Currently Untitled

[Erthona]

*Currently has no title, so if one comes to you please let me know. This was originally written in an uninspired slump and once the ball started rolling, well, this happened. All criticism is welcome!


I’m somewhere caught between inspiration (remove "something")
and crumpling up every idea I have. (This seems an unnecessarily awkward)

In the middle of the day, I am at work slicing pizza
("I am at work slicing pizza" keep this and throw out everything else from the first two lines)
for a round man wearing a Van Halen tank top,
thinking about writing this poem, (and)
ignoring the sweat on my forehead.

When there’s nothing of substance left,
I write about writing.
There are no rolling hills or vanquishing oceans
to afford my dim Word documents. (This doesn't relate much to the next stanza, which seems to be your main point, I would suggest removing)

There’s this girl I’ve exhausted with metaphors
and enjambed to the edge of a cliff
yet no lofty ode could satisfy what I wish to express
about the poison and the cure provided by her eyes. (good stanza)

Observing sad people in bland settings does not
push me to create like it should,
but causes me to feel upset at my lack of seasoning,
my lack of internal material.
Those sad wrinkled fingers should be the ones
writing my poems.

With an awkward amount time on my hands
and at the brink of a new best idea,
I default to the winds and hide in my head
like a hermit with the secret desire to know every
corner of this confounding world.

The fourth stanzas is a great deal better than your other stanzas. I also think it's your most coherent point. You are going way out of your way, word wise, to basically say I have writer's block. There are skills to writing this rambling sort of poem. Two basic ones are cadence, and incidental rhyme to create energy for the poem. Neither are in existence here as far as I can tell. Instead of giving energy to the reader, it sucks energy from the reader.

Sorry, I can't be more positive, but except for the fourth stanza, nothing else seems inspired.


Dale