Poem by Lyonrah

Walking, following my shadow in front of me, 
so capable of holding my dream in your dark complexion, a friend that walks steadily through the line ‘tween what is real and what is dream.

The two kiss,
like an explosion of light
from that one painted street lamp.

What is seeing when it rips the structure asunder piece by piece till what you thought was solitary and enduring becomes nothing more then water flowing?

So like fantasy is this life I breathe, 
where does one end and the other begin, 
the line shrinks from distinction.

Lost at sea in both the real and fantasy, overlaying my beloved notions of Beauty upon the seen. 
I attempt at wholeness, to wholly see another without my ideas strangling them. 
Stand back you defenders, allow for the balance. So hard it is to walk with your head in the clouds as your feet take root in the softening ground. I look to where the two meet and think on the space between my shadow, a dream, and my feet, the concrete.

Poem by Lyonrah

How to Grow From Negative Feedback for Creators

It feels great to create something. You made something that you wanted, it has entered the world and taken form. You like it so much you think others should see it too. When you start putting yourself out there, you are open and vulnerable. Getting poor feedback feels bad but it’s inevitable.

Why do people on the web feel the need to be negative? There are many great and supportive online communities out there, but it can feel like the vast majority are just filled with haters. You post your hard work to a page only to have it voted down instantly by some bot and your creation never sees the light of day.

I think by understanding the motivations behind negative feedback creators can take this to learn and improve.

Don’t take it personal!

The first takeaway from internet negativity is to not take it too personally. People being rude really shouldn’t reflect on you, it is a reflection of their bad behavior and self hatred. Although we don’t deserve cruel comments just for trying to share our work, it is unfortunately a reality. More often than not, mean feedback is coming from a place of frustration. These people have been hurt and they now want to force that hurt onto others. Don’t let them win! Chase your dreams!

Bad feedback isn’t the worst thing – No feedback is the worst thing!

One of the healthiest ways to view negative feedback is to change your worst case scenario. This is basically looking at your worst fear in putting yourself out there. For most of us, our worst fear is negative feedback. It’s scary to have someone say your work sucks or it’s trash etc. and it hurts. However this is not really the worst fate for your work!

The worst thing that can happen for a creation is for no one to see it. For it to just enter the void. The world doesn’t owe you anything just because you made something, and even though you may have got a negative response they still took the time to tell you. Count that as a win! As an artist your goal is to elicit a response. Social media grows through engagement, whether positive or negative.

Everyone is a critic!

People love to criticize things. Odds are, people will find fault with your work rather than like it. It’s easy to criticize something and it makes you feel superior. It’s a cheap thrill. Again, don’t take it personal. It’s so hard to make something great so keep at it!

Keep it in perspective!

Don’t let the one bad feedback ruin the rest. We can get so stuck on the bad it’s important to remember a lot of people probably did like it. Count every win and count your losses as wins too. You tried and you put it out there. It’s hard to create! Don’t give it up!

Peace and Love!

 

How to Grow From Negative Feedback for Creators

Poem by Lyonrah

I’m a simple man
scared terribly 
by the ascendance I feel
through & all about me.
In the echoing crescendo 
herald by the buds
of the stretching spring tree,
in the reply from the
scuttling squirrel 
gathering acorns, pausing,
looking through me,
in the eyes of another 
who holds mine in momentary matrimony,
rather then the usual,
a demonstration a performance,
an assertion of ones own dominance. 
Sometimes it becomes so shockingly clear
that it can’t but cause
a stirring disturbance in me.
A need for coming back,
a need for returning from that place 
whispered of in our dreams. 
I huddle inside my shelter,
a gift so long condemned
as the original sin,
and do as instructed
by the ego within.

Poem by Lyonrah

An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

By Peter

A skunk walks across the beach
in a red and white striped one piece,
a surfboard under his arm.
He stops every woman
to ask for the time of day.
None give it to him
as bikini clad women
tend not to wear watches.
They are, for the most part, cordial
in their refusals,
but the waves laugh at his rejections.
The skunk, visibly frustrated by the guffaws,
refrains from spraying the water
out of respect for the other beachgoers.
The skunk is not a skunk at all,
He is a businessman carrying a briefcase.
The sand is Grand Central Station.
He constantly checks his watch,
then squints at the schedule,
then back to his watch.
He is the type of person who shows up
hours early in case of this very predicament
and would likely catch his train with time to spare.
He asks anyone and everyone
for directions to the proper platform,
pointing to his ticket for reference.
No one acknowledges his presence.
He is not a businessman at all.
He is me. I am no businessman.
I am in a motel room
washing my face
I don’t know what city I’m in,
some town bordering Detroit.
I stare into the mirror in the mirror,
see how many of me there are.
It’s three a.m. and I have a strange feeling
I’m going to a funeral tomorrow.
Why else would I pack a suit?

An Infinite Regression of Past Lives

Drunk On New York

By Peter

 

Madness is unrefined passion

Passion is exonerated madness

Yak’s milk is sweet

and I drink to no end

 

No end

like these streets—

I walk every one

and never grow tired

 

knowing even eternity won’t last forever

and I have a train to catch

out to the countryside, where a mad yak

waits for me

 

with an infectious smile

with pure milk

 

which I drink to no end

and think of the endless city streets—

with bronze idols, glass walls,

cemented paths

 

That is all behind me now

The streets are behind me

The train is behind me

The mad yak is behind me

 

goading me to keep going to no end

goading me to drink her milk to no end

 

until the last sap of life is drained

so she can sleep to no end

 

so her dreams become my dreams

and my dreams travel beyond

the endless city streets

who refuse to sleep

 

They drink me to no end

consuming the same mad yak visions

that gestate in the womb of slumberless nights

who give birth to babies

 

that overrun the endless city streets

with cries for yaks milk.

The wails resonate

off skyscrapers as

 

an admission of want for nothing

other than mother,

an omission of subways, stadium deals,

condo complexes, dreams of electric sheep.

 

A call for transformation

of pavement to pasture

and the world’s city citizens

to sprout curved horns

 

grow hooves, don thick coats of fur

and udders and udders

filled with the passion and madness

of yaks milk

Drunk On New York

Voice Control

By Peter

 

wave function rolls

over tongue

 

say it

      say it

                  it again

 

thoughts like

              french kiss

         ear lick

                       mind meld

 

right thought (check)

         right speech (check)

             lights

                      camera

                   (right) action

 

communication out

       of focus

 

a monkey teaching a dolphin

               to climb a tree

                              both agree that

                        oranges are oranges

 

peel means skin

        skin does not mean peel

   you can skin a banana

             but you can’t peel a cat

you can tuna fish

                    can the piano

                                             it’s out of tune

 

false positives

     doubly negated negatives

          placebos work

if you let them

 

everything is a matter

                                     of percentages

                 90% of the time

         from vegas to wall street

            but I live in kansas

 

off-broadway is still broadway

           paris is still paris

                   and still burning

 

I make a claim

                       then stake it

      I have no idea what

                                          that expression means

 

none of the words I invented

                 are in the dictionary

       I shout them

                      from rooftops

                           on cold nights

                      words are just a song

                               I don’t know the melody

 

translate english into

                             english into english

               and the original

                             meaning is lost

if it had one to begin with

 

this corn maze means

            something but

                                is too big

         for me make it

                          out alive

                     I need the bees

                        to dance my way out

 

I recite my lines      

    stage directions say

                                    to exit left

            I do

                 the curtain closes

                       no one applauds

Voice Control