Is this about authority or love, or both? revise and then we'll vote. "constantly"

Ridden hard indeed, like a rabid steed. No quarter for God's whores, and so the wreckage from her mouth, it poors.

Did you read Spiritually driven, I think you have? Please look it over, I respect your opinion.

can i get a vote ? Throw me a fuckin bone here.

like a bullet kills bird, is good, in a primitive tone.
How about continuing with like a bullet kills man
like a bullet kills spirit.

I think dropping the a will give the piece a more unified feeling. I really think that this work has emotional value. Keep it up. Stay up.

"Got more soul than a sock with a hole." Doom.

Makes tons of sense that you never made it past base 2 with the dude in the bleachers, perhaps you need a good shave?, or a night light to guide your non spatially aware ass.

I revised that crappiness. I'm completely ready for all negative stabs and jabs. Bring the pain.

Right now the telephone is the heaviest object on Earth.

Goddamn man. You have mentioned at least a dozen truths from my book. After the comment you made I had a sense you were good. Genuine in your condition.

Keep this love alive.

Illustrated passion spreads like new disease

A nice ring to that, and as a whole it's working.

I'm not sure about the reference to the time period, but I think socks have sentimental value for poets.

All this seems a little "unsettling"

as do most beautiful things.

An average but drowsy diary entry might be better recieved from your Grandmother. I like nostalgia, it places us in the present, but this is not a poem.

It's interesting enough to get a 7, but it's without the point of intensity, I think, underlying this beautiful subject. Is it about a (forgive this term) Conversation with God.
I created a more juvenile counterpart to this poem a few ago titled " An intolerable rash brother". I too have my bones to pick with the great "You". So I've canvased the world.
Vote on the poem I mentioned o' mine, comment on it, drain it of extraneous blabbery, pick it asunder, and get back to me. I want and value your opinion.

I gave this a ten because I paint to near psychosis sometimes. There lies a sort of prison in artwork, especially when it becomes a true compulsion. Sometimes I want to escape this and learn to live again, socialize, bend to cultural standards. But I find that world, the cultural death, to be nauseating. This poem addresses some of my own issues with true "representation" of life, love, and lonliness. Those three L's sometimes divert from one another so much, I feel that I will lose everything, gaining nothing in the form of knowledge. A slow death in pre-determined esthetic value is my latest fear; raising a question of wether one is philosophically bound, when displaying talent, to searching for new and genuine methods.
But what about love? What about love.

A sense of "doom" here. I like that. Our words mean everything, especially "mine". Paint it black and "red", and add a bunny with a snake body.

That was insane.

I suck.

Honestly I'm illiterate, but goddamn, this was an inspiration. I have never read anything as good on this site. This may be an insult to you blue bloods, but I'm in love with this poem.

Who's that folkish painter in the bronx, a latin man? That guy paints with words sometimes to instill the point that our minds have the amazing ability to organize chaos. I like the the concept at the end.
I thnk this is nice.

It's Summer time love.