his bed is next to his window
because he put it there.
*Not a really strong beginning, dear*
late at night he will stay up
till two in the morning writing letters
to people he wishes he knew
not worrying about the repercussions of
lack of sleep.
*sweet. perfect imagery*
when he gets tired he will turn onto his side
and tuck the blanket over his head and
let his fingers
run down the side
of the glass.
*Aw...how sweet. That's perfect. I like this stanza. I can totally relate...and if I can't the people in my stories can*
sometimes he sees people
nameless, useless and
sometimes he sees small animals
lost in whatever trek
they may have begun.
*all right...nothing special but it's there*
he doesn't want to write about suicide
no more
*say Anymore, I think, no more sounds wrong and it doesn't flow*
and he don't wanna write about death
*want to. It flows better, makes this piece seem less childish.*
and he can feel the cliches trickling
into his soft ballpoint pen and laying themselves
on blank sheets of paper so some person
nameless, useless
can pluck at will what inspires them.
*this is gorgeous. I would love to be able to write like this. It's perfect. Don't touch it at all...why is it perfect? Because of the imagery, and the personification and...*
and he doesn't want to rewind stories
told over and over and over about
broken heels and dark brick roads
dark brick homes and broken souls
what he really wants is to write himself up
a cup of milk and a shower and a nap
but he woudn't know where to put them.
*strong ending.*
I like this poem a lot. It's not as complex as most of yours though
change your avatar.
