Care to comment/critique this random little poem?

Question

"Knowing One Truth"

I do not weep for angels,
nor claim to see the dead.
I write the world in black and white
while everyone sees red.

Three faces and three names I have,
six reasons and one lie.
I know not who or what I am,
but ask you, who am I?

I speak in whimsy without wit,
I bleed four shades of green,
an artist with scarred hands and tongue
that ever speaks obscene. 

I fix I break I falter,
I dance without a tune,
a song within my head that says
all dancing must end soon.

I am no sage or mystic,
no prophet priest or queen,
just smeary words on pages,
in ink too dark, unclean.

And once I wrote free verses,
each line with its own time,
but now I cage and conquer words
in prisons made of rhyme.

So I laugh aloud at weddings,
and yes, at funerals too.
I do not weep for angels, dear,
I cannot cry for you.

Anonymous · Accepted Answer

I am reading.  And this poem is all the parts of your psyche and wild woman is orator.

jagdeesh · Answer

maximum of all, i choose a poem to make sense. If a poem basically is sensible to the poet then they haven't any company showing it to individuals. i do unlike being perplexed and that i'm confident individuals do no longer the two.

. · Answer

I didn't get goosebumps, my normal measuring device for excellent poetry, but rather I found myself smiling broader and broader as I read this delightful piece! So impressed!

andy · Answer

even though i don't understand the meaning i like your rhythm and use of words/vocabulary

Anonymous · Answer

Bravo! I smile to you. :) :) :) 
______________________

(Oh, mia bellissima)

Men dream of dames' angelic perfection
brusquely are inspired by divine strophes
because females are conferring affection
to those who survived war catastrophes.

Gallant warriors expect dames' embraces
and when noblest ladies bestow honors
a whipped cream cappuccino leaves traces,
(lol) on their beards and darkened colors..

Oh, mia bellissima, soldati sing to the gals,
Donne will throw roses amor' to comprise,
while uomini cantano from Venetian canals
atop gondolas, alzar' their baritone highs.

Enigmatic eyes stare erotically from blinds
as the bearded gondollieri amount on arias
the well-favored dames involuntarily grind,
as flower petals unfold, pensieri of dahlias.

Light diminishes, as passion needs dusk;
lint-laced contesse aspettano to be favored
and gentiluomini soldati perfumed with musk
sing to signorinas who wish to be flavored.

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Care to comment/critique this random little poem?

5 Answers