3 years

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3 years since I saw you
3 years since you cared
3 years since I hugged you
Are you really still there?

You were in my memory
For years after we met
But nothing could keep you with me
The day you left me we wept

You'll be in my heart forever
That tiny pocket inside
Will never let you out my sight
Those perfect shining eyes
There’s nothing to do, There’s nothing to see
There’s no where to go, There’s no where to be
I’m just sitting alone, In this empty room
Writing my poem, I’m over the moon




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I think this poem focuses far too much on the rhyming and it takes away from the meaning. It sounds rather repetetive. I don't much like it at all.

Try to focus less on the rhyming and more on the flow of the words. Poetry isn't all about rhyming, it's more about meaning.


As always,

POKE




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i liked it but:

Are you really still there?


The day you left me we wept

These two lines seem too long comapred to the rest of the lines in the stanzas.
I dunno what it is, but when i read it, it seemed a bit..hmph, i cant word what im trying to say! BUt if you read it ot loud, these two lines seem a bit difficult to say.

Just a thought, hope it helped
Bag.

Got YWS?




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Um, well, there are a couple things wrong with your poem. Firstly there's the rythm. Like mentioned earlier, the ryhming kinda' through the rythm off. I think that the poem would actually be better without the ryhming.
The day you left me we wept

Yeah. There's something wrong with this. You see, I don't understand how they can both be sad when one left the other. Unless of course he died. If that were the case, you could certainly make that a little clearer. Also, if he did die, then he still wouldn't be weeping. Go figure. You could make this poem a little better if you took out the ryhming and expanded your idea a little bit.
If you are a dreamer, come in. If you are a wisher, a lier, a magic bean buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, For we have some flax-golden tales to spin Come In! Come In!~Shel Silverstein



It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another.
— JRR Tolkien