Poetry / Rememberance
I remember what it was to wake up each day
and lie to myself
about the sun rising and setting in his eyes,
about how the illusion of life reflected
was the hope of something real
and behind each slowly closing lid
rested a perfect image of me.
I remeber the dull ache
of a void I could not fill
and each empty promise you gave
only occupied the pre-chiseled gaps
in my ind which I’ve labelled with your name
repeating it softly as a prayer,
a curse, a promise, a lie,
an attempt to calm the erradic pounding
of blood in my ears and veins.
I remember the quiet solitude of letting go
and the days I wept silently
in hopes of an explanation
of what I’d done wrong
accentuated by the cold greeting
that all I’d mistaken was a believed
reliance on a love I’d never known
and never would because vindication
does not exist.
I remember the quiet, hollow peace
that was my world
when all I had to convince anyone of
was the love or lack thereof
I revelled in before there was you.
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I’ve read this same poem about a thousand times. A young woman suffers from lost love. We all suffer, dear. Always remember: readers are selfish. What poignant pearls of wisdom have you given me to ease my suffering? None.
Just breaking your lines into stanza form does not give it meter. Buy a few grammar books to review your punctuation. Writing well takes a lot of effort and time. It’s a bitch of a mistress most days. Only the best will survive her. Best of luck.
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