That smile. That evil, hated smile. And those eyes, Which twinkle with aid. Bottles and bottles fill up that old pile, On the tiles, which day to day fade. Without fail, It's only ten in the morning. The time you begin to quench thirst. By the time that you're done, A new day is dawning. And your liver is about to burst. The couch sags, Beneath your old, tired limbs. I can tell that they're aching from here. All around you are bottles, Filled to the rims. And they're all filled with piss-yellow beer. :cheers2: Think before you get drunk in front of your kids
Hey Laura May, I disagree, I think May is a poet. I liked your poem here. It says a lot and appears to come from the heart, which, IMHO, defines good poetry. The techincal aspects, style and all that stuff is just icing on the cake as far as I'm concerned, but I think you do well in those areas also. Gig
Troubled eyes The sight, the stare Still might glare into mine Hair on the rise My back, so cold I told you it’s a sign You avoid My touch, the flush The rushing in my heart You fill the void But you are too much And with you I just I can’t
Thats the biggest load of bull shitatakie mushrooms I've ever heard, those two awsome poems prove you are a poet!
I think it takes more than just shoving a few lines that rhyme together and calling it a 'poem' to be a poet
yes it does it takes shoving a few powerful lines together that rhyme and calling it a poem to be a poet and you got that covered girly
laura, give yourself some credit, i enjoyed your rhyme schemes...add that to a level of suspense that you created and you are on your way.
