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A Ghost of a Chance

I thought I knew just who I was
until you entered through the door,

we began talking casually
until you told me what you longed for.

You said you yearned for someone
who'd fullfil your wildest dreams,

and as you got even more specific
you began unravelling at the seams!

I did my best to comfort you
as you sat beside me, on the floor;

then, I explained to everyone...
..I was the one you were looking for!

I alone, could banish each lonely night
and end your futile, dating quest!

I then said how I'd treat you, right...
..so you could forget about having to see the "rest"!

But, now I have to set you, free
somehow, our love must've up, and died!

So, for you to find your way to get over me,
I wish you "closure"...and, I shouldn't have lied!

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Editing stage: 

Comments

Hey this is great poetry
I like the smooth story line from beginning to end
The only crit i have is must've, it stumble just a little bit
Other than this tiny nitpick, i loved it

*Collaborative Poetry Workshop* American Version of Japanese Poetry ~ Renga ~ Haiku, Senyru, Tanka.

Neopoet Community

...soo very much, to me. Really! Thank-you, very much.
Sincerely,
docmaverick.

Neopoet is "newtriffic" !
...from the heart, or a reasonable faxcimile;
david a. goodwin #{:>{)} @==

author comment

Since I'm engrossed in Jess' workshop on meter, I will make my comment in that direction. At first I didn't care for how the meter changed from first line to second, but as the poem progressed I noted that this "deviation" was consistent throughout and allowed the poem to run in a gentle, even way without being necessarily "strictly" constructed.
The subject of course was sad with a subtle humorous undertone. Soooo...I liked it.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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