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    Here's a poem I wrote. Not my best, and maybe a bit pretentious, but I see no reason not to get a second opinion.

    The Southern Coast

    Above a rat-red coughing shore,
    Beneath the frail chalked-up cliffs of white,
    The dying cliffs of age,
    Of rocky age,
    Of rocky age, tumult of the sage,
    Beneath those desperate cliffs so tall and slight,
    A truth awaits and trembles.

    So dark beneath the half-torn sky,
    That ancient tear between two clouds of grey,
    This murky scene awaits,
    This murky scene,
    This murky scene which seemed so bright so clean,
    Damned to the faded recesses that sway,
    Sway with the frail ballpoint.

    The poet whispers in his art,
    Of something he has grasped and made his own,
    Through the chisel and the knife,
    That twisting knife,
    That twisting knife which pierces the strife,
    And moulds such images of sharpened groans,
    A perfect form of flaws.

    We paupers who ever-wanting crawl,
    Who cannot sway or fade or form our thought,
    Onto frail cliffs must we gaze,
    The grasping gaze,
    The grasping gaze of lives with weights in daze,
    And such concoction trapped with what we wrought,
    The tumult of the sages.
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    i enjoyed it ! so many poems on TSR are about boring relationship break-ups... nice to find something different.

    not sure about rat-red... in my experience they tend to be grey ? but hey, that's just me.

    i loved the phrase "frail ballpoint"... very impactful.

    :bear:

    PS have you thought of centering the text like this ?

    The Southern Coast

    Above a rat-red coughing shore,
    Beneath the frail chalked-up cliffs of white,
    The dying cliffs of age,
    Of rocky age,
    Of rocky age, tumult of the sage,
    Beneath those desperate cliffs so tall and slight,
    A truth awaits and trembles.

    So dark beneath the half-torn sky,
    That ancient tear between two clouds of grey,
    This murky scene awaits,
    This murky scene,
    This murky scene which seemed so bright so clean,
    Damned to the faded recesses that sway,
    Sway with the frail ballpoint.

    The poet whispers in his art,
    Of something he has grasped and made his own,
    Through the chisel and the knife,
    That twisting knife,
    That twisting knife which pierces the strife,
    And moulds such images of sharpened groans,
    A perfect form of flaws.

    We paupers who ever-wanting crawl,
    Who cannot sway or fade or form our thought,
    Onto frail cliffs must we gaze,
    The grasping gaze,
    The grasping gaze of lives with weights in daze,
    And such concoction trapped with what we wrought,
    The tumult of the sausages.
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    I prefer the text uncentered!
    It's rally good tho!
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    Thank you both I agree on the "red-rat" thing, that was just 'cause it sounded good in my head .

    Not 100% sure about having in centred- it works for a lot of poems, but I kinda like having it to the side in this one .
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    (Original post by Tufto)
    Here's a poem I wrote. Not my best, and maybe a bit pretentious, but I see no reason not to get a second opinion.

    The Southern Coast

    Above a rat-red coughing shore,
    Beneath the frail chalked-up cliffs of white,
    The dying cliffs of age,
    Of rocky age,
    Of rocky age, tumult of the sage,
    Beneath those desperate cliffs so tall and slight,
    A truth awaits and trembles.

    So dark beneath the half-torn sky,
    That ancient tear between two clouds of grey,
    This murky scene awaits,
    This murky scene,
    This murky scene which seemed so bright so clean,
    Damned to the faded recesses that sway,
    Sway with the frail ballpoint.

    The poet whispers in his art,
    Of something he has grasped and made his own,
    Through the chisel and the knife,
    That twisting knife,
    That twisting knife which pierces the strife,
    And moulds such images of sharpened groans,
    A perfect form of flaws.

    We paupers who ever-wanting crawl,
    Who cannot sway or fade or form our thought,
    Onto frail cliffs must we gaze,
    The grasping gaze,
    The grasping gaze of lives with weights in daze,
    And such concoction trapped with what we wrought,
    The tumult of the sages.
    Really nice mate. Wish there was more poems and stuff on here that people would post. Might post one myself :yes:



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