Poetry Pages

you're right, it's supposed to be rain on the window--some small outside light casting shadows on the ceiling--but that isn't effectively expressed.

love the poem; thanks man.

I close my eyes and try to experience the subject again and again until I'm able to articulate it, or at least get my fingers moving. Whiskey and adagios help.

Meter, rhyme, and the aesthetics of the prose is an afterthought; insofar as I'm not concerned with those things initially.

I honestly don't know anything about forms, and very little about what smart people say constitutes a good poem.

But I like this one a lot. Very nice work.

I knew he hurt; I saw the scars there on his skin and in his eyes;
I let him down when after all that time I never asked him why—
That boy I knew with the brilliant smile who hung himself outside.

Feeling darker than the bedroom that is haunted by the thought
That I’m betraying all that matters in pursuit of what does not;
Counting shadows on the ceiling that are cast there by the rain,
As I lay sleepless in the knowledge that I don’t intend to change.