.

Oh, how the sun danced upon each blade of grass,
As they teed their hopes, and let their dreams amass,
With hushed anticipation, I stood by the side,
Where fairways and fate entwined, an art to confide.

In shadows cast by ancient oaks, they stood,
With solemn faces, and postures so good,
Their clubs like wands, invoking nature's grace,
As the ball awaited its destiny, a perfect embrace.

John Keats, lend me your lyre, that I may borrow,
To paint the scene with words that dance like tomorrow,
The air, a symphony, with whispers of the past,
As moments hung like dewdrops, each one to forever last.

A ritual so intricate, a ballet on the green,
Every stroke a sonnet, every swing a dream,
Their voices, a chorus, in dialects of the wind,
Tales spun from the heart, of resilience and chagrin.

The scent of eucalyptus, mingling with desire,
The rustle of leaves, a poetic attire,
Oh, to capture that magic in my quill's embrace,
To conjure the essence of time and space.

And now, as seasons have waltzed away,
And youth's vibrant hues turn to shades of gray,
I look back to the fairways, the elders' lore,
A treasure trove of memories, forever to adore.

Emilio Herbert, like Keats before,
Weaves verses that sing, tales of yore,
Of freeways and fairways, a journey divine,
In the tapestry of time, forever they'll shine.

RE: Poem Critiques

The deck shudders
Under heavy boots
Shedding snow
That will melt in the house

Trailing wood chips
He tramps to his altar -
The empty hearth
Which awaits him

Heavy wood and kindling
Loaded in his left arm
Have worn through the fabric
Of his sweater, once new

But sensuous muscles
Viewed with appreciation
Make up for the loss
Of mere fibers

Logs are placed with artistry
Like oils on a canvas
Chosen from a palette
Of carefully chosen hues

Tools shine – untouched
Callused, experienced hands
Handle his materials
As lovingly as his Grandchildren

His masterpiece complete
He is unaware that he smiles
As he lights the long match
That gives life to his masterpiece

Kindling blazes before
His Intense scrutiny
He crouches single-mindedly
To watch the red tongues

The flames become greedy
With their first taste of the feast
They forget their manners
And gulp huge portions

Fire rages in its confinement
The artist has achieved perfection
And his eyes glow brighter
Than the fire he still watches

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