It must be nice: Being lonely

I wrote another "poem" please tell me what you think.

It must be nice to be wanted....
It would be nice to feel that warm and fuzzy feeling inside where you know
That someone wants you
Someone that gives you the time of day
A loving voice that says hi once every so often
It must be nice to have someone want to be happy with you
Unfortunately i spend most of my days alone wandering through my brain
Waiting for someone
Anyone to call
Anyone to instant message
Waiting for someone to notice you for the right reasons
You hope and hope and hope but nobody ever listens
It must be to love and love back
I love and it ends up being for no reason
It must be nice to have your feelings returned
Something real and true and not contrived
When you pick flowers its always you love me not
It must be nice to not walk alone in the world and always have something To look forward to
Is it possible that I try too hard
To make people feel good and be happy
Is it possible that I may never find what I really want
Is it true what they say
I'm unapproachable
I'm Unlovable
That no one wants to be around me
That I'll never be good enough
That I don't have what it takes
I'm a guy that has a lot to offer
But no one will ever see
They'll only see the baggage
All I want is one chance
A chance that no one will give me
It must be nice to have a chance
It must be nice to know that someone cares.
It must be nice to know someone loves you.
it must be nice to know I can be loved in spite of all of my deficiencies
It must be nice...

Please tell me what you guys think.

I really need help.

Comments

The piece shows that you have a talent for writing. Please understand though that poetry is about the hardest form of writing that one can attempt. There was, for example, arguably, only one consistently great poet in the whole of the 20th century: T.S. Eliot. I know that you are only 19 and probably just beginning to write. I think that the most important thing for you to do right now, if you want to be a poet (and keep in mind that poets do not make much money from being just poets,) is to read as much classical poetry as possible and also to remember that words are your tools, so you must also read the dictionary. Learn words and their meanings, shadings and nuances. I have been writing poetry for about as long as you have been alive. I am just now beginning to not totally suck at it. Perhaps by the time I die, I will be a good poet. It is unlikely that I will ever be great. Poetry is a hard nut to crack. Good luck.
 
The piece shows that you have a talent for writing. Please understand though that poetry is about the hardest form of writing that one can attempt. There was, for example, arguably, only one consistently great poet in the whole of the 20th century: T.S. Eliot. I know that you are only 19 and probably just beginning to write. I think that the most important thing for you to do right now, if you want to be a poet (and keep in mind that poets do not make much money from being just poets,) is to read as much classical poetry as possible and also to remember that words are your tools, so you must also read the dictionary. Learn words and their meanings, shadings and nuances. I have been writing poetry for about as long as you have been alive. I am just now beginning to not totally suck at it. Perhaps by the time I die, I will be a good poet. It is unlikely that I will ever be great. Poetry is a hard nut to crack. Good luck.
 
Something of mine:

AN ANT BETWEEN THE PILLARS
For W.J.D.

Who am I to try this thing?
(Jumble-closet-brain
jam-packed with table-scrap-leavings of
the truly great.)
‘ Am not Magician,
or Metaphysician.
I
cannot,
even perhaps,
pull Prufrock from my hat
or
command the stars,
with a pen-waive,
to fall
and sing
inside of my inkwell.
I know nothing of Gods
or of Commas
yet
presumptuously build
my tiny, roughhewn, mound
in a garden of monolithic thought.
(c) 2003 Timothy Constant
 
Something of mine:

AN ANT BETWEEN THE PILLARS
For W.J.D.

Who am I to try this thing?
(Jumble-closet-brain
jam-packed with table-scrap-leavings of
the truly great.)
‘ Am not Magician,
or Metaphysician.
I
cannot,
even perhaps,
pull Prufrock from my hat
or
command the stars,
with a pen-waive,
to fall
and sing
inside of my inkwell.
I know nothing of Gods
or of Commas
yet
presumptuously build
my tiny, roughhewn, mound
in a garden of monolithic thought.
(c) 2003 Timothy Constant
 

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