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Young Writers Society



Still waiting

by n1o2u3r4


Still waiting, days are the same
I seek neither money nor fame
This reality I do disdain
nothing can entertain

Still wanna leave
Over my dream I grieve
I will one day fly
Even one minute before I die


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9 Reviews


Points: 934
Reviews: 9

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Sun May 20, 2012 5:04 pm
brittistenten wrote a review...



It's really good; just make sure to capitalize all of the beginning lines so it all looks the same. I really like the rhyming theme it’s really good. Keep up the good work!




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72 Reviews


Points: 5401
Reviews: 72

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Sat May 19, 2012 10:23 pm
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BadNarrator wrote a review...



I like the way this poem looks on a page and I like the concise, neat-little-package-feel you've got going on here.

This may come off as a somewhat destructive idea, but whenever I see such structured rhymes my first instinct is to break them up. The rhyme here seems somewhat forced and heavy handed. That's not to say you can't write a good poem using rhyme, but unless you're doing a study of Elizabethan era poetry you should bury your rhymes in image and steer clear of the line breaks.

Speaking of images there don't really seem to be any here, at least nothing concrete. Try including something the reader can sink his teeth into. Obviously you want to do whatever feels appropriate to you, but I'm thinking something along the lines of a streetlamp, or a congested nighttime city-street for the first stanza. And may be cliffs or an ocean or something in the second. Closeness versus openness. And then the internal rhyme could reflect that.

Realize that implementing some of these suggestions will probably come at the expense of the concise feel to the poem I mentioned earlier. You just might have to make it longer, or perhaps do away with some parts. I think words like grieve and die are often too heavy to use in a poem these days. I normally wouldn't be brave enough to use them. Sometimes it's better to beat around the bush, you know?

Hope this was helpful.





I cannot separate the aesthetic pleasure of seeing a butterfly and the scientific pleasure of knowing what it is.
— Vladmir Nabokov