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TEEN: Nori's Poem Anthology

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Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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Rating: Teen because some of the poems imply a yearning for death in a suicidal sense. Hopefully this is the right rating anyway… :x

I decided to first categorise the generalised time period when each poem was written, and then it'll be further sorted chronologically (based on what I can remember, since some of these are old af). Future poems (assuming I write more) will have its own post, linked to in this post, and threadmarked. (Also there's at least a few items omitted from this anthology because I either didn't feel like it was poem-y enough or deserved to be "unburied".)

2019-07-24:
  • Moved author commentary to before poem body
  • Changed "the literary magazine" to "my high school's literary magazine" in author commentary of "(Cavort of Spring)"
  • Added commentary to "Torment of a Paradox"
  • Added commentary to "(untitled - Haiku Pair)"
  • Added commentary to "Shamandalie the Vanished"
2019-10-25:
  • Moved "Le Masque" from the master post to its own post to take advantage of the new hover bbcode.
  • Moved "名前" from the master post to its own post to take advantage of the new hover bbcode.

1998 - 2005 (first-half of the year)
This was my first "poem" written sometime between 1998-2000, and it was something that provoked my thought one day.
When I look at the moon,
I not only see the moon,
I see the other people looking at the moon.
This was written sometime between August 2000 and 2002… It was written when I was in a "weird mood", and I definitely hadn't dated anyone at that point, so hard to say exactly where this came from. XD :x
The sound of the crashing waves bring back the deep memories
within the heart,
the moonlight reminds me of the first moonlit date,
the wind reminds me of the last kiss.
As I remember the moon on that last date,
it was like the one tonight,
till the day I see her again, I will always only adore her.
The memories are as powerful as the fierce tornado,
as serene as the summer breeze,
as lovely as the rose
as remembered as one.
The first kiss I remember like the summer breeze in autumn,
she is like the rose that is so delicate,
so beautiful
so precious.
The love is like the love I have never known before,
I give the love of my soul,
she gives the love of her heart.
Beside the crashing sea,
we kiss.
When I'm with her,
I see nor hear anyone else but her.
She is my heart,
my soul.
I miss her in the wind,
love her in the winter,
kiss her in the rain,
dine with her in the moonlight,
share feelings in the summer.
There is no one else like her,
she is the only one for me;
she will be the love of my life forever.
I will always remember her smile,
her kiss,
her love,
her beauty,
her passions,
her gentleness,
her delicate heart,
her soul,
her preciousness,
her.
I think thoughts about her,
she thinks thoughts about me,
I talk under her sweet fragrance,
she talks under mine…
We kiss.
Love is the greatest thing of all,
intelligence,
talent,
age,
these things do not matter.
The most important bonding element of all,
the love…
The love in one's heart is all that's needed,
no one can go living without the love.
Remembrance is to remember her,
the soul is the words of the heart,
the body is the language,
the words are the message of the heart.
She will be remembered forever,
I will be remembered forever,
the moonlit dinners will be remembered forever,
the first kiss will be remembered forever,
the love will be remembered forever.
The last wish is the wish to remember each other forever.​
This was written around the same time period as "Love and Memories" (sometime between August 2000 and 2002), but I'm pretty sure was written after it (I could be wrong, it's numerous years ago). Same weird mood thing and still haven't dated at that point.
She is like the rose,
so delicate, yet precious.
She is lovely in every way,
her hair,
her eyes,
the way she speaks,
the smell of her sweet fragrance,
her soft skin
her delicate heart.
I love her not for her beauty,
but to be with her,
and protect her delicate heart.
Questions arise in my head like the break of dawn:
Does she love me?
How does she feel about me?
Does she know I exist in her mind?
Does she know I love her?
Does she know she exists in my mind?
But as questions are answered, the sun sets behind strong mountains.
The days grow longer with each unanswered question.
I tell her,
“You exist in my mind,
I love you.”
I ask her,
“How do you feel about me?
Do you love me?
Do I exist in your mind?”
I tell her,
“Each day grows longer when I don't know the way you feel about me.
I grow lonely,
restless,
driven to depression.”​
This was written sometime during the first half of the 2002-2003 school year, and was what I submitted to my high school's literary magazine upon my girlfriend's suggestion… I never titled the haiku from what I can remember, but I think the literary magazine staff gave it a name. Not entirely sure the order of this poem in comparison with the following three.
Floating petals of
Cherry blossoms dancing in
The breeze gracefully
This was written roughly September 2002 when I first dated someone… I'm pretty sure this was the first poem, based on the centre-justified text…
In the cool Autumn breeze, we sit under a cherry tree, looking at the golden lake at dusk.
I have yet to tell her my secret.
The sun then sets, turning the sky a dark blue at first, then slowly into it's blackness.
We look at the endless stars for hours.
She falls asleep quietly on my shoulder.
I whisper "I love you," the words of my secret in her ear, she smiles.
Then I wonder how long will we really be together?
The answer is an answer I do not care much about.
I fall asleep as well, thinking only of her.​
This was written roughly September 2002 when I first dated someone… This is maybe the second poem? Might be the third… I really don't remember that well any more.
I sit,
by the window of loneliness.
I have only been with her for a short time this past day.
I stare at the rain.
Wanting to be with her,
wanting to talk to her,
wanting to kiss her.
But I,
a simple individual,
a single entity,
a lovesick person,
could never understand why people can be so demanding,
so afraid,
misunderstanding,
about two people in love.
And so I sit.
Sitting at the window.
Staring at the rain.
wondering,
waiting,
wanting,
loving,
wishing.
This was written roughly September 2002 when I first dated someone… This was probably the third poem or the second, idk.
I kissed her today,
not knowing before what it would be like.
I kissed her today,
not because I'm self-centered.
I kissed her today,
because I felt courageous.
I kissed her today,
though it was awkward.
I kissed her today,
and I loved it.
This probably was written late 2002 or early 2003, since I'm pretty sure I didn't watch any theatrical productions at my school in late 2001/early 2002… Funny how sometime after I wrote this, I ended up seeing her at school… At least I'm pretty sure it was her.
As I stand there all alone,
Only thinking about the past,
And staring into the falling white snow,
A person,
Who is the converse of my gender,
Talks in her sweet voice,
Not about the past,
Not the future,
But the close present.
I hold a conversation with her,
Thinking about what is happening,
And then,
My ride comes,
The minute of evil,
I must leave the one I have found,
One who could have been a companion in my life,
And so,
We say our goodbyes.
While riding home,
I think of her,
And what has just happened,
Feeling only tears of joy running down my face in my own room.
Then last,
I think,
About the short past I share with her.​
This was written sometime within the 2003 - 2004 school year during creative writing class. Not a whole lot I remember besides the teacher liking it a lot.
Walking
in wet,
shifting sand,
it swallows a segment of your shoe.
Its flesh chilling saliva
seeps in,
soaking your sock,
tasting your hide.

Using this monster created
unnatural barriers of sand
that transparent water streams around,
all for the sake of amusement.

One man climbs a lifeless, nearby tree,
relaxing on this limb momentarily
breaks the will of the bough
and plummets to the hard, grass-covered ground.

This area is left
altered and alone
while two men
roam further away.
This was written in the last half of the 2004-2005 school year for world literature class. We were assigned to write an ode, and I ended up writing this before I felt that it wasn't really an ode.
Computers are design-able buildings.
They sometimes are greyhounds,
Or sometimes are toy spaniels.
Some are sprinting gazelles,
And some are creeping slugs.

Some computers are glowing,
Motley fireflies,
Lighting up the space around them.

Some are hidden away
In little,
Suffocating
Caves,
Others are free to
Roam the vastness
Of the plains.

Some blare car alarms
If you buffet them,
Some don’t turn on
Without a key.

Some are blind,
Some are deaf,
And some are mute,
But rarely
Are blind, deaf, and mute.

They speak
In audio feeds, and
Communicate with relatives,
Everywhere in the world in their own language.

None can cut a sheet of paper,
But all
Are just swords
Waiting
To be sharpened.
This was written in the last half of the 2004-2005 school year for world literature class. We were assigned to write an ode, and I ended up writing this after "The Compy". While I did struggle a bit to write this, it became easier when I figured out a direction for it.
Oh, such a wondrous feeling
To be stuck
In the middle
Of writing
This poem
And to drag on
For long hours
Figuring what to write.

You are my uninvited, most-loved mother-in-law
With a key to my house,
And just when it seems like you are leaving,
You don’t walk through the open door,
But close the door and announce you are staying longer.

I love the way you bind my creativity,
Using stranded steel cable
As thick as climbing rope.

I love how you
Jump on my sleeping muse,
And deprive it heavily of sleep.

I love when you paralyze
My hand from writing,
Forcing me to draw little scribbles that
Aren’t understood whatsoever.

I am always nice to you
When you arrive and stay
And even when you leave.

I am always glad
That you abuse my muse,
And shuffle papers off its
Desk and all over.

I am happy that I can’t
Concentrate on work
When you bother me so.

In fact, why don’t you stay longer?
I wrote this sometime during high school (2001-2005) and really don't remember when. I never gave it a title since this might've been originally written on paper.
I sit alone wondering,
trying to find answers to my own questions.
Does the world need highly educated people?
I think not.
When life ends,
status doesn't matter,
we all leave the world,
not ever coming back.
I sit
wondering
why
why do we do the things we do?
Live the way we live?
The only answer,
I don't know.
To stop caring for the one you love?
I would not.
For I'd rather suffer hell
than to stop loving,
so therefore I think.
What to say
when the one I love so dearly
goes to a further place
that I can't travel.
To say goodbye is like a harsh winter's wrath.
And so I sit
and cry,
knowing that it's too early
to think
of this.

2005 (last-half of the year) - 2012
I think this was written around October/November 2005, but regardless it's the first in a series of notepads I have. I never titled it, and I just used the ending line to help me remember what poem it is. And yeah, depression… >.>
The world sleeps
in eternal darkness
and finds comfort
inside wooden structures
protected from the rain.

Do they know the rain?
Have they felt it?
They take their shacks for granted.

I've been left in the rain
hour by hour,
minute by minute,
day by day.

I'm sick of this pneumonia that I've caught.

I stay in this rain, and cough myself to death.

Tombstone of happiness.
Dunno when I wrote this, but it was sometime after the previous one. It was one of the few poems (if not the only poem) I wrote a draft for before physically rewriting it. Yeah, more depression… >.>
Lost in a cloud
of emotions
and thoughts.

Trapped in a maze
of morals
and ethics.

I knew not
of when this cloudy maze
began.

I love…

This thing I'm
about
to do…

Is it right?
Is it what I really want?

Love without…

But around me,
everyone has
done that thing.

without being…

And also around me
they come in pairs…

being loved…

I want to rid
this pain
forever.

I love
without
being loved.
I'm going to stop posting the approximate time of posting since there's no doubt on the chronological order of these, and the fact that I can't really remember approximately when it was written… Anyway, this one is really straightforward and simple… I was wanting it to be something longer when I was writing the first line, but that didn't happen…
And here I sit
(with a skateboard as a table across the armrests)
dreaming about a perfect girl
who will never appear.
Kinda more depression stuff… Idk what else to say really… :x
Drink
from the bowl of life,
and taste
its sweet nectar.

Vomit
into the bowl of death,
and be relieved
of the bitter pain.
I named this when it was being digitised (early this month or late last month, idk)… And I guess not much else to say…
Mr. Death
why have you not stricken me down
yet?
You know I have no reason,
no will
to live
and carry on.

But you insist that I live
to see tomorrow.
And I should be happy?

Oh please, kill me now
with your long scythe
to rid me of my misery.

But you won't move,
you say it's not my time to die.
And I should be happy?

Your scythe,
I cannot wield,
I am grabbing a shadow.

But you refuse to let me perish
in any way.
And I should be happy?
It was kind of an ironic thought when I saw some strangers talking to each other while none of them knew of each other's backgrounds… given that most people aren't horrible people… Anyway, I wrote this around Christmas 2005/New Year's 2006 when I was at the airport, and I only brought one of the three notepads, so I had to find some "dead" space on the back of a used sheet to write it down. (Also this is, probably obviously, the last item from the first notepad of the set of three that I bought…)
People huddle around in groups,
talking about various things,
not giving another thought
of who they're talking to

But the flight arrives
and all leave.
Don't really remember when this written, but obviously sometime after the previous poem (along with it being the first in the second notepad of the 3-pack set). Side note, while at this general location, we walked around in the daytime and saw a baby pine tree, it was so cute and vivid green. I really wonder how it's doing and what it's like now… Oh yeah, kinda obviously not titled originally, but a sort of title to remind myself of what it is. Even though it's kinda "titled" as "Ocean Gaze", it was sometime after the sunset, so it was kinda dark, but at least there was no one around (that I could tell).
I walk with her
to a place very special
and feel the shackles of society
crust away.

I am consumed by her loveliness,
kindness,
and gentleness.

But time fades away
and we are forced back
and new fetters are attached
to us.
Dunno what to say… It's pretty much more depression stuff…
Again, I feel weird,
but it is indescribable
and mysterious.
I can't do anything,
my body refuses to sleep,
and my heart pounds away,
someone help me,
tell me what I am feeling
because I don't know what it is
and I want to know what it is.

I'm stuck here with a miniature jukebox, playing that song over and over.

But still I can't figure it out.
I want to know the truth,
I want to know what I am missing,
why I am still…
This one's pretty much the last of the second notepad.
When the glare hides the hands
of the clock,
time is empty and
meaningless,
providing me the same
empty,
meaningless
emotions to deal with.
Kind of a poem, kinda not? Idk any more… Anyway, the notes were written in the second notepad after the previous poem, but I ended up writing this sometime later on the computer, and I was trying to turn it into a story, but that didn't happen.
Each blade of grass stands still for a moment,
but it is only a moment
Until the breeze struggles to push them over.

At this time, the grass is pointing toward a concrete sidewalk
which is met with a shadow of a person at the edge.

Casual is the way of dress,
seeming blank is the way of the stare,
unfazed is this figure.

The reflection of a building,
in this mortal's eyes,
is all that is seen.

What is in the mind
sight cannot pickup,
but will it become communicated?

The lips part,
but only a passing of air comes from this hollow orifice.

There is finally movement,
which only consists of bringing an arm partway up,
and the eyes now fixated on the watch face.

A sound finally colorizes this scene.
What is this short, reciprocating sound of metal buffeting together?
It only last for a moment,
before the last of the reverberations fade away.

The individual now turns around,
and proceeds away from this building.

A mass now begins to stream
through various gateways
away from the building;
mundane is this clamor.
Just some thought-provoking thing… Also the first and last of the third notepad…
To write
is to kill a pen…
or pencil…

So then
are writers
and poets
murderers?

Perhaps the pen was doomed from the beginning
and fated to be murdered by a writer…

then one who types
does not murder pens or pencils
but… are they murdering something else?
Dunno when I wrote this, but file metadata says it was sometime in 2008, which I'm not entirely sure of…
Reach,
For the one who was born for you,
Because tonight,
Death takes that one away.

Savor,
This precious moment,
Because tonight,
Death takes the flavor away.

Mourn,
Without a tear,
Because tonight,
A precious life has been taken.

2013 - 2014
This was written late April 2013 when I thought I was falling in love with a friend, to maybe sort my feelings out… After I felt I had my feelings sorted out, I talked to her about it and she handled it well - our friendship didn't change any. It would've helped if I had heard of demisexuality or demiromanticism back then, since it would've added to my understanding of myself.
A conflict, one of which is perhaps paradoxical, is waged between my heart and my mind.
Am I as confused as I think I am? Is it what I think it is? Or is it what I hope it is not?
This division sends me into a deep trench of gloom.
The conclusive answer, logical and rational, is what I hope for…
But, a different answer, illogical and irrational, is what I fear.
Why must this battle torment me with its permanence?
Why can't it be over like I want it so?
Why her?
Why now?
I am drawn in with the strong tide of emotions, grasping desperately at the sand in futility.

Weeks, I have trudged through this disorienting swamp, and many times I have seen the false light.
It is from console I have sought… And what matters most to me I should hold.
And though the conflict should have concluded, it still remains.
Is it because I am lonely? Is that why I refuse to liberate myself from this paradox?
I hold my head while I seek the answer in vain.

To tell her of these feelings, I am not sure of… The uneasy outcome, I am fearful of.
That false emotion that has fled, I have made a memory of.


Another problem adds to the conflict, and that is one of if she will leave.
I know I will miss her most,
I know my loneliness will grow,
I know I (perhaps) should forget her,
But I am unable to.
I have spent time with her,
Developed a close friendship her,
And it pains me to see her leave.
Perhaps she will visit sometimes,
But how will I feel when she's gone?
I cringe alone as the thought persists.


She,
is the one who freed me from a confining rut,
And I am sinful for my wrongful attraction to her.
I repent fanatically for forgiveness.
A little after the previous poem, I ended up dating another female friend for a couple months before I (stupidly) decided to go visit her because I needed her touch, and it didn't turn out too well (nothing bad happened when we were together, it was more of that she sorted her feelings out after the couple days we were together). Had I heard of touch starvation back then, it would've helped me immensely understand what I was going through, and things definitely would've been different. I wrote this when I couldn't sleep after the trip to visit her. Well, it was more that I was visiting my bff after visitng her and I didn't feel like going home (I had somehow developed some sort of anxiety), so I tried to sleep there instead. I realised later that I screwed up the syllable-count of the first or second one, but I didn't want to fix it. No title to this one, but I refer to it as "Haiku Pair".
A sea of branches,
monochromatic color,
and rustling leaves.

Sky lightens slowly,
silhouette against the sky,
silent surroundings.
This is one of three poems I wrote sometime after mid-July 2013 after my girlfriend had broken up with me… I think this was the first I wrote… Idk
I once knew a breeze
whose beginning was
a needed cool
on a hot summer day,
which shifted to a warmth
for a cool summer night,
and ended as a stiff, chilling wind
on a night without covers.
This is one of three poems I wrote sometime after mid-July 2013 after my girlfriend had broken up with me… I think this was the second I wrote… Idk… "Shamandalie" is actually the title to one of Sonata Arctica's songs (of which I've listened to numerous times before and after writing this), and I hadn't realised it was "sham and a lie" as one word without spaces until sometime after writing this poem, so I had thought it was some sort of fictious name.
I once went
to Shamandalie,
I found bliss
and all which I wanted.

I was granted a day's visit,
but
I became too greedy;
tried to take a part of Shamandalie with me,
and I was then met with horrid punishment.

It is now a lost city.
Lost
in winds of time.
Lost
in the memories of those who traveled there.
Lost…
forever.

The more I want to forget,
the more I seem to recall
the memories of that day.

I cannot forget,
I cannot erase…
I can never forgive my greed.

Oh Shamandalie,
though you are nevermore,
you plague me
forevermore.
This is one of three poems I wrote sometime after mid-July 2013 after my girlfriend had broken up with me… I think this was the last I wrote… Idk
Hurt never perishes
overnight from the heart.
Instead, it fades
like the setting sun…
Like the light from a compact fluorescent bulb,
dimming ever so slowly away
as atoms lose the energy they gained,
becoming more and more still…
part of the blackness that fills the empty room,
part of the blackness that fills a wounded heart.

Time
is one of two healers,
the other being
a love beginning anew…

Some choose solitude and time to heal them,
some choose to constantly find someone to heal them,
some choose to express their pain in some form…
Some choose a wrongful path
of death.

There will be one day
where this pain
is no longer,
but
for myself,
I(t) will continue.
I wrote this probably sometime after the previous three poems, but not sure when… And this is one of four poems that I don't know the order I written them in.
Draw me a line
where others shall not pass.

Lead my memories
that I wish not to remember
to the field of forgotten memories.

Shelter me with the comfort of
that one person.

Feed me horrible truths,
not sweet lies
because I cannot
do more than vomit.

Bathe me
with uncomfortable sunlight,
for there is no purity in the shadows.
I wrote this probably sometime after those three poems, but not sure when… And this is one of four poems that I don't know the order I written them in.
Again, I think of that instance…
Again, I peel the scab away from the wound
that has not fully healed.

Why must I do this to myself?
Why is it that
I cannot shake it away?
Is my desire to return to that time
that strong?
Is it that I need to find a stronger distraction
to help me forget?
Perhaps one to heal?

If I could take a long slumber,
and awaken to something new
that brings me the emotive necessity
to help trudge through the murky marsh
toward where the light shines down beautifully
on the meadows of tomorrow.
I wrote this probably sometime after those three poems, but not sure when… And this is one of four poems that I don't know the order I written them in (though this could've been first, hard to say).
It began with a sweet, alluring kiss,
and it took me…
I let it take me.

But then (when it was sweet)
it took my eyes.
Had I known, I could not cry.

Desire overtook…
Distance shrank…
Things changed…
too fast…

Stabbed by words of betrayal,
it shredded my heart…
Puréed into bitter turmoil.

What had I done?
What had I touched?
What had I kissed?
What had I desired?

I had seen a bright star, I thought,
but it was the inverse,
and the star did not take me to renewal,
but to death instead…
Death…
of my heart.
I wrote this probably sometime after those three poems, but not sure when… And this is one of four poems that I don't know the order I written them in.
This sleepless night,
my thoughts persist
in circles,
in circles,
in circles,
in circles…

A point?
A curse?
A problem?
A purpose?

To run, would be
childish.
To sort, would be
mature…
but problematic.

Circle…
of life?
Circle…
of hate?
Circle…
of trust?
Circle…
Dunno when I wrote this, but it's still probably between late July 2013 and late November 2013…
There are those shadows
that the light will never touch,
yet there are those
who try to bring light to that darkness
when it is unnecessary,
and it provokes those who have cast it.

Those silhouettes exist for a reason;
they are not to be disrupted by others looking for answers in them.
But there are those
who refuse to understand this,
and incite an unnecessary confrontation.
Also dunno when I wrote this, though I'm sure it's still within the late July 2013 - late November 2013 time period. Also decently sure I wrote this before "le masque".
A mask that others see
is the mask that we show to them.
Only certain people
are allowed to see
what is behind the mask.

But what happens
when the mask is old?
A new mask isn't something
easily made…
especially
when certain ones
are used to that old mask.

A mask
for every occasion,
a mask
for every situation,
a mask
for those who merit it…

A mask that hides
the pain,
the sorrow,
the grief,
the struggle,
the anger,
the fear,
the hatred,
the neglect,
the scars,
the true self…
as ugly as it may be.

The mask…
is our self defence.
le masque
the mask

I think this was also written in 2014, maybe early in the year or towards the end of the previous year?
Cracked is my face,
ragged are my clothes,
but
I am still whole,
I am still dressed.

I sit in the corner
looking at the world,
with my golden yellow eyes,
of all those who
pass their eyes over me
only once.

I have sat here for many years,
watching it all happen
over,
and over,
and over.

Not one has picked me up,
not one has reached out to me,
except
one.

The one
that keeps the store tidy
is the one that keeps me clean,
keeps me upright,
and keeps me from losing hope.

But it is here,
where I must sit
staring at the world,
wondering when
that time will come
where someone will love me
without regard.
I seriously don't know when this was written, and it could be in the following time frame. I also didn't title this, but referred to it as "Sleep Haiku"
When one cannot sleep,
because there is too much heat,
sleep is fleeting treat.

2015 - Current
名前
Name (Romanisation: "namae")
 
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A cat who writes stories
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That's an impressive collection of poetry, @Nori! Thanks for sharing it with us.

I don't really have a brain for poetry so I don't have much to say, but props to you for including author's commentary and all!
 
Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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o: Ty and yw!

It's fairly rare that I write poems to begin with, and I think after high school it was easier to for me to turn my pain into poetry - though I think it also kinda has to come to me for best flow.

I felt it was a bit necessary to include a bit of commentary, since the actual order of most of these might be different than I'm able to ascertain, and while I could've written more about some of them, I left it out because it'd only be a portion of what I'm able to remember. :/
 
What I tell you three times is true.
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Woo fellow poet hype! I don't feel it's fair to review these poems in the traditional sense, since they stretch all the way back to 1998. But I'm reading now and declaring an I.O.U. of some comments, most likely on the later poems.
 
What I tell you three times is true.
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I did it. I read them all. And I have a casual mini-review for every poem. A review anthology for your poetry anthology.

Since you published...well, almost everything you've ever written, I don't feel comfortable being super-formal. Thus, I read from top to bottom, getting a sense of your development as a poet throughout the years. While I can't say every poem is quality (of course I can't; this poetry stretches back twenty years), I found it enjoyable watching your skills develop over the years. A meta-narrative, I suppose. Thus, I can say I enjoyed reading your anthology, and I'm hoping you write a poem next time you get writter's block. It's lonely being the only poet around :(

Let's get the ball rolling, shall we?

First things first; put your author's notes first. I heard a wonderful saying while in a mental hospital that "poetry is read only by other poets". While not exactly true — communities like this let poetry and prose share the spotlight — having prominent author's notes is half any decent poetry collection's appeal. I, as someone who has a poetry collection myself, really want to know what's behind your poems. Because especially for your more personal poetry, there's stories (and context) to tell.

I do like the rough chronological order, for reasons I put above. Again, seeing someone develop as...well, anything is enjoyable in and of itself. If you do end up reorganizing your anthology, keep the general chronological order. It's golden.

Quotation marks around "poem" are appropriate, seeing as it has no structure. Take out the line breaks and you have a short story. And I don't feel the thought is clear enough; are you imaging other people, remembering other people? But first poem, stretches back before the millennium, what should I expect?
Yeah, you definitely haven't dated anyone at this point. Which I think hampers the poem; "write what you know" and all that. But I see you're getting into longer-form poetry, which is a step forward. There's no rhythm or consistent structure yet, the imagery is corny, but again, hard to be harsh on early experiments. It's a silly love poem.
Most of my thoughts on "Love and Memories" apply here, too. The word "depression" sticks out; this isn't the first time I've heard the "I'm nothing without you" sentiment, but it's nice to see you expanding into slightly edgier territory. Gives this silly love poem slightly more grit.
Woah, woah, woah. Published? I realize I'm late to the party, but congratulations! It's not uncommon for editorial staff to write the "headlines" (fun fact; journalistists don't write their "headlines", either); I'd take the parentheses off "Cavort of Spring". If you ever do work with a publishing house, compromising with editors is a skill you'll need.

As for the poem itself, it still feels juvenile to me. It paints a pretty picture, but that's about it. I prefer my poetry rawer, deeper cut. Cavort of Spring is too image-centric for my tastes.
About the same thoughts as Cavort of Spring. Pretty picture, but a silly love poem that's too whitebread for me. Perhaps if there was more emphasis on the doubt ("Then I wonder how long will we really be together?"), but that's swept under the rug as soon as it emerges. Which, in turn, makes me question the whole motive behind this relationship. If you love her, why don't you care if you lose her? Is she disposable? It leaves me with questions that don't match the tone. Technical skills are improving and your ambition's ramping up, but the subject matter comes across muddied.
Again, struck me as juvenile. There's a serious lack of Show, Don't Tell; in fact, this poem came off awfully preachy. I can definitely tell you haven't had a break-up at this point, as this poem's dismissive of anyone who doubts the narrator's relationship. Which I wouldn't mind, if there was any evidence this is a healthy relationship. But all I have is the narrator's word for it, and they don't seem able to describe love beyond "this is what I'm feeling right now". No meaning events or shared interests or inside jokes mentioned. It leaves me wondering if you know what love is, hence the juvenile feeling. But you have a talent for imagery in Cavort of Spring and My Secret; I can see a poet budding.
This is the first poem featured I like on it's own merits. It has that detail Am I What I Am? lacks; namely, the kiss. And while it still strikes me as young love, it's self-aware enough to admit the narrator didn't know what a kiss felt like. And the mention of how the kiss is awkward gives it just enough rawness to feel real. There's still some lingering Show, Don't Tell where the narrator says they're not self-centered (whatever you say, buddy), but you've proven you can write about an intimate event without making it seem made-up. Nice work.
This is another My Secret, albeit without the preachiness. Pretty picture, but over-dramatized to the point it feels fake. It depicts a specific event like in I Kissed Her Today, but the imagery backfires; rather than let the moment speak for itself, the flowery language and beautiful scenery make the scene feel fake. My heartstrings aren't pulled.
Well, this one's a change of pace. Not exactly a silly love song, is it? Ironically, while I think the imagery is technically weaker ("grass-covered ground" is quite the roundabout way of saying "grass"), I personally enjoyed it more. It's an openly fantastical poem that paints an alien picture, rather than an everyday occurrence. It's a scene that can only happen in fiction, which lets me put aside my bullshit-ometer and imagine this stream fiend. Good premise, rough around the edges, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
Yeah, probably best to scrap this one. Broad subject matter, lots of lists that read like the "See Also" section of a Wikipedia article. You don't seem all that passionate about the subject matter, which doesn't make for an interesting ode. Still, your rhythm is steadily improving as the years go by, and it's nice to see you rhyming. Diversify your skill set a bit.
Ha! Good stuff, dripping with sarcasm. Got a passive-aggresive venom to it I didn't know you had in you. You clearly aren't a fan of writer's block, but you're passionate about it. You've experienced it, and you want it to suffer. I think that's the limiting factor; while your technicals are starting to reach professional level, writer's block as a subject is pretty universal. It's lacking that personal touch, something that makes you stand out from the crowd. Still, as it is, it's an enjoyable poem.
Back to love poems, it seems. This felt like a downgrade fron Stream Fiend and An Ode To Writer's Block; while I'd rank it higher than My Secret or Am I What I Am?, it falls into the same traps. Show, Don't Tell, yadda yadda you don't need me repeating the same criticisms. I prefer I Kissed Her Today.
DISCLAIMER: I, myself, have a clinical diagnosis for "unspecified depressive disorder". I have a full system of supports, including a therapist and psychiatrists. And over my life, I have spent time in partial hospitalization programs and been involuntarily committed. Fuck depression.

Onto the poem. Ironically, I think it suffers from the same problems that your lesser silly love poems have. There's no specifics; while the moody metaphor shows you're gaining more and more technical skill, it's just that: moody. There's nothing ladling Tombstone of Happiness as an actual depressive poem, rather than everyday sadness. No racing thoughts, no examples of self-isolation, no disinterest in the world around you. If anything, you seem completely focused on other people and how they view you. I'm reviewing your poems as I read, so I don't know if you ever are clinically evaluated, but Tombstone of Happiness strikes me less "depression" and more "emo". And that's probably because I'm reviewing fifteen-year old poetry and past you's experiencing reality-altering new emotions. I'm interested to see how the direction of past you's poetry changes from this point forward.
The sadness is clearly sticking around. This poem's more concrete, which makes it far more credible. You're getting more philosophical, searching for answers to a pretty damn hard question. I'm not sure this is your best work, mostly because of the conclusion (pro tip: it's not about other people loving you, it's about you loving yourself). But any doubts I had about a possible "emo phase" are satiated. This is self-evident legit depression poetry, and I think a lot of people could find value in that.

Image source: xkcd
Searching for "the perfect girl" is a snipe hunt. Don't look for the one and only; find a girl you can love, and don't have any regrets. I speak from experience.
You're regressing back to Tombstone of Happiness. As someone who experiences depression themselves, it is not a get-out-of-jail-free card. It requires work and effort to overcome, and while society might not understand how taxing depression is, a fatalistic approach ain't getting you anywhere. Past you, either you can find a way to be happy living with depression, or you can't. Either way, live a full life; you'll either find happiness, or can raise a middle finger from the grave proclaiming "fuck you, world! I tried!"

Yeah, I've gone through the journey, too. Oh, and your technicals are still improving, what with the contrast you have between the two stanzas. I think the subject matter's a little more important, though.
Yes, you should. I like the return to philosophical questioning. It's the right track to be on. All my comments on I Love Without Being Loved apply here, though I have to say; reading these more depressive poems chronologically is absolutely adding to the experience. The back-and-forth between fatalistic and philosophical poetry feels like an epic battle inside the mind, and I don't know if I'm projecting my own experiences or what, but I want you to win this fight. Though, uh, you're alive today, so slight spoiler there. It's engaging regardless.
The commentary makes this one for me. The poem on its own, it's an overgeneralization that's the polar opposite of my experience with airports. Knowing the backstory, it's a touching single experience. This poem would be infinitely times better if it was a narrative. Add "I saw" to the start of the poem, and the entire dynamic changes. Regardless, thank you for the detailed commentary on this one.
Okay, your commentary game's stepped up in an instant. I like the poem on its own merits. I'd even call it one of your best love poems yet. Not so silly, got some specifics in there, language isn't overly flowery. But the commentary gives so much more detail into this moment, and I'm left wishing those details had made their way into the poem.

Also, a moment of happiness! Huzzah! It's fleeting, but it's definitely there. Am I detecting more optimism?
Another depression poem, sure, but easily the best one yet. It has the specific moment, where you're lying in bed trying to understand what you're feeling. And while you aren't able to understand, that philosophical thought process shows (not tells) you're trying to at least understand. Which, at least in my experience, is the biggest slope to overcome. It's not smooth sailing from there, but it's easier, and I enjoy watching you approach the peak. Not the suffering, specifically, but the journey. Mostly because I know you're still kicking today. Context is having a huge effect on this anthology.
Oh no, you've found existential angst. I need to bring back the comics.


Image source: xkcd

Yeah, existentialism ≠ fatalism. Meaningless doesn't preclude happiness. And even if it did, the possibility of meaning, however small it may be, is enough of a reason to go on. See Pascal's Wager if you're still relating to this poem.

Oh, and the poem's technicals are uncharacteristically sloppy. Very loose structure, start-and-stop rhythm, line breaks used seemingly randomly. Empty Clock's definitely a regression, both in your mood and your poetry.
Coincidentally, also your longest poem yet. Unfortunately, I don't see much substance here. IDK as well. I'm sure a more pretentious sort can craft a metaphor, but all I see is a pretty picture. It's your longest poem yet not because there's more happening, but a massive chunk of the wordcount's devoted to imagery. Nice of past you to experiment, but I don't think it worked out.
My thoughts aren't too provoked. Pens and pencils are inanimate objects, they are the product of a complex globalized manufacturing process, yadda yadda something about sweatshops. I've thought through this ethical dilemma before, it's shaped my politics, also I'm an anarchist. You probably don't want to hear political ramblings in your poetrys' reviews.

The last line, though. I like that. Writers create media, media has power, with great power comes great responsibility. It's hinting at philosophical aesthetics (the study of art), with some implication that perhaps writers can be held ethically responsible for the works they create. Or at least, that's a thought it provoked out of me. I'm definitely biased, but I suppose the poem did it's job in the end.
Your poetry's definitely getting more complex. On the technical side of things, there's a strong structure, with each stanza following a similar rhythm. It's a little too choppy to be sung out loud, but the fact I'm even mentioning that shows how far you've come. And I had to think about it a bit before realising this is about the end of all living things. Death for everyone, hooray! I think that subtlety lands it in a sweet spot for me; lots of edge, but not overly edgelord. Easily your most metal poem yet. Very much enjoyed it, and you can tackle quite the range of topics, I see.
Thank you for mentioning demisexualization in your author's notes, it makes this mini-review a lot less awkward. Because the poem is, uh...well, you said it yourself. This was made to help you sort out your own feelings, and it shows. It's less a poem and more an essay; the structure's all over the place, with bloated stanzas of racing thoughts. From the way it's paced, it reads like you weren't in a good place. I feel uncomfortable reading it, and not in a good way. It's like intruding into your thoughts when you were in a very vulnerable period. And since I don't know how this "relationship" turns out, I don't feel comfortable reading this poem.

If you're comfortable, give a little more detail into how you dealt with these thoughts in the author's notes. This poem needs more context.
I'm gonna level with you here. Fuck haikus. Their structure is extremely limited for no benefit; they're at best a crutch for forcing creativity. I don't care about the formula, I care about what it produces.

That rant out of me, we seem to be back to pretty picture poetry. Which I would criticize, but the author's notes tell me this was written as a coping skill. I've noticed that's coming up more and more, which is something I don't want to disincentivize. I'm not a pretty pictures guy myself, but if it helps you take your mind off things, you do you.
So this poem's inspired by a breakup? I guess that makes sense, but the actual text is vague enough I wouldn't have known without the author's notes. And not only is it vague, it's so drenched in symbolism that you probably could've written this without the inspiration. Which in turn makes the poem on par with someone spouting unspecific inspirational quotes. And the technicals, we've got the start-and-stop rhythm caused by too many line breaks again. This poem definitely feels like a regression.
Let me level with you again. I used to be a drummer before moving into an apartment/running out of money (drum kits are expensive). I have a natural tendency for rhythm; if I'm reading poetry, I'm subconsciously trying to find the beat, however complex it might be. And the way you're using line breaks kills any potential beat. If you need to highlight a particular line, make its own stanza. Add extra spacing if you need. Pick when to hit the ENTER key carefully, because you're implying a short pause that gets longer the more times you press ENTER.

Technical annoyance aside, this poem's missing something. There's a narrative of being scammed that makes more concrete symbolism than The Breeze I Once Knew, but the narrator doesn't do much to build sympathy. The way they're talking, they fell for a scam and got burnt bad, but they're also aware it's a scam? The line "I was granted a day's visit" muddies the waters for me. If they knew it was a bad idea going in, it's hard to give sympathy.

Also, "nevermore" in poetry is forever associated with Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. It's a weird word choice unless you're intentionally referencing the poem. If that was your intent, I don't see much connection; I'd recommend against using words just because you've seen others use them. For instance, "shamandalie" is accidentally effective, but it strikes me as dangerously close to plagiarism.
This one's another that needs more Show, Don't Tell. It's your preachiest poem yet, succumbing to overgeneralizations over how others experience grief. If you want to preach, there's ways to do it, but you have to build credibility. There are literally billions of people, and you better bet there's billions who've suffered grief. Cut the flowery language and don't claim to speak for anyone but yourself, and then you can describe the process of grief. As the poem stands, it's far down on your anthology's totem pole.
Wait, what? I think this poem's contradicting itself. It's clearly a personal anthem, which is a good starting point, but I'm left confused by your demands. Like, if you want me to "feed you horrible truths", then why do you want your uncomfortable memories to be forgotten? There's this denial/acceptance contradiction that's not addressed, leaving me scratching my head. Whatever thoughts your trying to get across, they seem to be lost in translation.
All right, this one's more cohesive. Those contradictions I mentioned in Canst Not Be Undone seem to be being acknowledged and questioned. That said, the subject matter's starting to get stale. I think one furiously edited poem inspired by this particular breakup would've made better poetry than the deluge of poems all tackling the same subject matter. And the flowery last stanza here seems like a lot of words saying very little. Still, Recursion is the highest quality poem so far to come from this particular bit of inspiration, in my humble opinion.
I was really enjoying this one until the closing two lines. "Death...(dramatic pause) of my heart" is kiddie talk, the heart isn't literally the center of emotion, it's a simplification we keep around so we can send heart emojis and explain complicated subjects to kids. But even those line, albiet misdirected, are showing your technical skills grow. It's a bad line, but the ellipses and line break have your in full control of the poem's pacing. And the rest of the poem has that technical skill; it's well structured, not exactly sing-out-loud rhythmic abut there is a tight, controlled flow thanks to some clever use of grammah. And it amplifies each line; this is the first poem of yours I'd call professional.

But the sentiment, the regret...I felt it, until those two lines reveal this wasn't some one-night stand where you immediately realise you've made a mistake. This is a poem about a long-term relationship, but it's written as if thesw feelings were instantaneous. The kiss literally kills your heart; there's no poison mentioned, so the mental image I'm getting is your heart literally exploding. And since the heart is not literally the center of emotion, the rest of the poem falls apart. Because you're dead. It's a distracting plot hole, you being dead and somehow still writing. I can see so much potential here, but those two lines are just too big a mistake.
Not bad! Wouldn't call it your best work, but racing thoughts is a specific, gripping topic. I'm not sure if you've ever done intake at any mental health facility, but in my personal experience, every place asks if you've experienced racing thoughts. Just saying your thoughts are going in circles is a shortcut to deep emotion.

That said, the technicals are diminishing the effect. Racing thoughts, thinking the same thing over and over again, going in a circle — they're accelerating. A key feature is how fast they take over your brain, but Cyclic Redundancy Error uses lots of ellipses and line breaks. It's a slow-paced poem that doesn't match the fast-paced subject. In a way, it's the inverse of Kiss the Star of Death, where your technicals were spot-on but the subject matter fell flat. Between the two, I much prefer Cyclic Redundancy Error; the topic is much more raw and even a little scary, regardless of the technicals. If we could only get the best of both worlds in one poem...
The second stanza's the clear winner. Light and darkness as figurative concepts don't have any intrinsic meaning; throwing them around before firmly establishing the metaphor is just flowery language. But the second stanza does establish that metaphor, and it was a thought-provoking one, too. I'm not fully on-board with the sentiment — if someone's having a tough time, they deserve help. But I'll admit a lot of "help" is less helpful than people think. If you aren't a trained professional, you need to think really hard before coming to someone's aid. Experts are experts for a reason, and sometimes, you gotta admit you're not an expert. I think this poem is going to stick with me for quite a while, actually. Well done.
Tricky one to review for me. I don't see any glaring criticisms, but it's just not clicking. The subject matter is relatable abd probably should work, but I think the poem's just a little too preachy for my tastes. There needs to be specifics, examples, situations where masks are used. Perhaps the relatability is nulling the lack of Show, Don't Tell. I'm a human being, I have biases. There's perhaps some guilty pleasure to Mask, but it's not enough for my tastes.
Not sure there's much to say about this one. It's a simple poem about becoming the mask, and it works for what it is. It's not particularly ambitious, but it's not really flawed. Perhaps I've seen the "becoming the mask" trope too many times for this poem to have much an effect. It works, and that's about it.
Awwwww. This is heartwarming and heartbreaking at the same time. I appreciate how it's not explicitly a metaphor, because the literal narrative is bittersweet. And the reader can add their own figurative meaning on top this poor, neglected doll. Personally, this poem brings to mind a porcelain doll at a modern toy store, overshadowed by all the fancier toys on the shelves because time's always moving and the porcelain doll's out of date.

I think I love this poem. Among your work, it's in a league of it's own.
Again, not much to say. It's a frivolous poem, but it works. I don't think you need an in-depth analysis on these three lines, they speak for themselves.
More philosophy, I see. Honestly, by this point, I was hoping your knowledge of philosophy had expanded, but this is still beginner level. This poem's (perhaps accidentally) drawing from the Ship of Theseus, a philosophical story of a ship that is slowly but completely renovated until it's completely unrecognizable when it returns to its original port. Whether that ship is still the same ship, that's where it gets meatier. Though you do spice that up with some language philosophy, but again, pretty basic stuff. Then again, I'm someone who actually has an active interest in philosophy, so this poem might just be too basic for me.


And finally...

Overall, I was pleasantly surprised! If I had to guess, you're a casual poet, writing what you feel without much care for tradition. And that led to a lot of challenging poetry; while there are some that are bad, there's sone that're good, and most all are interesting in one form or another. I'm someone who likes really digging in deep into whatever I read, yet I never found myself with reviewer's writer block. You really provoked a spark in my head, in case this pile of reviews didn't make that obvious.

If I had to give some general criticism, I think your poetry would be better if it was rawer. I noticed sometimes you would muddy metaphors or over-romanticize when writing poetry based on real events. I'd like to see you attempt a blunt, direct approach where instead of stating your feelings, you just put to paper scenes from your life and let them speak for themselves. The author's notes, even the brief ones, gave me enough context to appreciate where each poem comes from. I think putting that context into the poem itself, making poetry that's self-evident; it seems like your next step to becoming a master. You've practiced poetry enough that your technicals can impress in their own right; I think you're capable of some damn good poems if you can find the right subject matter. What that woukd be, I wouldn't know it until I see it, but you seem an interesting enough person that you probably have stories to tell.
#5: Artificial Lumination
#4: Stream Fiend
#3: An Ode to Writer's Block
#2: Reach
#1: Porcelain Doll

And Porcelain Doll wins the Snuggle Tier List Personal Favorite Award! It's a very coveted prize probably.

Hope this lump of reviews isn't overwhelming. Again, thanks for posting your collection! It's nice not to be the only poet around. And maybe post a few more, #peerpressure?
 
Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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  • Opening words: It's easy for me to think of nothing while looking at all the years numerically, and so quantifying the amount of years (twenty) made me do an "Oh. Yeah."
  • Organisation: Should be pretty easy to move the author's commentary, I'll take care of it sometime after this post. (I'll probably also add a changelog section, especially considering "Kiss the Star of Death".)
  • (Cavort of Spring): I meant to say that it was my high school's literary magazine, but I suppose it's still technically published. I'll add "high school" into the commentary, thanks for the catch. X)
  • Ode to Writer's Block: One of the things I wanted to mention in the author's commentary was that one of my classmates "suggested" (not quite the word I'm looking for, but it's early for me XD) that I name it "Ode to Sarcasm" instead or at least a comment of that sort of nature. Pretty much the most I remember of that event is "Ode to Sarcasm", "a classmate", and reading our odes to the class, which makes it hard for me to fill in the blanks enough at this point to provide a decently solid comment.
  • Torment of a Paradox: I didn't quite think about to add more to the situation in the commentary since I was more focused at getting the anthology together at the time and glimpsing through all the poems while doing so was not helping my mood at all. After I felt I had my feelings sorted out, I talked to her about it and she handled it well - it didn't impact our friendship any. And then a bit after this there was another female friend I decided to date... Probably more to response to come about that for the next few-ish poems. As for how I dealt with the thoughts, I think I might've spent time alone while mulling over it, but I really don't remember.
  • (untitled - Haiku Pair) to Porcelain Doll: I'm clumping these together even though I haven't read your reviews on all of them yet, but to continue on with what I was saying in the previous response, I dated her for a couple months before (stupidly) spending the time/money to go see her, and it didn't turn out all that well. Now that I think about it though, it makes me wish I had heard of touch starvation back then, since that was pretty much the reason I went to go see her.
  • Canst Not Be Undone: I feel like I want to agree with you, but I also need to clear my mind/mood before I do that and provide a proper response. Hmm, I can't recall too much from back then, so it might've been a sort of "words to paper" poem that probably reflects how messy my mind was with the contradictions and lack of clarity (in no defence to myself). I'll have to agree with you that the thoughts were lost in translation.
  • Kiss the Star of Death: Needless to say, it definitely wasn't a one night stand (especially when I've mentioned it in an above reply, which I could move down here, but would probably throw off the ordering some). I can definitely see what you're talking about with the last two lines (now that I've "turned off" the author side of me and "turned on" the more analytical side), and I feel like I want to edit them out, but also I do want to preserve the original text... Maybe I'll go back and edit it. I don't think I ever touch my poems after I write them, so everything presented here is its original appearance (except for "Once and Last Time Together" which I originally had missed typing "a" at "a companion".
  • Porcelain Doll: I actually had been writing about how I felt at that time (for the most part, I think) and put it into a porcelain doll metaphor, so either it's so subtle that it's difficult to pick up, or maybe I don't have a problem picking it up because I am the author (it doesn't bother me if people don't pick up on it though, I doubt it was the original intention). This poem also marks the end of that period of time of dealing with the heartbreak (hence why it's part of the above clump).
  • 名前: I think the draw from the Ship of Theseus a bit more coincidental, and while it seems familiar (based on the provided synopsis), I wouldn't be able to say for certain if I've read it or when if so.
  • Closing thoughts: Yep, I write poetry casually, usually when inspiration strikes or as a coping mechanism. I'll try to keep everything in mind if/when I write another.
  • Top Five list: I'm not too surprised with "Stream Fiend" and "Ode to Writer's Block" in this list, though this may be because they were mentioned in a certain other thread. "Reach" was a bit surprising to see here (I probably would've been more surprised if I looked at this list before reading any of the reviews), since I clumped it into the same period of time with the other poems I wrote to cope with my feelings at that time. "Artificial Lumination" isn't too surprising either, probably also because I read the review first, but I'm not sure if I would be surprised if I looked at the list beforehand. I think the case is fairly similar to "Reach" in where I've mentally clumped it to the other poems at that time, so it becomes a "negative by association" sorta thing. I guess also the same with "Porcelain Doll", though the lack of surprise is because that other thread post. XD
  • Ending words: The amount of reviews was fine, I did post a huge slew of poems after all. XD The only poems I have left are the ones I skipped over in those notepads, and a few that mention a specific person (which I feel don't deserve to see the light of day because of it). I also have a short philosophical musing piece, though maybe too basic (based on your review of 「名前」) and preachy (based on your other reviews). I also have some exercise stuff from my senior-year creative writing class (which aren't really poems, but at least are complete), and also the set of poems for the same class (which I'd rather leave buried since I was really forcing myself to try to write them... stupid requirements... >.>).
Great to actually have reviews for once instead of (1) "I like the contrast" comment or something to that effect that I received for "(untitled - Bowls)" on deviantArt or just view counts, or (2) a like on Facebook ("Porcelain Doll"). I don't like the ugly feeling that comes with receiving criticism, but I always do what I can to take it into account for the future (it was somewhere around "The Breeze I Once Knew" and "Agony" when it hit me hard, and was why I had to take a step back before my reply to "Canst Not Be Undone"). Again, a lot of these poems were "write once, move on", so they're in the form I was content with back when I wrote it (I did play around with word choice with some while writing).

I've been a bit philosophical growing up (I think starting somewhere around sixth grade?), but never really went too deep with it, probably just enough for the passing thoughts when I was in that mood, and likely why it's fairly basic in a sense (along with it remaining fairly basic when it's mixed in).

I've never been to a psychiatrist for the stuff I was dealing with, and I think it would've accelerated a lot of the healing and understanding had I thought to. Well, I don't think it matters too much how it happens or how it's done as long as the end result is the same.

While I did use "depression" in the commentary, it was the easier way to "generalise" it instead of really getting into it...
I'll try to keep this concise... Anyway, I have been victim of mental abuse (maybe a bit of emotional abuse too), but I doubt my dad was really aware that he was doing such a thing. In short though, because of all that, I've had a low self-esteem and low self-worth for quite a long time (I've been working on both myself within the last few years). Anyway though, while I did have a lot of suicidal thoughts "earlier" in my life (about late 2000 to 2005), it was sometime during high school I came to the conclusion (for a lack of better wording) that it wouldn't be worth it. This is something I could elaborate on (and may make a bit more sense why it was hard to choose the right words), but it requires getting deeper into the "core" of myself, which is really something that I'd really only talk about with someone I feel that I can trust. Anyway, seeing a lot of articles/posts/etc. within the past few years has really helped me gain enough of an understanding to be able to do what I can to reverse or heal the damage. I ended up ranting a bit, but as I'm thinking about it now, perhaps I should change "depression" in the commentary to "probably depression"... It's the least of my concern in comparison to the other fixes above.

I think the only real other thing to say is to thank you for taking your time to read and give your thoughts on all of them. (If I had anything else, it's gone at this point.)

  • changelog
  • move author's commentary above poem body
  • more commentary for "Torment of a Paradox"
  • more commentary for stuff after? probably at least "touch starvation"?
  • add original text section for "Kiss the Star of Death"? (last two lines would be in the commentary anyway...) [tentative]
  • remove the last two lines of "Kiss the Star of Death" [tentative]
  • a bit more commentary for "Kiss the Star of Death" because changes [tentative]
  • change "depression" to something like "probably depression" in commentary? (least concern) [tentative]
 
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What I tell you three times is true.
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Completely forgot to emphasize and I'm kicking myself for it now; my reviews are my personal thoughts on your poems. They're not me imposing some objective standard, and I'm going into this with baggage of my own (for instance, your dad reminds me of my dad). And to be as honest as I can possibly be: if any of these poems helped you through tough times, you have full right to say "screw the critics, this poem is for me". Sucks it's so hard to get a second opinion, but if you can, I'd seek it out. The best experience I've found is when detailed reviewers disagree and you can freely pick without peer pressure.

Tl;DR I get nervous doing detailed analysis of fan fiction because I'm worried writers will take my reviews as objective fact, so I'm showing my post-review anxiety I always seem to get.
 
Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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Ah, no worries. I didn't take anything personally, and the tweak of "Kiss the Star of Death" makes sense, so it's why I want to fix it. I have less of an attachment to my poems than my stories (probably because I invested much less time in the poems), so I'm open to fixing them if the reasoning makes sense. (Plus, it's not like younger me can time travel and yell at me for changing it anyway. XDD)

But yeah, The others will be left alone since there's no reason for me to go back and fix them up to become something... Speaking of Ship of Theseus... XD
 
Hungry Munchlax
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I have read about half of the poems and I liked what I read (it reminds me of my own dysphoric love poems xD).
My poem/written collection isn't nearly as big as yours, as I don't rant or express my feelings through writing that often. It did make me think of writing more, which I could, in the future.
 
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Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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I have read about half of the poems and I liked what I read (it reminds me of my own dysphoric love poems xD).
My poem/written collection isn't nearly as big as yours, as I don't rant or express my feelings through writing that often. It did make me think of writing more, which I could, in the future.
I can't remember if I said it before, but writing poems was an out for me, and I think it helped me through whatever I was going through at least a little if not a lot. (I'm still waking up at the moment, so trying to think back atm is easier said than done.)

-
Also as a side note in general: I did end up finding a couple or so works that was physically buried. Besides having to unbury them again (I was after something else when I found them), I'd have to see if it's something I want to add to the anthology. The most I can say about them right now though, is that they were written probably around late 2006 to early 2007, so pretty much around the "notepad era". We'll see what happens later, I guess X)
 
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Hungry Munchlax
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The anthology is already pretty sizeable, so I don't know if it needs more poems. Up to you though X)
 
名前
Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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名前
Name (Romanisation: "namae")
Pretty sure I wrote this in 2015, at least that's what the file tag says anyway.
what is
a name?

what is in
a name?

what is it
to be named?
to have a name?
to carry a name?
to share a name?
to give a name?
to take a name?
to receive a name?
to rescind a name?

what is a name?

a name
makes something unique
but makes things the same.

we give names
to make something known…
to give something a spirit…
to give something a soul.
to bind something.

do we have a right
to give something a name?
to take a name from something?

what is it when something
rejects the name given?
takes another name?

if something
is renamed…
takes another name…
does the soul change?
is it reborn?

if a name is taken away
does it cease to exist?

what is the meaning of a name?
what is in the meaning of a name?

to carry a name
is a burden.
to rescind a name
is to break the bond.

to have a name
is to be.
 
le masque
Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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le masque
the mask
I think it might've been sometime in 2014 when I wrote this? I think "Porcelain Doll" might've been between this and "Mask"? And I'm also decently sure this came after "Mask".
i am the mask you see,
i am the mask you choose,
i am the mask that's yours.

i am the mask you wear,
i am the mask they see,
i am the mask you become.

i am the mask you chose,
i am the mask that stays,
i am the mask you became.
 
Shinobu's Pet Wolf
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Sorry to trigger a new post notification and bumping the thread, just me tweaking stuff. ^^;
 
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