Young Writers Society

Please just kill this thing. I wouldnt mind some advice on the structure either.


I just want to die.
End my pain,
For I have not the will
To end it myself.
I don’t want to wake up
Tomorrow morning,
For fear that I will lose my mind.

I have given all I can give—
To this woman who appeared to me
As a fallen angel,
Someone I could save from corrupting their soul.

I have given my time,
My love,
My freedom,
My flesh,
My blood,
Nearly my life,
And already my soul—
To a woman who did not want it.

She did not want my help,
But she took it eagerly,
Letting me believe
That I had finally found
A purpose in life.

For one year,
Four months,
And twenty eight days
I was whole—
I had found a reason to live.

In this reason I have failed—
Struck down by a single word.
Love.
There are no words to describe my love for her—
A love that was not returned.
True, the words were spoken,
But the feelings were false—
As false as my existence.

I want this to end.
But now she tells me that to die
Is to hate—
Hate her and everything she stands for.
Now I am left with a choice.

Die—
And finally be free of this pain,
But leave so much more in my wake.

Or live—
And suffer a lifetime of pain,
Living for friends
That will soon forget me,
A woman
Who has already,
And a family
Who never will.

I choose life, for now.

And here’s the irony of it all.
The reason I live
Is not myself,
Nor my family,
Not even my friends—
But for the very root of my pain,
This woman.

Deep... I'm not too good with helping people with their writing, so I can't help you in that part of this.

... Wow... wow, this was deep... Man, Hunter, I don't want to say anything to mess anything up but, you seemed obsessed with this woman, the fallen angel, whos name I shall not mention.

It was deep actually, had a whole ring of truth to it somehow.

I hope you feel better, everybody is hoping you do. Nobody wants you to become the suicidal maniac I SHOULD BE. You need something to take your mind off the issue. Nothing you gave away is lost forever, even though it might seem like that.... It's not my place to be telling you what to do with your life. Sulk to your hearts content if you must.....

I love you bro.

Of course he's obsessed with her, TBR..

Hunter, you know how I feel about this poem. I love the writing but hate the meaning behind it.

I'm always here for you.

This is me--the entire poem is actual thoughts, true feelings, and real experiences. Which is why it needs to die and go to Hell.

See u can still write.I like this one!

Well, structurally, if you're going to replicate Dickinson's style of appending "--" at the end of lines, the poem should be much more succinct, which is, coincidentally, one of the other comments I have for this piece.

Firstly, you sound like a deranged, psychopathic emoboy (Aren't they [we] all?). Lose it if you're going to remain in the realm of concrete poetry - that is, sparse imagery and a lack of linguistic aerobics on your part - because everyone writes these kinds of poems with no real meaning in them. When writing something concrete, I would suggest you try for a "universal" approach more than anything, because with concrete, solid images, you will reach your audience in a direct, efficient method.

Next, you lingered a little too long on your relationship with "the woman." We need to know tidbits of information that are short enough to give us a general idea of what happened - not a blow by blow reproduction.

Thirdly, you had too much "I want to die, it's so lonely here when the wind don't blow" kind of lines. Saying "I want to die" twice is a maximum, no matter what your poem is about. Keep that in mind, because whenever you constantly repeat you're wanting to die, it appears that you don't have any other images and so what? Everyone has that feeling. You must personalize your poem with your emotions; however, do not commit the Tragic Fallacy and make nature fit your mood, because it's really cheesy and makes me want to barf.

Finally, the ending did not move me (though it could be because I did a research essay over Freud's "Civilization and Its Discontents" which basically states that we're all bound to rebel against authority (an institution, group, person, etc.) yet we need this very authority to survive.). The ending I will leave up to your discretion, because it won't have the same effect on those who have not done as intensive research on Freud and/or Lacan.

Tee-hee, Brad finally got me!! YAY! I feel like a real poet now!


I'm not seriously considering poetry as a career, becuase, well, I suck at it--this is just a blerb that came out of my head without me thinking about it--no changes mad except for spacing.


Thanks Brad, and I'll try to decipher what you've said into terms my crowded mind can understand and work on it.

This does not suck!Remember what I taught u about being negotive ot urself!

this was really good, forget what brad said, he just like to put people down, he likes being mean, forget him...

Very raw, very real. I wouldn't call it poetry, exactly, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that this was from the heart, and you didn't hold back in any way. Great work.

Thanks Reich--means a lot.

TBR's right, this is deep. I half know how you feel, half don't. Most poets when writing about a personal thing either write very specificly, therefore sometimes loosing the emotion, or the fill it with emotion leaving the reader confused about what actually happened. You, somehow, found a perfect balance.

Thank you Sophie--its good to hear stuff like that.