After a couple of edits:

Together tethered to existence
we act upon our soul‘s insistence
to dare and dream to find…? What exactly?

Fuck the morning;
I sigh as I step into the shower.
Soon to be discarded dreams tug at my sub-conscious.
Another broken plot-line is lost,
the wildness of a night’s rest washed away alongside it‘s sweat.

Destined to die,
we spend our days as slaves
so we can spend our nights upon the couch.

Our individual everything’s
are infinite and insignificant;
a blade of grass that looms large above an ant.

Fuck work,
I sigh once more.
The subway’s dim, flittering lights
set the scene for my inner city journey.

The golden age of capitalism was beat,
Kerouac’s dying dream floods the sinking streets.
While seven billion poets fill the air with words now spoken
for only the ten trillionth time.

This endless loop of mundane madness,
brings no love, no joy, or even sadness.
Churning numbers numbs my brain,
at least a robot can’t feel pain
but blackness stirs inside an empty heart.

Fuck another lonely night,
I sigh again.
I sip my beer and smile,
finding comfort in nothing.

A witty sitcom shines in my peripherals,
fuck the morning, fuck work, and fuck the night;
my drunken laughter explodes.

A long campaign with no reward;
no fat pay cheque, or love restored.
Life’s mundane nature now a perfect fit,
for those of us content to quit.
The tired soldier smiles as the bullet hits.

I sing my dance; you dance your song.
Together tethered to existence,
we act upon our soul‘s insistence,

Why does the mark in 'soul's' look as it does compared to other such marks in this poem?

to dare and dream to find…? What exactly?


I like how "What exactly?" stands out.




Destined to die,
we spend our days as slaves
so we can spend our nights upon the couch.


This is true of many people...

An accountant makes an honest buck
And he’ll find a girl if he’s on his luck.
But if churning numbers is really living,
What is dying?




The golden age of capitalism is beat,
misery floods the sinking streets.
While seven billion poets fill the air
with words now spoken, for only the ten trillionth time.


This stanza feels awkward, but somewhat effective.

Stars explode, the earth erodes;
trees tumble to their birthplace.
Our self-important spirit’s stony resolve cracks
as the years wear on.
The tired soldier smiles as the bullet hits.


And this stanza just doesn't seem to have much force. The images are awkward. Not as effective as the one before, but still has its charms.

(01-26-2013, 05:45 AM)rowens Wrote:  I sing my dance; you dance your song.
Together tethered to existence,
we act upon our soul‘s insistence,

Why does the mark in 'soul's' look as it does compared to other such marks in this poem?

to dare and dream to find…? What exactly?


I like how "What exactly?" stands out.




Destined to die,
we spend our days as slaves
so we can spend our nights upon the couch.


This is true of many people...

An accountant makes an honest buck
And he’ll find a girl if he’s on his luck.
But if churning numbers is really living,
What is dying?




The golden age of capitalism is beat,
misery floods the sinking streets.
While seven billion poets fill the air
with words now spoken, for only the ten trillionth time.


This stanza feels awkward, but somewhat effective.

Stars explode, the earth erodes;
trees tumble to their birthplace.
Our self-important spirit’s stony resolve cracks
as the years wear on.
The tired soldier smiles as the bullet hits.


And this stanza just doesn't seem to have much force. The images are awkward. Not as effective as the one before, but still has its charms.

Thanks, I've changed the poem based on your comments. It really is helpful to have people comment on your poems. I'll give some critiques soon, but I don't know how useful my advice will be.

Our individual everything’s
are infinite and insignificant;

This works somewhat, as you have it. You could have
'Our individual everything
is infinite and insignificant'

or just put 'everythings'. I know people put 's on things that usually don't have s at the end, but people are used to seeing everything's meaning everything is: so it might get confusing. But you decide.






a blade of grass that looms large above an ant.

The golden age of capitalism was beat,
Kerouac’s dying dream floods the sinking streets.
While seven billion poets fill the air with words now spoken,

maybe lose the comma here

for only the ten trillionth time.

A long campaign with no reward;
no fat pay cheque, or love restored.
Life’s mundane nature now a perfect fit,

the comma here too could be dropped

for those of us content to quit.
The tired soldier smiles as the bullet hits.
Has he found what he was looking for?

I've just added some stuff to this poem.

I took some of it from a short story I started to write, then scrapped.

Hi Wjames
You have some great lines here, just needs tightening up a little I would merge the themes of S7 and S8 and come up with something with less cliche. I like the way you look at the basics of life, poetry being part of that, and ask what not why Hope this helps in some way TOMH

(01-25-2013, 05:58 AM)Wjames Wrote:  After a couple of edits:

I sing my dance; you dance your song.[b]Not sure this does anything for the poem
Together tethered to existence I like this,I would start with this line
we act upon our soul‘s insistence
to dare and dream to find…? What exactly? This works as three lines and I'm in the frame

Fuck the morning; like this
I sigh as I step into the shower.
Soon to be discarded dreams tug at my sub-conscious. do you need, soon to be
Another broken plot-line is lost, like this
the wildness of a night’s rest washed away alongside it‘s sweat. could be, wild sweat of a nights rest washed

Destined to die,
we spend our days as slaves do you need we ?
so we can spend our nights upon the couch. do you need so we can

Our individual everything’s
are infinite and insignificant;
a blade of grass that looms large above an ant. great line

Fuck work,
I sigh once more.
The subway’s dim, flittering lights
set the scene for my inner city journey. good image
The golden age of capitalism was beat,
Kerouac’s dying dream floods the sinking streets.
While seven billion poets fill the air with words now spoken,
for only the ten trillionth time. these last two lines don't work for me

An accountant makes an honest buck
and he’ll find a girl if he’s on his luck.
But if churning numbers is really living,
What is dying? cliche in this stanza cheapens what youve achieved so far

Fuck another lonely night,
I sigh again.
I sip my beer and smile,
at least there is comfort in nothing.

A long campaign with no reward;
no fat pay cheque, or love restored.
Life’s mundane nature now a perfect fit,
for those of us content to quit.
The tired soldier smiles as the bullet hits.
Has he found what he was looking for? I would end on hits

(01-30-2013, 08:33 AM)TimeOnMyHands Wrote:  Hi Wjames
You have some great lines here, just needs tightening up a little I would merge the themes of S7 and S8 and come up with something with less cliche. I like the way you look at the basics of life, poetry being part of that, and ask what not why Hope this helps in some way TOMH

(01-25-2013, 05:58 AM)Wjames Wrote:  After a couple of edits:

I sing my dance; you dance your song.[b]Not sure this does anything for the poem
Together tethered to existence I like this,I would start with this line
we act upon our soul‘s insistence
to dare and dream to find…? What exactly? This works as three lines and I'm in the frame

Fuck the morning; like this
I sigh as I step into the shower.
Soon to be discarded dreams tug at my sub-conscious. do you need, soon to be
Another broken plot-line is lost, like this
the wildness of a night’s rest washed away alongside it‘s sweat. could be, wild sweat of a nights rest washed

Destined to die,
we spend our days as slaves do you need we ?
so we can spend our nights upon the couch. do you need so we can

Our individual everything’s
are infinite and insignificant;
a blade of grass that looms large above an ant. great line

Fuck work,
I sigh once more.
The subway’s dim, flittering lights
set the scene for my inner city journey. good image
The golden age of capitalism was beat,
Kerouac’s dying dream floods the sinking streets.
While seven billion poets fill the air with words now spoken,
for only the ten trillionth time. these last two lines don't work for me

An accountant makes an honest buck
and he’ll find a girl if he’s on his luck.
But if churning numbers is really living,
What is dying? cliche in this stanza cheapens what youve achieved so far

Fuck another lonely night,
I sigh again.
I sip my beer and smile,
at least there is comfort in nothing.

A long campaign with no reward;
no fat pay cheque, or love restored.
Life’s mundane nature now a perfect fit,
for those of us content to quit.
The tired soldier smiles as the bullet hits.
Has he found what he was looking for? I would end on hits

Thanks, you have some good suggestions. The I sing my dance, you dance your song line didnt really fit, and that accountant stanza was weak. I edited it again, hopefully its an improvement. Although Im not entirely sure I like ending it with hits.