Among Computers and Potted Plants

Hi there! This is the first poem I've written that wasn't for a school assignment....Obviously, I have no idea what I'm doing. But I'd very much appreciate critique.
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She’s not calling for help.

She is one of those people
They talk about in Chicken Soup books.
Squatting in her school skirt, knee meeting
cobblestone, shoe meeting
soft swampy grass, shin meeting
that dirty in-between -

She worships her library book.
It’s a silent prayer.

Her peripheral vision has worn away from ages of staring
down at ivory feet.
Down at twelve-point fonts.
Down and out and down and out
until she forgets what she’s really looking at.

And she tries to remember
what she started looking for.

No one needs to be warned about her.
They already know
that she’s a walking pair of scared little eyes
puttering along in dying shoes,
hard tiny punctuation mark in the middle of a page
a glance towards her is painful
but over as soon as it begins
and so their lives continue among computers and potted plants.

Ooh! Nice poem.

It seems a little... misarranged though! Try this:

She’s not calling for help.
Her peripheral vision has worn away from ages of staring
down at ivory feet.
Down at twelve-point fonts.
Down and out and down and out
until she forgets what she’s really looking at.

She is one of those people
They talk about in Chicken Soup books.
Squatting in her school skirt, knee meeting
cobblestone, shoe meeting
soft swampy grass, shin meeting
that dirty in-between -

No one needs to be warned about her.
They already know
that she’s a walking pair of scared little eyes
puttering along in dying shoes,
hard tiny punctuation mark in the middle of a page
a glance towards her is painful
but over as soon as it begins
and so their lives continue among computers and potted plants.

She worships her library book.
It’s a silent prayer.
And she tries to remember
what she started looking for.

That's also not quite good, but a little bit better, I think... let's smooth it out, shall we?


She’s not calling for help.
Her peripheral vision has worn away
from staring down at ivory feet.
Down at twelve-point fonts.
Down and out and down and out
until she forgets what she’s really looking at.

She is one of those people
They talk about in Chicken Soup books.
Squatting in her school skirt, knee meeting
cobblestone, shoe meeting
soft swampy grass, shin meeting
that dirty in-between -

No one needs to be warned about her.
They already know
that she’s a walking pair of scared little eyes,
hard tiny punctuation mark in the middle of a page.
A glance towards her is painful
so they turn away and
continue their lives among computers and potted plants.

While she worships her library book
in a silent prayer.
And she tries to remember
what she started looking for.

Eh... I suck at poetry. I'm really just playing with it right now! Play with it some more and see what you get.

Hey,

I liked this but I don't really understand it that well. Maybe I'm just stupid. This seemed (no offense) a little bit like you swallowed poet soup and barfed out his brain. It was good but a little confusing. Hm, maybe, as Snoink said, rearrange it a bit. I understood her version a lot more. If what I understand, is what you wrote, than amazing job.

~Jas