[x]

SurgeryI’ve got a scalpel in my left hand; the first incision is complete
Here goes the first round of open-heart surgery
I’m trying to pry you open, I’m trying to get under your skin
But after everything they’ve told me, I don’t know where to begin
I don’t know if you’re broken, I don’t know what to fix
I don’t know the cogs and springs inside that make you tick
I’ve cut you open to examine your insides
But all I see are throbbing organs; I cannot see the source of life
Your eyes are staring at me, but I cannot see a thing
All I see are your pretty pupils… glittering
And the more I tr

Hello? Can anyone see me?

“Hello? Can anyone see me?”
A statistical guide to your lack of popularity.

Some days you wake up, log onto dA, and an empty message centre is the only thing greeting you. “Wait a minute,” you say to yourself. “I have all these people watching me, so why aren’t I getting any insightful commentary on my latest story, no crazy ravings/favings on my latest fan art, and not even any insults on my most recent blurry picture of my hamster.”

Seems strange, huh? But don’t worry, it has a very logical explanation:

19% of the people who watched you had no intention of ever interacting with you again. Maybe th

How Not To Be a N00B

We've all seen them. N00bs. The lowest of the low on the internet, despised and bashed from all sides by older "elitist" forumers and chatters.

Although I don't condone this kind of treatment of the newbies on the internet, I do realize that there's little I can do to help that on the veterans' end. I can, however, do my best to educate newbies in how to at least make themselves look intellectual.

All right, down to business:

1) Don't post in all caps. Phrases and sentences written in all capital letters is the internet equivalent of shouting at someone. Whole posts written in nothing but caps looks idiotic at best, regardless of your moo

NYC Art SceneHe sells paintings of the faraway
Every day
On the corner of eighth street
Next to cart from the Asian food mart
With egg rolls and lo mein

But watercolors are cliché
Some say
And pop art is all the rage
So he’s passed by by the New York socialites
Who prefer Warhol over Monet

And he’s not doing well enough to stay in the city
Cause food is expensive and talk is cheap
And the lovers are in prison while the haters are free
And no-one pays attention to an artist on the street
No, no-one pays attention to an artist on the street.

Maybe you should try a new style,
Says the girl on the cell phone
You haven’t so

Maybe Tomorrow               Morning tries
          Offering its love,
       Mourning night
         a
          y
         b
       Exclaims Sun,
          No-one believes in
             Tomorrow

We Dream Reality- CollabWe are merely schoolchildren;
The bell has gone and rang.
Now that school is over,
We continue with our game.
Sitting on the grass and looking
Up into the trees,
Birds sit, resting softly;
We imagine different things.

We see clear skies above,
The mountains rise before us,
Crystal monuments on the earth.
An eagle’s cry is hear on the wind,
As two armies clash on the plains,
Their blood drenches their blades,
And it stains the ground below.
Our dreams cannot last forever.

Our tree house is our castle,
We stay in it until evening light,
Pretending we are soldiers
Engaging in a bloody fight.
But we tire ourselves out,
R

Observations I often find myself chuckling
at my own jokes
To fill in the silence
Left by the absence of
Other people's laughter;
The best punchlines are always
Imagined after the fact;
When a teen writes about
Death, true love, he's
a romantic, emo, a fool
When an adult writes the same
He's a bestseller;
People always applaud
the challenge overcome,
but the challenge avoided
in the first place
is rarely acknowl

SincerelyHe was a shy one, as kids go,
Sinking into the background
We’dve never thought him the kind
Who would stick around, and hang around

He didn’t really know his place,
but I guess he was okay
He smiled at the right times,
Laughed at all the punch lines
And made it through the day

It was in that moment we were in the moment
And at that minute we knew were infinite
To the point where we couldn’t
See ourselves at all

“What do you think of her?” he asked
I guess she was sorta sweet
And she was never really “there”
Just like the rest of us
Never seeming complete

It was in that moment we were in th

She Puts the Weights

She Puts the Weights

She is hosting a party; I drift, incongruous,
anchored arm in arm,
as tides of unknown faces
flow around, eager and pale.
The scene greys and ripples
in ominous disquiet, my eyes glass
and soon I breathe solidity – weighted,
bottomed, I rest.

*

I sit alone, surrounded by still air,
let thoughts step careful, balance,
see plain skies spread, multiply to distance,
see ground sink out beneath, accelerate, then tumble,
scenes swirl, shoes trip and breath catches —
but she holds me close, holds me firm.

*

That night we walk the riverfront
and watch the stars drown in reflection.

A Guide to Positive Critiques

A Positive Critique:

• Does not solely concentrate on a poem's weak points, but tempers constructive criticism with acknowledgment of the good features.
• Is not made up of comments like "well done" or emoticons, as they do not explain why the poem is well written. Comments and emoticons belong in the introduction and summary only.
• A knowledge of technical poetic terms is desirable, but not necessary, to be able to provide constructive criticism.
• Try to keep your thoughts focused on the poem and how it affects you as the reader.
• Explain why you liked or disliked the poem; don't just state the emotion it triggered.
•

An afternoon on the swings“Now, aren’t you an odd sight?” She placed her hands on her hips and gave me an odd look. “What are you, my age?”
“I couldn’t say. You didn’t tell me your age, but I won’t be rude as to ask.”
“Fair enough,” she replied, turning around to address a small girl. “Stop playing in the dirt. You know that Mom and Dad won’t let you dirty up the house. Why don’t you go play on the jungle gym?”

She turned back to me. Her little sister, she explained. “So, what exactly is a sharply dressed man doing sitting on a swing in a park on a Saturday afternoon?”

All that Once was MineI once thought that
A brain
And a heart
Was enough to get by in this world
Where I’d know everything there was to know
About everything, and everyone,
But I could put it into context
Whereas those without soul have no context
In their lives
And they go around
With empty knowledge
And loaded brains
With the one thing they don’t know
Being where to unload
It all.

And then as soon
As I stepped into school
My brain became the center
Of ridicule
Turns out smart isn’t all
It’s made up to be,
You’re a nerd
A geek
A loner
An elitist
Think you’re better
Than everyone else?
Well, think again.
Bu

Blackened Ash on Wooden FloorsBlackened ash on wooden floors,
The darkness reaches through the door.
Opens wide the soul and peers
Into all your petty fears.

Nothing better seems to come in death,
Your dying shame veils your final breath.
These shaking hands, they guide your pen to heart,
Writing notes to those from whom you depart

And when the time comes, it matters not
The goals in life that you have sought.
You seem afraid that there are none,
But no-one cares what you have done.

Nothing better seems to come in death,
Your dying shame veils your final breath.
And with each step, the lighting starts to fade.
And soon enough, you’re walking in the sha

thesesongsarenotaboutyou1.

Thismorning, I
rodebyyourhouse, hoping
You would seeme
soIcould ignoreyou
and keepridinglikeI
didn't knowyou
because I had
stoppedlovingyou months ago
andsoyouwouldknow
I’moveryou
Andwouldfeelguilty
Formakingme the criminal
eventhough I hadnoidea
youwereconsciously avoidingme
until myfriend’sfriend
toldmyfriendwhotoldme
Butwhen I passedyourhouse
Pretendinglike it wasn’t onpurpose
you weren'tthere
so I keptriding
likeIplanned
exceptwhenI reached
the bottomofthehill
Iwasstill
thecriminal.

ii.

Act II Scene IHe begins, "But soft,"
kneeling on the floor, reciting
a bit hesitantly
from Act II, Scene I
While she steadies herself
in flip-flops on top of a desk
But we all know
it's a balcony.
And our teacher stops them
every few lines
to explain what's going on
And we all laugh
At every third word being sex
and every other sentence
Being love
And every metaphor
so cliche and honestly beautiful
It makes us wish we could
be so heartfelt.
But when our teacher asks
if we'd ever been
infatuated,
All heads in the room shake
A few being honest
but with most of us
lying through our teeth.

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Hello, Mrs. ButterflyHello Mrs. Butterfly
What do you think of me?
A bratty little teenager
Trying for sympathy
These white flowers in my hand
You’re determined that they’re fake
Bleached from the blankness of your stare
When I ask if you’re okay.

Hello Mrs. Butterfly
How are you today?
Better off than me, I hope
Now that your love has gone away
The troops’ morale is low, my dear
It’ll soon be at its end
The battle fought, the battle lost
Some of these wounds just won’t mend

So tell me, Mrs. Butterfly
Why won’t you talk to me?
You say that I know nothing
And I’d have to agree
If you lock your soul agains

6: Chasing GhostsThe swing set was my best friend in elementary school. When I first arrived at Lincoln Elementary, at the beginning of third grade, I was the new kid with no friends. Every day at recess, instead of playing ball or running around on the field, I sat on the swing set, reading the fourth Harry Potter book, immersed in the pages. Eventually, I began hanging out with the kids who turned out to be my friends today, creating fake clubs, waging fake gang wars on other clubs, typical elementary school activities. But I always returned to that swing set when I just wanted to think. There was something soothing about the back-and-forth motion of t

5: MessengerThe reflection stared back at me, intent to see something that wasn’t there. But what? What was missing? I’m still trying to find out.

I splashed some water on myself, and looked back up. Still nothing. Walking out of the bathroom, I put on a shirt and shoes, and began walking to school.

As I walked up the street to the high school, I averted my eyes down to the sidewalk. I did not want to look at people’s faces. Sometimes, when I glance into a person’s eyes, I get more than I bargained for.

I’m not sure why it happens, but a few years ago, I began seeing people die. Not dying in front

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the loneliest typewriter

by ~PublicAffairs, May 31, 2009, 4:57:38 PM
Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

Gabriel rosenberg

             has the loneliest typewriter
in the world

          and he doesn,t know what
      to do with it

                          so now it is just sitting
                                       on his desk,
                                                         writing
     its own memoir
                          while certain letters fade
                           and d s ppe r

           and all the value
                        of the snap of the letters
                                onto the page
                      is lost
                  to precision instruments
            that take away the fun
                        in making mystakes
                                         for the world
                         to see
  but life doesn,t have an
                   Undo button

               (it does have secrets)
           and surprises!
         "and conversations"
      but the people
   are more like typewriters
                              than computers

      because they
    get lonely
               too.

the loneliest typewriterby ~PublicAffairs

Literature / Poetry / Humor / Free Verse

Written, in fact, on my typewriter.

Submitted to ~my-dark-desire's Creativity Contest

=SteveJones313 Jun 10, 2009 Professional Writer

Just to let you know, I am working on a critique.

~PublicAffairs Jun 22, 2009

No rush.

~aternity Jun 8, 2009

I really like how the spacing starts out wider at the top and comes to a point, one word, at the bottom-- kinda like a tornado.

" but life doesn,t have an
Undo button"My fav lines. (:

And " while certain letters fade
and d s ppe r" is really creative.

~PublicAffairs Jun 22, 2009

Haha, thanks.

~my-dark-desire Jun 7, 2009

_{thank you very much for you entry :3

please remember to add all the necesary info requeriments or your entry will be ignored

thank you for understanding ^^}

~PublicAffairs Jun 7, 2009

Okay, everything's added.

Thanks.

~Spectrumchaser Jun 1, 2009

Great poem. I love the way you've personified the typewriter, and also the way you've used the "errors" in your poem.

~PublicAffairs Jun 1, 2009

Haha, thanks.

~Spectrumchaser Jun 2, 2009

You're welcome

~Trauermei May 31, 2009

Really good poem. I love "while certain letters fade/ and d s ppe r"-- that was extremely well done. I also liked your last comparison at the end, between people and typewriters.

And as someone who writes only with fountain pens and quills, I kind of understand your attraction to older methods of writing too. ^^

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