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Young Writers Society


If I am not for myself, who will be for me?



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102 Reviews



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Points: 8230
Reviews: 102
Wed Jan 18, 2012 1:58 am
Sionarama says...



This is for a writing contest with the theme in the subject above. In the comments, would you tell me if my poetry fits that category (it is not exactly the same) and it is supposed to be 500 words and mine is only 125, so how should I make it longer? Thank you so much! Well, here it goes:

Imagine millions of upturned faces
Covered in the sweat of a hard day’s labor
With long hours and little pay
In the dust of their filthy homes,
Where whole families cram into one room
Their clothes are dull from the death
Of their hopes and dreams. Their
Colorless eyes thinking, “How can
I trust those who took away
My rights, hopes, dreams, and money and
Left us with only our names and
The clothes on our backs? How will they
Make a better world for our children?”
Their bodies slouch from constant,
Weary oppression. Who will rise from
The masses and aid those in need? Who
Will be their hope? A man on the stage
Clears his throat, taps the microphone and
Begins to speak.
"You may not be educated well in the areas of etiquette and the like as a princess, but you do throw some bashing good parties!"
Not all princesses are pink sparkles.
Exhibit A
  





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Points: 1406
Reviews: 14
Fri Jan 27, 2012 3:49 pm
figureofspeech says...



This is a good poem. It fits into your category relatively well. The one problem is that among the people who need someone to speak for them, there are no individuals. Since the category is If I am not for myself, who will me for ME, there needs to me a ME and not just the masses.

My suggestion is to add an individual worker at the beginning. (This would also help make your poem longer). Have the poem be his/her cry for help.

You have some very good descriptive phrases in here. The colorless eyes of the workers is my favorite. This is a good topic. Good luck in the contest!
We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind. 'Cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well they're no friends of mine.
  








I cannot separate the aesthetic pleasure of seeing a butterfly and the scientific pleasure of knowing what it is.
— Vladmir Nabokov