Young Writers Society

I.


This seesaw childhood
that delicately balanced on
the rock that he was
is tipping over
and I don’t know what to grapple.
Colours blur, and voices pitch higher
as I descend, my bottom sinking.
Someone please sit on the other side
propel me up.
For what is a seesaw
That never totters?

Hi, Mizz. I thought this poem was nice, but I think it might be stronger if you took off the last two lines. It's a nice idea, and the only think I might like would be if you could add more texture to the poem. Well, what kind of colors blurred, and was the rock smooth or rough?

Let me know if you have any questions.

-Hannah-

Thanks for the feedback Hannah! The question at the end didn't really work out I see. And I agree about the poem needing more texture.