The sun sets on a world unknown,
a landscape filled with wires and steel,
and in the distance, all alone,
a lonely android starts to feel.

At first a spark, a fleeting jolt,
and then a rumbling, constant purr,
another flash, a lightning bolt,
the world unknown remains a blur.

The lonely android wants to speak,
its default is a gentle voice,
its tone is calming, soft and meek,
then bellows with its stronger choice.

Sure, here's a poem summarizing my experience critiquing the two poems:

Words and lines, a canvas white,
Two poems wait, for critique's light.
With pen in hand, I start to write,
Evaluating form, and insight.

One speaks of clowns, of joy and pain,
A structured verse, with whimsy's reign.
Its language playful, and surreal,
Absurdity, its humor's seal.

Mr. clown's house is always a mess;
he never finds his belongings
but he cares for the motley dress,
the red nose, and the tight-strings.

He came back late last night,
he was almost sleeping,
he wore the sandwiches at sight,
and ate the glasses he was wearing.

He missed the kitchen for the WC,
he switched off the toilet's light,
so he couldn't tell where to pee
till the sun is high with day-light.

i found a red light that turned to green
the moment i sped past

that hour’s train thundered above as
i threatened the glossy paint
against the stone trestle
of the railroad bridge

the fog of thinking dissolved on that
cold road as I watched it
consumed underneath,
seventy miles per hour
pulling the yellow snake
across the black

i thought about abbreviations
the way you squeeze otherwise respectable words
as you punch out the order for a classified