Half-Gone Glass

Spoiler

So. I actually kinda like this, though I know it's not that good. So any comments would be very helpful. =) And I know the ending's not that great - I'm fairly bad with endings, especially in poetry. So again, reply and I'll love you. That is all.

I have absolutely no reason
to want to kill myself.

I'm not exactly gorgeous,
but maybe once a week I
manage to convince myself
I'm pretty - at least my eyes -
and somehow I believe me.

I'm amazing at nothing, but decent
at lots, after many years of practice,
tedious but worth it; it's been
seven years of piano; just two of mallets;
drawing for three, writing for five;
sports have always just been natural;
and I have a 3.9 in school with no effort.

I suppose I could blame my parents -
my father who lectures, expects good grades
and modest clothes and clean mouths
and self-respect and boys who ask permission;
or my mom who can't deal with things that
aren't really that bad, who zones out and hides
from the world, refusing a cell phone
to stay out of touch - but would that be almost
convincing? No, because they're not so
bad, despite all my rantings, despite all
frustrations. They love me in their
messed up ways, too involved or out of sync;
they buy me things and keep me fed and
try to act like my opinions do matter;
they actually care, and I could be with
much worse - like my friends.

Part of me wishes - a pervert little part -
that life should be chaos and pain to
validate such things as cutting and burning
and lying in tears; as sleeping in my backyard
and searching through the stars, trying to find
the saddest one and fix their broken tales;
as making up a life in my head where
it's hard and it hurts and I'm strong
in my fight, and I win though I'd rather not,
and I keep on going without help from anyone else;
as wanting to steal a drink - alcohol;
though I've never tasted - and drown
in the fire and brimstone and dust,
drown in the fog and the wavepool
and furnace, fall from my skyscraper
onto a concrete street beneath
and shatter and break and crumple
and die.

But the truth is, there's no reason for
that, for the somber things I do; for my
late nights wishing everything could just change
and get better, while there's nothing wrong now.
The thing is, even without that,
I can't help but feeling like a flower with
its petals plucked; an insect dissected and
mounted on the wall; a cave mined for crystals,
now bare and unappealing.

Everything inside of me's hollow, uneven;
I can't count the nights I've cried just because
there's no reason to laugh. I feel a numbness
that causes pain - like a tingling in your fingers -
that insists on a passion, a oneness -
like giving into the boy that keeps asking -
except there's no boy so the tears take his place;
because, let's face it, emotion's emotion, and
sometimes you just need to feel - need anger or
sadness or joy or pure malice - to take the place of
the numb and the lukewarm and the almost-too-comfortable.

But what happens when there's no emotion to be found -
when the boy fled to streets, the tears lose their salt,
or you can't find your anger? What happens when there's
nothing to be happy about, but also nothing upsetting
or unnerving, nothing to jar you or make this worth living?
What happens when the thought of pure nothing is
exciting, because why half-ass it in the mortal world -
just leave here already, you're not wanted, there's no
reason to stay?

So maybe I have no reason to want to kill myself,
but sometimes having hobbies isn't enough to enjoy them;
sometimes having parents isn't enough to feel loved;
sometimes being pretty isn't enough to feel beautiful.
And if nothing's enough, then why bother with the
half-gone glass?

you say your no good at endings? You LIAR!!! haha it was in the worst good, and emo poem are hard enough, but thank GOD you weren't all "i hate my life, my parents don't get me, sulk, sulk, wine, wine" i liked that you were honest, and it was epic, real, and AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!! i again loved it, awesome message, (or at least i saw a message) great wording, and i wish you would try rhyming a little <3

Your poem wasn't the typical slash-kill-die emo crap I read here sometimes, and you score points for that. However, I do think that it was a little long, and you could have portrayed the same amount of emotion and power in a much shorter fashion. It was difficult to read, and not just because of the length, but the way you made it very real. Bravo, brava.

First of all. BRAVO! I congratulate you for not coming across as a whiny little kid just wanting attention as most poems like this come across as that. This actually had an AMAZING story and I almost cried a bit (if you know me, I'm very emotional) I do agree with mamalama95 that it could have been a bit shorter and you still could have made your point across just as well, but other than that, I think it's AMAZING! And don't even worry about the ending, it was just as awesome as the rest of the poem I'll keep reading your work, and just because of this poem, I'm gonna follow you!

UV, upfront here, I was impressed with 20% of this poem. The rest of this was an exercise in the monotonous of "woe" and skirting the lines but never truly jumping into conflict, and despite what other reviewers are saying, your true poetic voice gets drowned out by your desire to not feel unloved and then unsatisfied with life. So, let's find a way to help you from helplessly wondering about things you're refusing to change.

There are three options really, and one of them you can't choose.

1. That is do nothing.

2. The next is use poetic abstraction and metaphor to show and not tell.

3. The last is to find drama, to find chaos, to find conflict in your life and use that to fuel your writing.

I'll get to the poem with the latter two in mind.

I have absolutely no reason
to want to kill myself.

A nearly perfect opening ruined by how blunt you are and clunky phrasing. It's a hard lesson, but a good one.

"I have no reason in life
to kill myself"

^Is marginally better. Still too blunt.

"This road paved with memories
is 180 degrees off
from a perfect suicide"

^Meh, makes it a bit more interesting, not quite tethered down.

"Virginia,
if I stalked your trek across life,
like a copycat serial reader
wrapped in half empty shots,
would Dickinson say
I am just the width of a half-gone
ethered brain?"

^Now we get somewhere interesting (albeit clumsy), because this opening is forcing your following material to be accomodated to themes and cultural references; suddenly this no longer becomes a poem bound in things only you understand or can fully appreciate.

And I grant no one permission to use those openings, but you UV. : P

I'm not exactly gorgeous,
but maybe once a week I
manage to convince myself
I'm pretty - at least my eyes -
and somehow I believe me.

While, dramatic, this is too vain and obvious for me to care. I can't relate to this only, only, because you're asking too much to be pitied and complimented (people assume it), so it creates distance where you would prefer closeness. Consider using your title as a metaphor here. Hold off on your inner thought what with the beginning of the your poem; it says so much it fills the poem with conflict.

I'm amazing at nothing, but decent
at lots, after many years of practice,
tedious but worth it; it's been
seven years of piano; just two of mallets;
drawing for three, writing for five;
sports have always just been natural;
and I have a 3.9 in school with no effort.

Ok, you know what? This is awful because you're so blunt, but if you could switch this to more poetic language, in certain parts, it could work.

So for something else, I'm going to connect with you.

Story time.

I play the cello, have for over 12 years. I struggled for years, then finally improved and continued to improve based on how much effort I put in. I played futbol/soccer for 12 years, and regret every once and a while (STILL) not being more serious with it. Soccer was one of the few things in life that truly made me happy and forget everything else happening. I did martial arts for 10 years, practiced many styles, got black belts, learned weapons, did sparring, etc; I was pretty damn good if I say so myself. The only people who could take me had twice as much experience as me and physically out matched me. Again, another situation of effort put forth to results. I drew, took photos, and painted for many years when I was younger; I've just recently taken them all back up again. They make me happy, they speak to me, and I can speak through them. It's just the way things are.

I could go on to many things I've done.

We are all average to above average at many things. Some people are just better and win all of the awards. I've met them, and sometimes they deserve them and sometimes they know how to game and play the system and at other times, judges just plain suck.

This isn't the way to appeal to your reader, especially with the ending. It comes off as slightly aloof and pretentious, if not arrogant. I get what you really mean, but then I wonder. ALWAYS BE WARY OF YOUR READER'S SENSIBILITIES, and be ready to deal with the backlash if you want to enrage your readers.

Make the language here distanced so that we can tell you yourself don't recognize your own life, feel estranged, not just miffed that you seem to have everything just swell but not "the cute boy" to tell you you are beautiful.

By the way, I have been writing and reading my entire life. I think I'm pretty fucking untouchable with it except by a rare breed of people. That's the attitude people get when they feel they aren't just ok at something, that and they learn they can be pushed off the high horse just as easily. Thing is, taste will cause people to see that differently, so it's all up to perspective; back to my point before though, your reader's perspective will always affect your writing. How you deal with that is up to you.

I suppose I could blame my parents -
my father who lectures, expects good grades
and modest clothes and clean mouths
and self-respect and boys who ask permission;
or my mom who can't deal with things that
aren't really that bad, who zones out and hides
from the world, refusing a cell phone
to stay out of touch - but would that be almost
convincing? No, because they're not so
bad, despite all my rantings, despite all
frustrations. They love me in their
messed up ways, too involved or out of sync;
they buy me things and keep me fed and
try to act like my opinions do matter;
they actually care, and I could be with
much worse - like my friends.

Honest, but people who have drama in their life will not appreciate this. Like me. Figure out what's a double edged sword and what's not. If you insist on keeping this, make it sculpted in a new stance.

Part of me wishes - a pervert little part -
that life should be chaos and pain to

Ok, pervert? Don't interject morally uprightness into a poem. IT kills the poem completely.
Don't preach and pity yourself in the same thing and then ask for pity on top of that.

No. I want perspective in your work. Go out and do something stupid. Get out of that comfort zone.

For example, my life has gone in phases so far. Phases of a relatively timid time, chaotic and dramatic, awkward unsteady fighting, chaos and politics, timid, and then me becoming an adult.

Either you need diversity or need more introspection, because this:

validate such things as cutting and burning
and lying in tears; as sleeping in my backyard
and searching through the stars, trying to find
the saddest one and fix their broken tales;
as making up a life in my head where
it's hard and it hurts and I'm strong
in my fight, and I win though I'd rather not,
and I keep on going without help from anyone else;
as wanting to steal a drink - alcohol;
though I've never tasted - and drown
in the fire and brimstone and dust,
drown in the fog and the wavepool
and furnace, fall from my skyscraper
onto a concrete street beneath
and shatter and break and crumple
and die.

Some people have this as their life and it's simply how their life is. To them, you're missing out on 99% of life. Maybe 100%.

So get drama. I can't say what or tell you what (for obvious reasons), but if deny drama and conflict like this, you're going to struggle to display it unless you get a masterful grasp of metaphor.

Which by the way, the bottom lines of that stanzas (last seven or so)? Beautiful. That's poetry. That's what you need in life, to see, to experience, or to hear from others who've been there. Appreciate it, see what it is, then make the opinion.

But the truth is, there's no reason for
that, for the somber things I do; for my
late nights wishing everything could just change
and get better, while there's nothing wrong now.
The thing is, even without that,

Nope, not working. The problem epitomized.

I can't help but feeling like a flower with
its petals plucked; an insect dissected and
mounted on the wall; a cave mined for crystals,
now bare and unappealing.

And here you go again, getting the right idea. But you're just listing. Make these active, make them alive.

like giving into the boy that keeps asking -
except there's no boy so the tears take his place;

And your poem is summarized, almost, right here. Makes me a little sad.

But what happens when there's no emotion to be found -
when the boy fled to streets, the tears lose their salt,
or you can't find your anger? What happens when there's
nothing to be happy about, but also nothing upsetting
or unnerving, nothing to jar you or make this worth living?
What happens when the thought of pure nothing is
exciting, because why half-ass it in the mortal world -
just leave here already, you're not wanted, there's no
reason to stay?

Questions without showing me anything. How can I experience what you can't grasp? Nix this.

So maybe I have no reason to want to kill myself,
but sometimes having hobbies isn't enough to enjoy them;
sometimes having parents isn't enough to feel loved;
sometimes being pretty isn't enough to feel beautiful.

Honest again, but turns me off.

And if nothing's enough, then why bother with the
half-gone glass?

And then we get depth. Then you surprise us. But this isn't enough to save the poem, not nearly.

I was impressed with this in certain places, but it needs to be skimmed down. You have potential here for a real poem, but divide the catharsis and abstraction and correctly display depth in an interesting way. What's correct? When it sounds right to you and your reader, perfect and effortless but found only through conflict and struggle. Control that poetry.

I really like this poem. Usually I get bored with long poems, but this one I didn't mind it being long. I really liked it... I loved the details and the comparisons and all the little words that made up such a big and wonderful message, such a big and wonderful poem.

I liked how you wrote a poem differently than others on topics like depression, emo-ism, suicide. I hate it when people say that someone has no right to be sad or depressed. That they have love, and good grades, and friends, and talents, and so they should not be sad. But you pointed out that sometimes things don't have to be wrong for a person to be depressed. I really liked this poem for that reason. The reason that sometimes having nothing wrong is the reason people don't want to get out of bed, or people can't move onward and don't want to live.
I hate it, too, when people tell those who are truly depressed that they are just babies and whine and are attention-seekers. I think there's much more to it. For one, there's the scientific approach of a chemical imbalance of the brain. And I think there's a lot more to it as well. I think this topic is a really big one and I think you managed to capture a lot of the emotion and the feeling and the reasoning behind the why.

I loved how much I was able to relate to this, and how interested I was in this to keep reading.
I also loved how I could feel so much for this narrator and how it envoked feelings within me that I don't have everyday, and how it brought goose bumps and shivers to my skin.
And I love how I was not able to relate to this. Because I do not have these feelings, yet I have had similarities and I can compare, and understand in my own way, but I will never understand the same way the narrator does.

I have absolutely no reason
to want to kill myself.

I disagree with MeanMrMustard in that I think this is a very powerful and direct and yes, blunt, opening. But I think it works very nice that way. I think a lot of the poem is very direct and blunt in its own way, and the ending certainly is as well. I think it works. It dives straight into it and it relates to a lot of the lines in the poem. It sets the topic of the poem and drew me in as a reader. It even reminds me of a poem I wrote called, "Suicide" in which my opening line was very direct.

Spoiler

http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/viewtopic.php?t=70514

(I don't know why, really, it just does.)

I believe some parts should be cleared up and could be a little less wordy. I agree that this could use some polishing. But I think as of now it is already a very good poem. There were a lot of parts I really enjoyed reading that thrilled my writie senses. Lol. Too many to quote.
And then there were parts I was not found of or that didn't really make sense.
Like,

Part of me wishes - a pervert little part -

Which maybe it's just me, but I don't fully understand what this means in relation to the rest of the poem.

But anywaaay, I did enjoy this a lot. Or at least... my writing side enjoyed it while my emotions side went off into a corner, and my thoughts just kind of crumbled and stuff.
If you do ever polish or fix it up any I would love to read it again.

Continue writing, please! : )