When You Leave

by Kiicoh

Published August 28, 2010

In Poetry

Do you know what it feels like when you leave?
How much I miss you?
You wouldn’t believe.

Feels like my heart is breaking- little by little.
The weight of disappointment and loss.
The butterflies wings unable.

The loss of you forever, I could not stand.
You are my everything.
I couldn’t bear my deprived hand.

My heart cracking- missing every other beat.
Filled with internal cries.
Making my head fill with concrete.

It’s good you come back the next day.
The fluttering wings regaining.
Without your return, my wrists would pay.

Comments & reviews · 2
britishwannabe wrote a review Review · Aug 30, 2010

hi :D okay i love the first stanza its like your asking them questions but the reader can still feel like your talking to them.

Kiicoh wrote:Do you know what it feels like when you leave?
How much I miss you?
You wouldn’t believe.

Feels like my heart is breaking- little by little.
The weight of disappointment and loss.
The butterflies wings unable.

The loss of you forever, I could not stand.
You are my everything.
I couldn’t bear my deprived hand.

i love the word choice of deprived

My heart cracking- missing every other beat.
Filled with internal cries.
Making my head fill with concrete.

It’s good you come back the next day.
The fluttering wings regaining.
Without your return, my wrists would pay.

i like how the last line explained what your doing with out directly saying it

User avatar
retrodisco666
Review
retrodisco666 wrote a review Review · Aug 28, 2010

Hello :),

I like your first stanza, and then it kind of went down hill for me.

Feels like my heart is breaking- little by little.
The weight of disappointment and loss.
The butterflies wings unable.


This is very generic. It has been said a thousand times before and brings a whole downer on the piece. The butterflies wings unable, is a little different, but it feels so out of place.

The loss of you forever, I could not stand.
You are my everything.
I couldn’t bear my deprived hand.


Forced rhyme is a death sentence for any poem, trust me, I would know. I can't put anything constructive about it as I just see it as a waste, just my point of view.

My heart cracking- missing every other beat.
Filled with internal cries.
Making my head fill with concrete.


Right, the first two lines of this I really enjoyed and thought the poem was going to pick up then I read the next line and I was like what the . . . It just feels so wrong and out of place, not just for the poem but for the entire theme of the piece you are going to. I would change that last line and try and salvage this stanza as this would be the pick me up of the piece.

It’s good you come back the next day.
The fluttering wings regaining.
Without your return, my wrists would pay.


My favourite thing in a poem is when it can be linked back to another part of a poem in subtle way. This, I presume, is linked back to the butterflies part. However I don't like it as it felt so out of place before so the impact of what you are trying to do here does not come across strong enough. You need the emotion here to punch the reader in the face and it just feels flat if I'm being honest. Then their is your last line *Sighs deeply* Please do not go all suicidal love on a reader unless you have a truly heart wrenching back story and this just jumps into it so please, please please, destroy it.

Overall

Work on what I have put and I think you will then have the basics of a good poem. I really liked your first stanza so I think maybe you should try another poem using that or expand this based on that or whatever.

Keep writing and PM me for anything.

~Retro Disco666



The day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein