<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - Basic critique]]>

<![CDATA[Poetry Forum - Basic critique]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/ Thu, 15 Oct 2026 23:15:59 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[I should smile more]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27663.html Wed, 14 Oct 2026 16:39:18 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27663.html I should smile more

First I hated silence
as I found my own voice
soft and easy
on the ears of those who called me
common and grotesque—

I knew no deformity
except that like them, I was hungry
after every scrap of love
that falls down
off the truck.

Then I hated speech
because my words were useless
salted water
running from a stranger's face
who knew just what I was—

the ocean understands
even when I'm thirsty, raving
in the folds of blue immensity
I can't contain
forever.

Now I am alone, people
surround me
holding crooked hands
up to their eyes
as if they might see something
like the sun!]]> I should smile more

First I hated silence
as I found my own voice
soft and easy
on the ears of those who called me
common and grotesque—

I knew no deformity
except that like them, I was hungry
after every scrap of love
that falls down
off the truck.

Then I hated speech
because my words were useless
salted water
running from a stranger's face
who knew just what I was—

the ocean understands
even when I'm thirsty, raving
in the folds of blue immensity
I can't contain
forever.

Now I am alone, people
surround me
holding crooked hands
up to their eyes
as if they might see something
like the sun!]]> <![CDATA[visitors]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27662.html Wed, 14 Oct 2026 15:58:40 +0000 piscui]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27662.html my knees against the floor
bruised by previous visitors.
I frame their stays on a wall of my mind
hoping for longevity,
hoping it will work this time

Is the chaos of my home perhaps too much to return to?
How is it possible?
I thought I cleaned up]]> my knees against the floor
bruised by previous visitors.
I frame their stays on a wall of my mind
hoping for longevity,
hoping it will work this time

Is the chaos of my home perhaps too much to return to?
How is it possible?
I thought I cleaned up]]> <![CDATA[Love, After]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27659.html Tue, 13 Oct 2026 09:32:35 +0000 wasellajam]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27659.html Love, After (edit 1, the Pen)

Thirty years of clutching
the wheel through blizzards
and black ice skids.

Twenty years of habitual
designated driving,
hand over glass.

Ten years now of you
offering up the passenger seat,
I watch the hills roll.

]]> Love, After (edit 1, the Pen)

Thirty years of clutching
the wheel through blizzards
and black ice skids.

Twenty years of habitual
designated driving,
hand over glass.

Ten years now of you
offering up the passenger seat,
I watch the hills roll.

]]> <![CDATA[Good intentions]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27658.html Tue, 13 Oct 2026 01:33:30 +0000 sad_bunny]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27658.html This time I didn’t care about morality
Maybe that should’ve been the sign
That you’re just an illusion I created in my mind

But your actions and your words are real
And they cut deep
Not deeper than my growing feelings for you
But that’s something you should never know
Because it makes me weak
And all I’d like to do is wake up and leave

But how could I when I am trapped inside a world
That was never mine
And yet you made me believe it could become my reality
And so I trusted you blindly
I became a part of your story
I rehearsed your lines with you
And you made me think that it was more than just a script of my imagination
Then again maybe it’s all my fault for trusting your good intentions]]> This time I didn’t care about morality
Maybe that should’ve been the sign
That you’re just an illusion I created in my mind

But your actions and your words are real
And they cut deep
Not deeper than my growing feelings for you
But that’s something you should never know
Because it makes me weak
And all I’d like to do is wake up and leave

But how could I when I am trapped inside a world
That was never mine
And yet you made me believe it could become my reality
And so I trusted you blindly
I became a part of your story
I rehearsed your lines with you
And you made me think that it was more than just a script of my imagination
Then again maybe it’s all my fault for trusting your good intentions]]> <![CDATA[Back then the package still had bars,]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27650.html Sun, 11 Oct 2026 06:32:23 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27650.html Back then the package still had bars,

we called them animal jail
crackers. By the age of seven
you had seen the circus, looked past pretty lights

and hurdy-gurdy men to see
the curtained truth: you knew
it had to hurt the polar bear, the ape

to live like this, the sawdust floor
whose splinters always bloomed with crystallizing piss,
that yellow, endless popcorn smell

instead of sky, a cage. You’d frown,
pull your ballet socks up, then eat them
anyway—how good it felt to feel no guilt

looking in the lion’s eyes
before you, in your shameless hunger
took another life.]]> Back then the package still had bars,

we called them animal jail
crackers. By the age of seven
you had seen the circus, looked past pretty lights

and hurdy-gurdy men to see
the curtained truth: you knew
it had to hurt the polar bear, the ape

to live like this, the sawdust floor
whose splinters always bloomed with crystallizing piss,
that yellow, endless popcorn smell

instead of sky, a cage. You’d frown,
pull your ballet socks up, then eat them
anyway—how good it felt to feel no guilt

looking in the lion’s eyes
before you, in your shameless hunger
took another life.]]> <![CDATA[Sweet Brown on Apartment Fire (prev. bronchitis!)]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27648.html Fri, 09 Oct 2026 23:44:57 +0000 CRNDLSM]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27648.html it? Streets are empty, nobody
nowhere. No air here neither, got
me sweatin' death whole summertime!
Cravin' me a cold pop before
the sickness gets me, thankful that

Lord Jesus knows what is and that
smellin' of BarBQ'n ain't
someone cookin'. Wonder 'what for',
but each their own, no nobody
say you can't grill meat anytime.
You don't know how lucky I got!

Lord Jesus there's a fire! It got
so hot so fast, flames so high that
the sky turned black. I'd turn back time
to at least have grabbed my shoes, ain't
that funny? There ain't nobody
leavin' their shoes home in a foyer!

Lord Jesus battlin' Lucifer
with the smoke out here, but I got
Bronchitis, and mine ol' body
not ready to give up yet! That
and a cold pop waitin' what ain't
save my life. Said 'its not my time!'

Lord Jesus said its not my time!
I ran out the house, prayin' for
my life! All the angels and saints
lookin' o'er me, but the smoke got
me! Barefoot! Couldnt breathe! And that
fire alarm go'n off nobody

Lord Jesus, sleepin', nobody
'cept them kids in the sunmertime
stayin' up all hours. Wouldn't that
do it? Barbq'n at 4
in the morning, pass'n out, G.O.T.
on the TV or somethin'? Ain't

it a bunch of dumb kids bein'
dumb? Want my cold pop, Lord Jesus!
Ain't nobody got time for that!]]> it? Streets are empty, nobody
nowhere. No air here neither, got
me sweatin' death whole summertime!
Cravin' me a cold pop before
the sickness gets me, thankful that

Lord Jesus knows what is and that
smellin' of BarBQ'n ain't
someone cookin'. Wonder 'what for',
but each their own, no nobody
say you can't grill meat anytime.
You don't know how lucky I got!

Lord Jesus there's a fire! It got
so hot so fast, flames so high that
the sky turned black. I'd turn back time
to at least have grabbed my shoes, ain't
that funny? There ain't nobody
leavin' their shoes home in a foyer!

Lord Jesus battlin' Lucifer
with the smoke out here, but I got
Bronchitis, and mine ol' body
not ready to give up yet! That
and a cold pop waitin' what ain't
save my life. Said 'its not my time!'

Lord Jesus said its not my time!
I ran out the house, prayin' for
my life! All the angels and saints
lookin' o'er me, but the smoke got
me! Barefoot! Couldnt breathe! And that
fire alarm go'n off nobody

Lord Jesus, sleepin', nobody
'cept them kids in the sunmertime
stayin' up all hours. Wouldn't that
do it? Barbq'n at 4
in the morning, pass'n out, G.O.T.
on the TV or somethin'? Ain't

it a bunch of dumb kids bein'
dumb? Want my cold pop, Lord Jesus!
Ain't nobody got time for that!]]> <![CDATA[another ballad]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27618.html Thu, 24 Sep 2026 20:05:16 +0000 Luckieman]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27618.html
Song of the Lunatic Pilgrim

All round my hat I wear the green willow
and on my feet the sandal shoon,
for lost am I, who through leafless boughs
looked on old Mother Moon.
I followed the track of the swan on the lake
and, in the wind that blew
among the whispering rushes there
this rose I picked for you.
This rose has thorns both sharp and fine
to prick your finger deep and sore,
but though your blood be hot as fire
you'll never see me more.
For round my hat I wear the green willow
and on my feet the sandal shoon,
and lost am I, who through leafless boughs
looked on old Mother Moon.]]>
Song of the Lunatic Pilgrim

All round my hat I wear the green willow
and on my feet the sandal shoon,
for lost am I, who through leafless boughs
looked on old Mother Moon.
I followed the track of the swan on the lake
and, in the wind that blew
among the whispering rushes there
this rose I picked for you.
This rose has thorns both sharp and fine
to prick your finger deep and sore,
but though your blood be hot as fire
you'll never see me more.
For round my hat I wear the green willow
and on my feet the sandal shoon,
and lost am I, who through leafless boughs
looked on old Mother Moon.]]> <![CDATA[A ballad]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27608.html Tue, 22 Sep 2026 13:35:02 +0000 Luckieman]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27608.html Trial by Water

'You tell me all your roving years
you've had no love but me.
Look, then, on this mirror lake,
and tell me what you see.'
'I see but my own face, my dear,
green branches, empty skies...'
'Nought else?
Why then these trembling hands,
that dead light in your eyes?'
'Ophelia, Ophelia...'
the wild bird taunting cries.]]> Trial by Water

'You tell me all your roving years
you've had no love but me.
Look, then, on this mirror lake,
and tell me what you see.'
'I see but my own face, my dear,
green branches, empty skies...'
'Nought else?
Why then these trembling hands,
that dead light in your eyes?'
'Ophelia, Ophelia...'
the wild bird taunting cries.]]> <![CDATA[about a real event]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27604.html Mon, 21 Sep 2026 11:24:47 +0000 Luckieman]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27604.html Seven years on

The ancient ash tree fell
quietly: its hollow shell,
lately the home of bees,
bereft of its past might.

(They, being wise,
a month before departed
knowing it had died).

Two centuries it stood
and now it rests
prone, year on year:
a lair for creeping things.
Reluctant to descend at last
into eternal night.]]> Seven years on

The ancient ash tree fell
quietly: its hollow shell,
lately the home of bees,
bereft of its past might.

(They, being wise,
a month before departed
knowing it had died).

Two centuries it stood
and now it rests
prone, year on year:
a lair for creeping things.
Reluctant to descend at last
into eternal night.]]> <![CDATA[Spring]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27592.html Thu, 17 Sep 2026 03:19:56 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27592.html Spring

Death is everywhere.
The running does no good.
A mother holds a baby to her breast,
in twenty years
he wraps his grown-up hands around her neck
and wrings it like a rag. He likes the way it feels
to feel the life exit her body, how she looks at him
with tenderness
that almost makes him stop.

Men exist to kill. We practice
every morning, kiss the only living thing we love
then put it in the ground. In Kansas,
there's a field of grain that stretches out so endlessly
you'd think the rain kept falling
even when the sun was out. Under every tree, a grave
no one will ever recognize
lifts up another daffodil
to have its head cut off.]]> Spring

Death is everywhere.
The running does no good.
A mother holds a baby to her breast,
in twenty years
he wraps his grown-up hands around her neck
and wrings it like a rag. He likes the way it feels
to feel the life exit her body, how she looks at him
with tenderness
that almost makes him stop.

Men exist to kill. We practice
every morning, kiss the only living thing we love
then put it in the ground. In Kansas,
there's a field of grain that stretches out so endlessly
you'd think the rain kept falling
even when the sun was out. Under every tree, a grave
no one will ever recognize
lifts up another daffodil
to have its head cut off.]]> <![CDATA[Sea, Swallow me]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27591.html Tue, 15 Sep 2026 23:32:42 +0000 piscui]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27591.html Sea, swallow me

Sea, swallow me
embrace me, hug me tight
dont bring me back to the shore
this time
Ill forget how to swim.

Nonetheless Ill be choking,
with the volume of the things
I never say
and crushed,
by the weight of the things
I do not do.]]> Sea, swallow me

Sea, swallow me
embrace me, hug me tight
dont bring me back to the shore
this time
Ill forget how to swim.

Nonetheless Ill be choking,
with the volume of the things
I never say
and crushed,
by the weight of the things
I do not do.]]> <![CDATA[The sun round like a bun]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27585.html Mon, 14 Sep 2026 02:32:29 +0000 busker]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27585.html Round like a bun
O I’m having fun
While the sun is on the run. This Mon
day. This Tuesday. Every day
even unto the end of days when the fire is a hand’s breadth away, and the dead in graves are sexless and all the Qurans textless.
Prepare
everyone.]]> Round like a bun
O I’m having fun
While the sun is on the run. This Mon
day. This Tuesday. Every day
even unto the end of days when the fire is a hand’s breadth away, and the dead in graves are sexless and all the Qurans textless.
Prepare
everyone.]]> <![CDATA[Pictures of Cute Animals]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27581.html Sun, 13 Sep 2026 01:07:14 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27581.html Pictures of Cute Animals I Would Have Sent
You if You Didn’t Fucking Kill Yourself

Look at that macaque! He’s got his whole hand
stuffed inside that other monkey’s howler hole,
he looks like he means business. Do not fuck

with that monkey. Get a load of this opossum,
what a frigging pimp! She’s got her belly loaded
with at least a dozen kits—pups? Subossums?

Possumites? Whatever they’re called, you’d love them
till they ate through all your shoes. Check out
this flying fox, and don’t you dare call him a fruit

bat—he’s lived too long to deal with people
who don’t even know him calling him
by his deadname.

A precious child of God, see how the sun
clings to his lips? Most likely he will die
before he lets go that banana.

I know you can relate:
last time we spoke, you swore
they’d never get you

wrong again.]]> Pictures of Cute Animals I Would Have Sent
You if You Didn’t Fucking Kill Yourself

Look at that macaque! He’s got his whole hand
stuffed inside that other monkey’s howler hole,
he looks like he means business. Do not fuck

with that monkey. Get a load of this opossum,
what a frigging pimp! She’s got her belly loaded
with at least a dozen kits—pups? Subossums?

Possumites? Whatever they’re called, you’d love them
till they ate through all your shoes. Check out
this flying fox, and don’t you dare call him a fruit

bat—he’s lived too long to deal with people
who don’t even know him calling him
by his deadname.

A precious child of God, see how the sun
clings to his lips? Most likely he will die
before he lets go that banana.

I know you can relate:
last time we spoke, you swore
they’d never get you

wrong again.]]> <![CDATA[The Duck]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27571.html Thu, 10 Sep 2026 03:34:45 +0000 matsunosuperfan]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27571.html The Duck

Fridays are worthless so I duck into ALDI
for one of those snacks with the tiny salami.
In the herding zone, someone touches my shoulder:
a medium man, modest in height, tepid vibes, wearing
nothing too spectacular. In his hand flashes a bright
something golden and small: I like your tattoos. Do you
want this duck?

Of course I accept. What else could I do? I dropped
my new friend in my purse, tapped the square, and
promptly forgot him completely.

That night my favorite was live on TV. She killed it, but
nobody laughed. I felt aggravated by proxy. I woke
in the weird hour well after midnight, when the sky
looks like bad reception and half the house becomes
slanted. I wanted some water in a glass. In the kitchen,
music was playing without a detectable source: Dolly
Parton & Kenny Rogers, "Islands in the Stream." A shadow
fell over the stove. It was the duck.

He was perched on the ceiling fan's blade and the fan
was turned on, but lower than normal, so that the duck
rotated slowly around the room's axis, orange beak
glowing like plastic persimmon, impossibly black eyes
melting back into the dark. He didn't make any sound
when he spoke my name, but a sweet, sickly feeling rose
up in my chest anyway at the touch of his voice. I slept
without dreams.

That morning after the last of the storm shuffled off, the knives
were all laid out bare on the floor, scattered around me like
leaves. One by one I bent to pick them up. I was very
careful, but somehow in the process, my hand started
bleeding. I looked at the duck—who was hunched in the
corner now, leaning against the crown molding—with
visible accusation. Why did you come down from up
there? You’re scaring me, I said. Explain yourself. The duck
didn’t blink: You could hurt someone, he said.]]> The Duck

Fridays are worthless so I duck into ALDI
for one of those snacks with the tiny salami.
In the herding zone, someone touches my shoulder:
a medium man, modest in height, tepid vibes, wearing
nothing too spectacular. In his hand flashes a bright
something golden and small: I like your tattoos. Do you
want this duck?

Of course I accept. What else could I do? I dropped
my new friend in my purse, tapped the square, and
promptly forgot him completely.

That night my favorite was live on TV. She killed it, but
nobody laughed. I felt aggravated by proxy. I woke
in the weird hour well after midnight, when the sky
looks like bad reception and half the house becomes
slanted. I wanted some water in a glass. In the kitchen,
music was playing without a detectable source: Dolly
Parton & Kenny Rogers, "Islands in the Stream." A shadow
fell over the stove. It was the duck.

He was perched on the ceiling fan's blade and the fan
was turned on, but lower than normal, so that the duck
rotated slowly around the room's axis, orange beak
glowing like plastic persimmon, impossibly black eyes
melting back into the dark. He didn't make any sound
when he spoke my name, but a sweet, sickly feeling rose
up in my chest anyway at the touch of his voice. I slept
without dreams.

That morning after the last of the storm shuffled off, the knives
were all laid out bare on the floor, scattered around me like
leaves. One by one I bent to pick them up. I was very
careful, but somehow in the process, my hand started
bleeding. I looked at the duck—who was hunched in the
corner now, leaning against the crown molding—with
visible accusation. Why did you come down from up
there? You’re scaring me, I said. Explain yourself. The duck
didn’t blink: You could hurt someone, he said.]]> <![CDATA[Bubblegum]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27570.html Thu, 10 Sep 2026 03:09:50 +0000 Bitnee]]> https://www.pigpenpoetry.com/thread-27570.html
Random.

So sudden.

One of my first memories of you
that I can remember
came flooding back so fast
I could barely comprehend it.

So random.
So sudden.
It just swept over me.

I was alone in bed,
eyes wide,
staring at the ceiling

mere hours after the longest, hardest day.

My family had all sat waiting in the hospital,
surrounding your bed,
the evening you passed.

You had been unconscious for hours
before your organs finally couldn’t go on any longer.

But I know you could hear us.
No matter what anyone else says.

We held your hand.
We talked to you.
We told you your son was coming.

Just hold on a little longer.

A miracle from God, we told you.
We begged you to hang on.

And then we saw your son
walk through the door.

I know you sensed his presence.

After the gut-wrenching cries
that only a son makes
after losing his mother,

he kissed your forehead goodbye.

And you were finally able to let go.

It was as if God was calling you—

telling you your son was there,
holding you,
telling you he loved you,
kissing you goodbye
one last time.

Your soul left the Earth
no more than five minutes later.

I replay it in my head
over and over.

Unable to get the last image of you
out of my mind.

Unable to forget
the heartbreaking sobs
of goodbye
at your bedside.

But then

out of nowhere

like an air freshener sprayed straight into my nose,

I could suddenly picture
the backseat of your car.

I was three.
Maybe four.

I couldn’t remember the color of the car.
I couldn’t remember where we were going.

Only the smell.

Sweet bubblegum
mixed with a hint of cigarettes.

And you looking back at me
every now and then,
checking on me.

I don’t know why
that was the memory that found me.

But it did.

And I’m glad.

After all those years
of never thinking about it,

I remembered it
just hours after you were gone.

The smell of bubblegum
comforts me

and completely tears me open
at the same time.

Because for a moment,

I am three years old again.

And you are still here]]>
Random.

So sudden.

One of my first memories of you
that I can remember
came flooding back so fast
I could barely comprehend it.

So random.
So sudden.
It just swept over me.

I was alone in bed,
eyes wide,
staring at the ceiling

mere hours after the longest, hardest day.

My family had all sat waiting in the hospital,
surrounding your bed,
the evening you passed.

You had been unconscious for hours
before your organs finally couldn’t go on any longer.

But I know you could hear us.
No matter what anyone else says.

We held your hand.
We talked to you.
We told you your son was coming.

Just hold on a little longer.

A miracle from God, we told you.
We begged you to hang on.

And then we saw your son
walk through the door.

I know you sensed his presence.

After the gut-wrenching cries
that only a son makes
after losing his mother,

he kissed your forehead goodbye.

And you were finally able to let go.

It was as if God was calling you—

telling you your son was there,
holding you,
telling you he loved you,
kissing you goodbye
one last time.

Your soul left the Earth
no more than five minutes later.

I replay it in my head
over and over.

Unable to get the last image of you
out of my mind.

Unable to forget
the heartbreaking sobs
of goodbye
at your bedside.

But then

out of nowhere

like an air freshener sprayed straight into my nose,

I could suddenly picture
the backseat of your car.

I was three.
Maybe four.

I couldn’t remember the color of the car.
I couldn’t remember where we were going.

Only the smell.

Sweet bubblegum
mixed with a hint of cigarettes.

And you looking back at me
every now and then,
checking on me.

I don’t know why
that was the memory that found me.

But it did.

And I’m glad.

After all those years
of never thinking about it,

I remembered it
just hours after you were gone.

The smell of bubblegum
comforts me

and completely tears me open
at the same time.

Because for a moment,

I am three years old again.

And you are still here]]>