another number on another row

I - XIII

when we were young we loved everyone
in those days we followed the latest craze
sugar was the catalyst for our behaviour;
meaningful was just a word the adults knew
too many letters and too many you-know-whos
emotions were just xxx on a text message,
nothing ever stayed
the same way, there was no structure to it all.

XIV-XVI

a rush of hormones to the hands, the legs,
the lips, bursting into the atmosphere
eyes flickering like broken neon lights
and the first taste of alcopops drowning
our minds until all the days became nights,
until everything mergedtogetherandthings
were too new to be true

we stumbled our way
towards salvation.
sweaty palms and listening to coldplay
tasting flavours that didn't exist,
and pretending romance was a fake rose
the thorns never hurt.

XVII...

in beverly hills they aren't rich
couple of cars and a luxury pitch
but we found something priceless
(touchwood) something that lasts
with plenty of strings attached

pulling each other closer and closer forever
until we suffocate. seen it all before
but this time it matters whether
you say two or three words together,
and we're not adults but we know when we want more.

Jack,


There is some good imagery in places within this poem, but for me it somehow lacks that tension, the tautness, that is necessary to hold the piece together and provide a sense of pace. Instead, there seem to be a lot of spaces -- voids -- that, while interesting, are not as craftily seared into the poem as I would have liked. Some word pruning could also help - an indication of this need is the completely unnecessary 'when' at the end of the poem. It seems to me your critical mass has reached the the point of marginalization: that gap when the process of exponential growth lacks the necessary momentum to carry it through.


Cheers,
Brad

Why do you always write letters to me?

I'm terrible at science so would you mind rephrasing the last sentence? I think I got the jist but you never know.

Thanks.