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by Steve Rogers 2/18/2013, 12:13 pmThis is a place for people to post poetry, to get feed back and criticism. ANYBODY can post their poetry here!
Now, before we begin, let me just say, thank you for reading. I know poetry tends to scare people off, because when people hear the word "poetry", they either think of the 17th century they have to read in english class, or the kind of poetry one finds in an emotional teenage girl's diary. Let me get one thing straight: THIS IS NOT DIARY POETRY OR 17th CENTURY OLD POETRY! There's nothing to be afraid of! Poetry is basically just a story in a different format!
Here, I'll start off. I need help finding a title for this piece, and I need feedback.
So... thoughts?
Now, before we begin, let me just say, thank you for reading. I know poetry tends to scare people off, because when people hear the word "poetry", they either think of the 17th century they have to read in english class, or the kind of poetry one finds in an emotional teenage girl's diary. Let me get one thing straight: THIS IS NOT DIARY POETRY OR 17th CENTURY OLD POETRY! There's nothing to be afraid of! Poetry is basically just a story in a different format!
Here, I'll start off. I need help finding a title for this piece, and I need feedback.
The swings on the swing set are all broken.
I see them at twilight when I walk.
The wind pushes the empty swings
And they squeak quietly, almost inaudibly,
As if remembering a time when the children once were happy.
The wind subsides and the squeaking fades
Like the light that slowly dies
Clinging to the mountains in a final gasp of agony.
The tragic music grows so quiet, I don't notice when it's gone.
I'm left feeling as if a part of me is missing.
The wind picks up and rattles the swing again.
The broken swing begins to flail.
It's flipping back and forth, trying to swing but it can't.
As if it's trying to regain something that it was, but can never be again.
A time that has long since ended.
Reliving a memory, but it's broken and only half what it was.
A single, desperate squeak pries from the broken screws.
It's begging "Please, please, please,"
I see them at twilight when I walk.
The wind pushes the empty swings
And they squeak quietly, almost inaudibly,
As if remembering a time when the children once were happy.
The wind subsides and the squeaking fades
Like the light that slowly dies
Clinging to the mountains in a final gasp of agony.
The tragic music grows so quiet, I don't notice when it's gone.
I'm left feeling as if a part of me is missing.
The wind picks up and rattles the swing again.
The broken swing begins to flail.
It's flipping back and forth, trying to swing but it can't.
As if it's trying to regain something that it was, but can never be again.
A time that has long since ended.
Reliving a memory, but it's broken and only half what it was.
A single, desperate squeak pries from the broken screws.
It's begging "Please, please, please,"
So... thoughts?
Last edited by Arlecchino on 2/18/2013, 7:47 pm; edited 1 time in total
