Smoking his cigarette on his own,
He thinks the world is his burden,
The problems he holds are deep and alone,
And nobody shall ever know them.
Squinting his eyes he gazes above,
The stars never seem to reassure,
Meanders of grey just from one puff,
His tired mind still finds no cure.
Looking down, colours same as ash,
He begins to feel he's beaten,
Flicks the butt then orange splash,
And remembers, all day he has not eaten.
I found the poem to be well-written, well-observed and compassionate. The last line is fine. Move on to another poem. This is well-done. Unsentimental, and the imagery is fine.. - Will
erm the poem is alright, apart from the last line. the last line makes it sound funny and i got the impression you were trying to be serious. poetry doesnt have to rhyme. my poet never rhymes as i find it too constricting and lots of people rhyme and i want to be different. try not rhyming and writing your feelings. i talk a little notebook with me everywher i go incase something pops into my head. experiment with different things until you find whats best for you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
EDD...I Find no puff of a problem here...Your thoughts are well organized, and the piece is commendably structured...The work flows smooth.Last line is alright, but does throw off the flow slightly.Overall i consider this work meritable craftsmanship.''''''''''''''fjr