This poem is entitled "Train to Nowhere". Please enjoy or dislike to your pleasure.

A sense of ennui
Controls this restless night
An empty taste of fear
Enshrouds it in darkness

I'm wandering alone
With eyes blankly staring
On this never-ending
Street of littered distress

I don't remember where
Humanity decided to go!

Disappearing beneath
The constructed routines
Of public transit lines
I'll sit down and stare out
Into an hypnotic nothingness

Moving - Sliding - Tilting
I'm just a passenger
On the Train to Nowhere
And the last terminal
Is just too far away

I don't remember in which direction
I might be travelling
And I can't recall where
Humanity went wrong

Why do I keep looking at these threads when I know the content is going to be utter shit?

Because you love ripping crappy poetry, and the self esteem of crappy poets, to shreds.

To necessarily rip it to shreds, Prak would need to give reasons as to why my poetry, or anyone else's writings, are utter shit. Otherwise, his opinion can't really be taken seriously, unless he is a renowned and decent writer. Perhaps you'll enjoy this next one entitled "Sector 3 Blues."

Characters brand the lightly mantled streets
Marked with variables of currency
Modernism crowns the flags of style
Honored with contemporary beliefs

Fashionable! Fashionable!
Does this new thought moderate us?
Innovate the neo mortals
Progress! Progress! Is this our font?
Up-to-date

Centers of culture superintend shape
Tasting the cultivation of metal
Letters of impact impress upon us
The serious, grave, dark circumstances

Countries tailor a trendy expression
Cut, cut, dash, dash, they are the flair of life
Specifying the attire for rank
Regulating the rate of chaos

Society! Society!
Disciplining our destiny
What is the flavor of control?
Fortune! Fortune! Is this our font?

Fashionable! Fashionable!
Does this new thought moderate us?
Innovate the neo mortals
Progress! Progress! Is this our font?
Up-to-date

I don't remember in which direction
I might be travelling
And I can't recall where
Humanity went wrong

Okay, so this is about a guy doing nothing, observing nothing, and facinated by nothing, and that summary serves as a review for the both of us.



A sense of ennui
Controls this restless night

We begin with apathy...


An empty taste of fear

Less filling wins over tastes great.


On this never-ending
Street of littered distress

So something happened somewhere to someone...here's where we have a problem.



I don't remember where
Humanity decided to go!

Your world isn't empty. It's just a stage prop.

You're the only player on the stage.

You have no story.

You have no lines.

We've seen this play before.

Best advice I can give you is: Get out of your head. Get outside. Find someone with a better story to tell.

And then find another.

Populate your world.

Best advice I can give you is: Get out of your head. Get outside. Find someone with a better story to tell.

And then find another.

Populate your world.

That's good! I don't want to say that someone's poetry or writing (is necessarily better than another person's on this forum (leave that to more brutal critics), but I would like to bring up this point: we, as writers (yes, I consider myself a writer, but not by profession) must move beyond ourselves for influence and guidance. Then and only then can one's writing be truly great.

here is a poem

oh baby please don't leave me
i forgot my keys
your car it smells like money
like that broken cheese!

In the first poem, the first three stanzas are almost completely unrelated to the second three stanzas. It's like you started with what you wanted to say, and then you realized you had to tie in the metaphor somewhere, which is overused anyways... It's just like anything else you'd read from an amateur poet.

And in the second one, it looked like you went through a thesaurus, randomly picked pages via a wonderful children's poem, and put it together expecting it to make total sense. In other words, jargonizing (yeah, made up a word go me) for the sake of jargonizing.

the best quality of this poem is the fact it ends