When My Back Is Like A Signal Box.

Broken carts can take my load more suited for untetherded backs.
Where can speach betray me, when the lie is in the mixture and never in the bowl.
Never the same thing seen, but to be seen is never new, even in lonliness.
More scrutiny is made upon oneself, by oneself, than on the foreign object seen.
Now kill contempt with your own kind heart that by a chance unknown can be betrayed
and breed contempt in all around you, but what to do when all have left with the spoils of their betrayal?
Left alone, all surfaces turn to mirrors and all thoughts are of your reflection in the world that you have made.

What have they done, and what may I, in circumstance so cruel and unbefitting yet snug as the embrace of a mother, do?
Break a mind that is so far away, that truth is hidden by the horizon.
Yet blood and life contain more than I can remain alone with, before now thoughts turn to mirrors of themselves.

Does form demand more than cruelty contains, or can circumstance be clean chaos?
Just ask me when I am alone and I will tell you what I see, in my thoughts and things I cannot comprehend.
I will tell you that it all looks so sickeningly familiar, as if to turn away is to beckon,
and to desire death is to invite life.

Wrote this poem in mood and mode more suited for sleeping in.
Realised how atrociously bad it is, it’s actually funny, to me.
I apologise for the waste of internet space(now that’s saying something).
Truly hilariously bad.

Can you explain why you think it is bad?

Funny Question.

Rhythm is something I try perfect when I write, seldomly successfully, only in moment of focus and inspiration do I achieve it.
This poems rhythm is not even so offbeat as to be appealing. It’s offbeat in a frequent and unattractive use of misplaced repetition of the rhythm, which, when used correctly can give an offbeat, almost jazzy, undercurrent. This, however, was not in the least successful in this respect.
The reason for my attention to rhythm is that if you have an idea, you can avoid being cliche in your expression of it, by placing a mould on it(for me the mould is a particular rhythm), because the expression must change to suit the mould. If the mould is something that is very natural and important to you, as rhythm is for me, then the interplay between emotion and thought in your expression becomes quite fascinating. The form it usually takes for me is that the poem takes on a very cryptic state, with a very tangible cypher.

This poem fails in this, and more importantly, it doesn’t come out the other side with anything else, that is substantial, to offer in terms of interest.

There are some moments in it that I like, and I even thought about taking the parts I liked and reworking them into a better poem, with better company.
The jury is still out on that idea, though.

Your poetry’s rhythm, in general, reminds me a little bit of when Jim Morrison speaks instead of sings.

Only this part seemed like it needed reworking: “that it all looks so sickeningly familiar,”

I think it can be said stronger.

“Left alone, all surfaces turn to mirrors…”

I read that you apologized for this. Creative writing as I understand it is very close to an actual thought process, and as I see it, a work, even a poem, should be like steps that lead to a conclusion. However, that is just the standard I opted to attempt to hold myself to when standards of literature are so abundant that they defy comprehension, especially in singular works. The duel point I’m trying to make effectively is that even if you aren’t satisfied with the work as a whole, there are parts that achieve this end and since our thoughts are never as clear and concise as we’d like them to be, it seems like a fallacy to hold a higher standard to poetry. As a result, I find often that the best way to “clarify” a work of art is to minimize it, cut out the static, so to speak. This conflicts with the idea of form over function that many people adopt for art, and is just my opinion. However, as a result, to me, very little expression is a complete waste.