wasted. room spins. colors spill into each other. fall to the ground. stare at the cealing. turn out the lights. wasted. wasted. words slurr. thoughts wander all around. sing stupid songs. moods change. stare into nothing. wasted. wasted. what a horrible word. such a beautiful thing. wasted. and i'm oh-so-poetic, when i'm wasted. am i wasted? can't you tell? drink too fast. bleed.on.the.floor. head aches. emotions crash. so beautiful, so terrible. so wasted.
there's nothing original in this poem that makes me go "wow" sure, it's relatable, because you describe it exactly the way it is, the exact way that everybody already knows that it is. there's nothing different. no spectacular images, no spectacular feelings. just bland. also, we get it, you're wasted. redundancy is a friend to no one.
Hah I came back to this and I realized something I didn't point out... Repetition is a tool of poetry so um, critisizing me repeating myself... ...is stupid.
Yeah, I'm back again with additional comment. I liked the meter and the pacing. It was a smooth quick read that carried us thru the thought trying to be conveyed. And, yes, repetition is a part of that. Well said. Oh, I repeated that.
