Today I actually put titles on my poems, because I hadn't before.
I don't have a favorite poet, mainly because I don't read very much poetry. If it's a book written in poetry, I like it, but otherwise, no.
Anyway.
You may critique/review it if you like. Or give feedback, etc. Actually, please critique it. And give feedback. Please, please, give me reasons for your opinions. I like in depth comments. (Who doesn't?)
Anyway(for the second time):
Here's the first.
Inspirat
âBe the change you want to see in the worldâ ~ Mahatma Ghandi
Life does not spring from death Freedom is not a force that breaks chains Love will not erupt from hate Power does not flow from weakness
You must make your life what it is be it happy or sad slow or fast light or burdened
You must have willpower to fight against what you do not want life does not happen, before your eyes while you watch and be lazy sitting on a couch eating Doritos
Yes, you may watch television and see what you think is life but you will never be exhilarated sitting down
You need to be the one standing at the edge of the cliff trying to keep your balance while someone is pushing you down You need to be the one rushing down the slope in makeshift skis trying to get away from your captors
No house will rise from the rubble if no one works to build it you will not eat if no food comes to your mouth
What you want will not happen if you do not make it so. (I was too lazy to finish the title)
If you are intending to explain great, if not consider it.
Yes, I am. Don't worry.
This is only the second part; I've got one more section to go. ________________________
I grab a thin towel from the top of a box, using it to cushion the cement floor, after finding a secluded space between a few stacks of boxes. I lie there, thinking. I see Evan's face when I told her I couldn't come back. The gang is my first priority; I can't just leave. I remember what I'd said when I was leaving. I'd called her Evanna, a name I hadn't called her for years. Only strangers called her by her full name, which is what I am now. I want to keep it this way. Maybe she'll forget me and move on. I hate to see her hurt. Then my thoughts turn to the fight. A feeling of dread settles into my stomach. I know I'm not ready for this. My jumping in was only a week ago, and I'm not fully recovered yet. Now, I've got to fight a different gang. Supposedly, this other group is trying to invade our territory, so I've got to make sure they don't push us out. I try to ignore my feeling of nausea so I can fall asleep. Eventually I succeed, and drift into unconsciousness.
Quite a nice story and feel to your poem. Well done I found that this part:
Slowly I waste away. The beauty of the earth grows as I dwindle.
Was the integral part where it shows what/who the character may be.
In general, this poem had quite a nature based feel to it, talking about forest, ocean, grass etc. But what I really enjoyed about it was the the way you made it seem like a dying traveler wandering to their final resting place until you just had to go But was I ever really alive?! That was a bit, in your face I mean whoa! Was I ever really alive? deeep...
When I wake up, the bright lights in the warehouse are almost too much. I want to go back to sleep for a few more hours. Then I remember the fight. I jump up with almost impossible speed and sprint to where Nic and Troy are. "You ready?" Troy asks me. "Yeah." "Here," Nic says, handing me a knife. I hold the cold metal of the blade for a second, then click the knife shut and shove it into the pocket of my jeans. "Let's go."
Ok, I've been going kinda brain-dead lately, with writing. I think the story I wrote took a lot out of me. A critique would be nice. Might inspire me. I'll try writing something tomorrow.
There is barely a sound as I sprint through the back roads behind buildings. Gravel crunches under my shoes when they hit the ground. It's night, but there is still enough light for me to see my way easily through the dark. I'd be able to find my way if there was no light, anyway. I know my way through these streets well enough. I run with the intention of going home, but I'm not very focused on where I'm going. My feet take me in the direction of a different building: the warehouse. It's probably better that I'm here, anyway; going to my house would put my family in danger. I slow down when I reach my destination. Stepping across the smooth surface of concrete that has been laid down in front of the building, I quietly enter the warehouse. The place is well lit, which is surprising. I'd expected it to be dark, since it's nighttime now. Then I realize that of course it's lit; there's someone here. The main storeroom has trash everywhere. Kicking aside a can, I search for the lookouts. I know there are some here. I find them quickly. Nic and Troy. They talked to me when I got jumped in, and I don't like them very much. "Hey, Ashley," Troy says. My hand automatically forms a fist. I don't like being called by my given name. Ever since I moved to the U.S., it's been used only as an insult. I prefer to go by Ash. I don't say anything about it though. Instead, I greet them and ask if I could crash there. I've got to be ready for tomorrow. "Sure," Nic says. "Brothers help each other out." I grab a thin towel from the top of a box, using it to cushion the cement floor, after finding a secluded space between a few stacks of boxes. I lie there, thinking. I see Evan's face when I told her I couldn't come back. The gang is my first priority; I can't just leave. I remember what I'd said when I was leaving. I'd called her Evanna, a name I hadn't called her for years. Only strangers called her by her full name, which is what I am now. I want to keep it this way. Maybe she'll forget me and move on. I hate to see her hurt. Then my thoughts turn to the fight. A feeling of dread settles into my stomach. I know I'm not ready for this. My jumping in was only a week ago, and I'm not fully recovered yet. Now, I've got to fight a different gang. Supposedly, this other group is trying to invade our territory, so I've got to make sure they don't push us out. I try to ignore my feeling of nausea so I can fall asleep. Eventually I succeed, and drift into unconsciousness.
When I wake up, the bright lights in the warehouse are almost too much. I want to go back to sleep for a few more hours. Then I remember the fight. I jump up with almost impossible speed and sprint to where Nic and Troy are. "You ready?" Troy asks me. "Yeah." "Here," Nic says, handing me a knife. I hold the cold metal of the blade for a second, then click the knife shut and shove it into the pocket of my jeans. "Let's go."
So this one isn't mine, and it wasn't actually intended to be a poem, but when they messaged me like eight times in a row, I thought it looked like a poem. ____________
why not hi? just plain hi? what's wrong with hi? hi? Hi? high? what's wrong with hi?
