This Old Closet

This is SO beautiful. With every line you give, I get a clear image in my head with what is happening. I can't really say much else. This is a piece of art. Keep it up, please!

This is a beautiful narrative! It gave me a quiet, thoughtful feeling while reading it.

SmileLikeUMeanIt wrote:The things that reside in the closet have long lost their original scents.
Perhaps ‘twas the walls that stole what little individuality the items had
and left them only with the antique smell of ink and dust.

I step from one miscellaneous item to another#0000FF ">, as the fragile, forgotten things #8000BF ">To me, the change between you just telling about an old closet to you VIEWING and being inside the old closet seemed a bit abrupt. Maybe make it more clear in the 1st stanza that you are THERE. Also, you're stepping on THINGS? Not the closet's floor? Are there rafter beams holding the items that you're standing on? What 'things' are forced to endure your weight?
are forced to endure my weight. For a brief moment, I mistake the sweat in the grooves
between each of my fingers as the past trying to keep its hold on my curiosity. #8000BF ">Um...what's with the sweat thing? You mistake your sweating hands for excitement? How so? Wouldn't that be an affirmative of your excitement?

The light bulb flickers as the washing machine downstairs starts to hum
and a stack of old suitcases wobble beneath my bare feet. I try not to fall#0000FF ">,
but I do; as everyone does. #8000BF ">"I try not to fall but I do;" really doesn't sound the best. Maybe describe yourself slipping instead of just saying you fell. Add a feeling of panic, or amusement, or a descriptive word for the noise you made. Something to make me SEE you falling. Also, the semi-colon seemed unnecessary there. I didn't feel like pausing. Oh, and why are you standing on a stack of SUITCASES? O.o

Photographs and letters fly out of the suitcases like an excited flock of birds
and settle around me. I recognize faces and handwriting, places and names and dreams.
I’ve the privilege to read my mother’s journal and the poems my father wrote. #8000BF ">Love this stanza!

Like the hundreds of photos that are now scattered about the room,
What I had thought were useless things being hidden from unwelcome reminiscence#8000BF ">Why are they treasures? Are they only treasures to you? Or other people? Why do you suddenly feel they are so precious? Because they are your family's?
Are truly treasures only being tucked away for safe keeping.

So I sit here on top of an old suitcase
in a small room that smells like someone else’s home #8000BF ">Smells like someone else's home? How so? What scent makes you feel that way?
and pray that one day I too will be as beautiful
and graceful as my father’s poetry. #8000BF ">Wonderful ending!

Such beauty must not go to waste. This poem is just absolutely beautiful. So much power, so much emotion, so much grace. I just love it. Keep writing for the sake of writing and soon your poetry will have the respect it deserves.

Absolutely beautiful. You prose was controlled, though at times was a little too flowery. I loved how you told the story, and and made it so meaningful and emotive. Great job. I really haven't anything else to say other than: fantastic, and *like* and *follow*! Keep up the good work,
~ Alia