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Cheat Sheets

"The nineties made terrible camaros.
Those things were the nastiest cars i've ever seen."

study hall is not quite as silent as i was sure it would be
without you keeping me from doing my homework
or forcing me to do just that
sometimes you just want to hide
and we can't
but i couldn't blame you.

there's a different kind of quiet now
this silence isn't audible
it's not like the normal absence of sound
that makes everything else so loud
it's a silent feel
that settles in the bottom of your lungs
and pulls you inward until you're breathing deep.

i don't understand how this should work
should i be able to concentrate without you?
should i be able to stop staring
and get my ass in gear with you here?
should i want anyone else?

so many different answers.

Editing stage: 

Comments's a silent feel
that settles
in the bottom of
your lungs
pulls you inward
until you're breathing

These are your best lines...develop the idea of the 'emptiness'...not only of the space but the empty moral code of cheating. I didn't understand your opening lines...need to explain how it fits in with the theme?

Will look forward to seeing what you do (if anything) with this piece.)))


"the Nineties made terrible Camaros" I do realise that you might have just staring out of the study-hall window and had the stray thought, but I don't think that those lines have a place here. I found that there were enough scatterings of your thoughts and ideas to make for the premise that you were having difficulty in concentrating. Keep it up, You are starting to get your point across! Life is not always about meter, rhyme and smoothness. Sometimes it is chaotic! I like your style. ~ Gee

Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

thanks for the feedback! the opening lines are something i overheard in study hall; usually i'm too invested in being with a certain someone to even notice other people :) it's supposed to be about wanting a cheat sheet to certain aspects of life and missing someone. i'm not sure how successful i was in getting that point across, but i tried! thanks again.

author comment

not that often I get it..
I remember my heart beating
the sick feeling

Sitting at the waterfront on the bench to calm down
and focus on the mirages in the summer
the stone breakwall the flowergardens
and pine trees the trimmed grass and all the while
Im trying to just let go and not think about
an affection

and all the chattering magpies going by are filling up
my head with dialoque
and none of it is making the want
the ache
the desire
the sickness go away

and I cant shout or scream or cry
not here..just stare at the middle distance
and hope the whole thing settles down
but it didnt

I would see her at the store
when I was getting groceries from the little
main street groceteria
or sitting with the other house room buddies
watching traffic on the porch she would head
by on some mission downtown

She had spoken to me and I was not sick
with hope because of obsession of fantasy
but of a strong connect
Power Apps of love before the internet age
really took off

I know what your poem is about
threading dialogue is hard sometimes
Its like the gamer games now
the intro sequences where the characters
speak..the verbal lines flow

Cheat sheets are much more fun
makes it sleeker
I still say like the dropped hanky
or pen..the old coy systems that
were fun

there is nothing like the art of the

The nineties were different

but Love and Poetry isnt
I told you before and I tell you
I like your work very much

wording is like accents
for fashion

every word conveys mood
feeling purpose


late here must sleep
Thank You

it's always nice to hear what you think; i admire your work very much. it's also nice to know that someone relates :)
thank you,

author comment

Not sure if it's supposed to be, but...
I disagree with Geezer. Life is, of course, chaos, but poetry is about the emotional abuse of order.
Your stuff is always emotional. A little more order wouldn't hurt, but don't lose the intensity while you work at it.
I did like the poem

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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i will gladly take sexy over terrible any day :) i think the emotion makes the poem 99 percent of the time. if not from emotion, then where did the thing even come from? i'm glad you liked it.

author comment
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