My Poetry Sucks

Guess what? During my last sleepless night I found a site where you can get your poems critiqued as well as critique other people's poems.

So I submitted my poem January 15, 1947 to see what people would say about it.

While commenters tried to be nice, the general concesus is it sucks.

Sucks the big pickle.

One redeeming thought: They at least thought it wasn't "above the typical level of bad poetry." Yeah, that warms the cockles.

I am excited about some of the crits, though, as they told me WHY it sucked. Maybe I can learn how to actually write a decent poem.

Than again, maybe not. We'll see.

Dahlia

Your eyes, your lips, your skin, your hair; I knew I must preserve you
Settled when the white-hot electric shock coursed down my spine
You would be my masterpiece

Lust is for school boy crushes and back seat romance
This was epic, more than mortal, more than power, eternal
You must be my masterpiece

Beauty fades, but yours will never; years, decades, eons unchanged
Enshrined in stark reality, achieving your fame dearly bought by infamy
You will be my masterpiece

As I lay you on the grass, placing you just as I had pictured it before
Beautiful butchery sealing your memory, no one but you and I understand
Forever, you are my masterpiece