Young Writers Society

EXCUSE the choppiness/awkwardness/everything else in my poem, it's a work in progress. It's written short sections.
Not my favorite poem........ honestly, i don't like it very much, I'll try to make it work



Death, in some ways,
Can serve as a belated birthday
Where you send the cards,
Not receive. But there is no need
For the creators--the artists, the poets,
The dancers--their lives are the words,
Aging in stories.
Yet still they wonder
Who will care enough to read it
And if it really matters who does
At all. Sweep aside
This girl's bangs, you will see
That she wonders, too.
--
I look down at her hands
Holding so many things
That she won't let me take.
And yet, she's trying to decide
If she wants to pick up
The pencil, as well.
What would she write on paper
That she couldn't on her wrists?

But her last words are all over,
heavy with those before them,
Only she doesn't know.
She can't feel the weight.
--
My house looks at her,
Apprehensive and betting
With the door. The clock
Pressures: tick tock,
The sound of falling pills--hurry,
Before they run out!
--
Even now, only a step away
From amateur peace, worry
Finds it's way in. What if
There were never enough pills
In the first place? Oh, how 'never enough'
Always manages to make things worse,
How it managed to bring her
To this place and to annihilate
Her limits, too.
Having morphed her goals
Into eggshells and apple cores,
'Never enough' is certainly the culprit.

And it frustrates me to think
That she wants apologize for it.
Her only fault
Is building the guilt
She put on herself. So selfish,
Using an emotion that stirs hate,
And hate makes you forget.
But she knows of her amnesia,
Always aware of her memories
Regarding her sadly.
--
The girl lifts her eyes
From the pencil, a sinking decision.
Even emptiness has it's weight,
And she feels it now,
Much too late:

A card for our belated birthday,
This poem,
Left prematurely
On the kitchen floor.

Although this may be a work in progress, the pieces are already looking great! You just need to polish off those sharp edges and piece together the various sections. As you said, it was choppy and sort of awkward, the lines weren't arranged in a very smooth sort of way, and it could use some revising, do not fret though! that's what the reviews are here for

talkingbird wrote:Death, in some ways,
Can be like a belated birthday,
But no one sends a card; you send one
To them. And for the creators--

Rather than using such awkward wording of 'can be like a belated birthday' trying something more along the lines of 'serves as a belated birthday' or 'is equivalent to' or 'could potentially be' or anything of that sort.
'But no one sends a card; you send one to them' I understand the point your trying to get across, but it's not really coming out in the fashion you might hope for it to. 'A card is not received, but rather; it is gifted'. I don't know, I'm not the best writer, and my suggestions may not pose as good ideas to you, but I'm just picking out the parts that sounded a little strange.

talkingbird wrote:The artists, the poets, the dancers--
There is no need to. Those lives
Already are words, aging in stories.

I actually loved this part, no revision needed!

talkingbird wrote:Though, they still wonder
Who will care enough to read it
And if it really matters who does
At all. Sweep aside
This girl's bangs, you will see
That she wonders, too.

I would consider swapping 'still' and 'they' so it flows more like, though, still they wonder.
The next few lines were a little wordy, and I would suggest making them sound more poetic, if you will.

talkingbird wrote:I look down at her hands
Holding so many things
That she won't let me take.
And yet, she's trying to decide
If she wants to pick up
The pencil, as well.
What would she write on paper
That she couldn't on her wrists?

I loved the message in this, something very beautiful and eerie about it. The last line was perfect, you hit the nail on the head! A slight bit more imagery could be of good use to you, but nothing else to say besides that in regards to this stanza.The following stanza doesn't need much changing either, only the same reccomendations I made on the one before it.

talkingbird wrote:Even now, only a step away
From amateur peace, worry
Finds it's way in. What if
There were never enough pills
In the first place? Oh, how 'never enough'
Always manages to make things worse,
How it managed to bring her
To this place and to annihilate
Her limits, too.
Having morphed her goals
Into eggshells and apple cores,
'Never enough' is definitely the culprit.

You falling action of this stanza could use more concern and suspense, I'm not really gaining any sort of curious thoughts in my mind as to what will occur next. No sparks of pure interest are there. It needs more oomph.
BUT, I must say, the last three stanzas were magnificent! They really tie the whole thing together and make it something beautiful regardless of the flaws. No changes needed there
So I hope you take my words into consideration, and don't judge them too harshly, but keep writing.

Like you said, it's a work (of art) in progress, but it's still very good. I like the expression, how you can inhale so sharply at every turn. That sounded confuzzling, but what I'm saying is good descriptions, awesome vocabulary, and great way to express that topic!
I love it!