A golden knife

I'm not really sure if this is poetry or not, but someone told me to write about a golden knife. So, here is my attempt:

It's blade is heavy, sharpened to a razor's edge.
It glints like the summer sun reflecting from a pool of water,
amongst rippling waves.
The color itself is magnificent,
one that I would not like stripped from my vision.
The grip is nice, waving slightly,
as if it was made just for my fingers,
no one else's.
My eyes burn with greed; They never want to leave
this magnificent piece of art.
I must stay my hand,
out of sheer delight.

Comments & reviews · 6
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User avatar
TheReader22
Review

Yes this is poetry! :P I think that it created a great imagery, which is something that is done in poetry.

I must stay my hand,
out of sheer delight.
I don't really understand/like this line as the ending,

Overall good job and keep it up :) And I agree with kitrosemon13 about the stanza's

Random avatar
greekfreak101 Comment

This is such a lovley poem. I love it!

User avatar
Knurla
Comment

Thank you for the reviews, everyone! It was sort of a last minute thing, and I was exhausted as well. Someone in chat suggested that I write about a golden knife, and this is what I came up with. I know it's nothing special, but I appreciate the reviews! Thanks again!

I actually felt like this piece did flow really well. Your imagery was excellent and I feel like this was very well thought out. I understood everything that I felt was being said. Great job. :D

User avatar
kingolions
Review

Hey. I thought that you might have lead a different direction with the idea, but I liked what you did. The only real thing that I have a problem with, is that the poem didn't seem flow well. I seemed really choppy, and that some lines were are lot different to the one before. That's the only real problem I have with it. Otherwise, it's not too bad.

User avatar
kitrosemon13
Review

This is poetry! Just put it like this maybe:

Knurla wrote:I'm not really sure if this is poetry or not, but someone told me to write about a golden knife. So, here is my attempt:

It's blade is heavy, sharpened to a razor's edge.
It glints like the summer sun reflecting from a pool of water,
amongst rippling waves.
The color itself is magnificent,
one that I would not like stripped from my vision.

The grip is nice, waving slightly,
as if it was made just for my fingers,
no one else's.
My eyes burn with greed; They never want to leave
this magnificent piece of art.

I must stay my hand, out of sheer delight.


Don't be afraid to break apart stanzas, or rewrite a little bit. This poem has a chance to be made into something better. Keep writing!



Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
— Miles Kington