Can i poem

What life of yours could pay for this false hope? Lying, screaming, always, always for more Tightly rolled cigarettes and hot Death smoke On your hands and knees, you searched on the floor.

I remember too well about falling. And in my sleep, I said those words I hate because all they brought me was pain and rage. That look made me weak and left me crawling.

From what I have seen… I just wanted to say That I thank you so kindly Because all I really wanted you to do Was criticize my work My eyes are full of fire Can't I just fly away?

There is at least one kind of utility that a poem can embody: ambiguity. Ambiguity is not what school or society wants to instill. That said, day-to-day living—unlike sentence-to-sentence reading—is filled with ambiguity: Does she love me enough to marry? Should I fuck him one more time before I dump him? Try crowd-sourcing for an answer. But the metaphor quickly falls apart. Such animals live on their own, utterly unconcerned with the names humans put upon them.

But here too, the metaphor breaks down. A worn-out part on an automobile can be switched out with a nearly identical part and run as it did before. In a poem, a word exchanged for another word even a close synonym can alter the entire functioning of the poem. The most productive thing about trying to define a poem through comparison—to an animal, a machine, or whatever else—is not in the comparison itself but in the arguing over it.

Whether or not you view a poem as a machine or a wild animal, it can change the machine or wild animal of your mind. A poem helps the mind play with its well-trod patterns of thought, and can even help reroute those patterns by making us see the familiar anew. An example: the sun. Consider a poem lurking in the pages of The New Yorker. There it is staring you in the face: Do you read it as well as it reads you?

In terms of ink on paper, it does nothing more than the prose around it, but in terms of apprehension, it draws in your eye and places the poem in a rarefied position and a totally ignorable one all at once. What a waste of my time! How much did that cost? The magazine gave up valuable space to print the poem instead of printing a longer article or an advertisement.

Nobody bought the copy of The New Yorker for the poem, except perhaps for the poet who wrote it. A poem is a text—a product of writing and rewriting—but unlike articles, stories, or novels, it never really becomes a thing made in order to become a commodity.

Start by writing down all the words that come to mind when you think of your subject. Poets and writers often imagine what other people or objects see or feel. If a poet saw an apple, he may wonder why it is there, who put it there, what the apple is thinking, or what it will become, like applesauce or apple pie. Take a walk and try to experience every physical sense: touch, smell , sound, taste , and vision.

Try to watch people and animals, and imagine their feelings and perspectives. Get silly and make up crazy stories. All you have to do is loosen up, have fun, and start writing whatever comes to mind. The format of your poem is influenced by the subject and tone. Choose one, learn the basic rules, and do your best to stick to them. There are many types of poems you can write. You have your purpose, subject, related words, and a format. Jot down one line to start.

This could end up being your title, your opening line, or your last line. Take a look at the line and see where you think it falls on the spectrum of your idea. If you use the first line as your opening line, simply start adding lines after it.

You can fix that later. One of the best things you can do is put the first draft of your poem away for a day or two. Come back to it and see if you can make any improvements with a fresh pair of eyes.