The Waters Drag me

[milo]

This is in serious so I will assume that's what you want here. I think I mentioned the line breaks already so let's see what it looks like without them:

I sift through diluted waters tainted in blood. Of those I loved Of those who sought elimination. I see them all before me speaking in tongues I shouldn't understand and sing in songs of lives I have taken and lost. There he sits within my cataracts but a mere memory. There, she embraces him. Her, of my deepest affection They cannot be real They're both here, before me. Caressing my trigger finger, soothing my nerves relaxing me. But now wind gusts cast them away, I feel empty many tears, have fallen from my eyes but not tonight. Where does my ambition burn, but within the boilers of fear? It yearns for release. To open the floodgates, Would be to cast, a decorative splatter with the pulling of a trigger. as barrel to brush. So I paint the walls with my brains. I hear them, singing.I step into the fog To join them.


So, it becomes clear reading it like this that you have some severe problems with grammar and awkwardness.

After the applicable critique I received from Todd I've pulled together this next poem, I appreciate any taking the time to read -



I sift
through diluted waters
tainted in blood.

You probably mean tainted "with". What do you dilute water with? You never say. This is poor reportage. A good rule of thumb is to never write poetry in present tense first person narrative. It reads ridiculous. Imagine observing somebody narrating all of their actions while they are doing them:

I am putting bread in the toaster. I am pouring my coffee. I am adding cream to my coffee. I am buttering my toast.

This is how ridiculous your narrator sounds.

Of those I loved
Of those who sought elimination.
I see them all before me
speaking in tongues I shouldn't understand
and sing in songs
of lives I have taken
and lost.

ok, grammatically this is a mess. Let's take a look at what your narrator is doing (other than announcing every action he makes). It seems he is 'sifting' through water (whatever that is) that is tainted with blood of those he used to love. It seems that those people all sought elimination of something (rats? Dandruff? It doesn't say). These people he doesn't love anymore that are in the water are both singing and talking in "tongues" that for some reason he shouldn't understand. Why not? Don't know. Speaking in tongues is cliche but that is the least of your problems.

There he sits
within my cataracts
but a mere memory.
There, she embraces him.
Her, of my deepest affection

"her, of my deepest affection" is awful in the way only poorly written poetry ever achieves. It is tortured, twisted and fake. "But a mere memory" is grammatically incorrect, I think you mean nothing but a mere memory. What does 'mere' add? Let's examine what is going on: someone is sitting in your narrator's cataract now, so I assume these are the people from the tainted dilutd water that he was sifting before. I guess that is the risk one takes sifting tainted diluted water - someone may pop a squat in one of your cataracts. I do get from this that the narrator is old. I assume the two npc's hugging in his cataract are a dead ex and a son.

They cannot be real

They're both here,
before me.
Caressing my trigger finger,
soothing my nerves
relaxing me.

So it looks like now, they have moved from the water, to hugging in your cataract, to caressing your trigger finger to calm you. So far, out of the whole poem there are two things I like: you have introduced a gun without ever mentioning a gun and you have established the age of the narrator without 'telling' the rest depends too much on me being interested in /what/ you are saying and poetry is about / how/ you say it.

But now wind gusts
cast them away,
I feel empty
many tears,
have fallen from my eyes
but not tonight.

Wind gusts don't really cast, the blow. The rest of this is boring narration with poor line breaks. Your narrator feels 'empty' like every other cliché loving sad narrator. In the past he has cried (well, there is a unique revelation) but not tonight, I guess.

Where does my ambition burn,
but within the boilers of fear?
It yearns for release.
To open the floodgates,
Would be to cast,
a decorative splatter
with the pulling of a trigger.
as barrel to brush.
So I paint the walls with my brains.

the faux-poetics and cliché throughout here are unendurable. Your narrator's ambition burns (with)in the boilers of fear??!! It also yearns for release? Why is your narrator talking about what their ambition 'yearns'for instead of what the yearn for? You seem to really like the word 'cast' but you seem unsure of what the word means. The voicing throughout here is passive which certainly doesn't support the melodrama of a good old cliché "painting the walls with your brains".

I hear them,
singing.
I step into the fog
To join them.

So when did your dead narrator get the chance to recount this tale?

Anyway, the problems are numerous. This poem tries too hard with dramatic unlikely phrasing which makes for awkward reading. There is nothing new about the story so you need something fresh and original in the telling and that is absent as well. In addition, the grammar and line breaks are dreadful and there is no real thought toward sonics, symbolism or cohesive imagery.

Thanks for posting

Good luck.