It is time,
just like the flowers of spring
blosson in May,
and so shall I
as, now my time has come.
Just like a tree,
fully mature, thought I
But, under this shadow
my presence ceases.
Undoubtedly, from the same root,
Me, just a leaf is deprived of the very things I hold Sacred,
from the root off which I grew.

That, which I am deprived off the most
is love.

Always under this shadow of this branch.
They think, a bud like me can not take the heat of the outside.
My shell still soft,
because it's the time of yearning,
just for me.

Growing, to catch the sunlight steadily.
Gripping on to it's warmth.
This warmth, makes me surpass the very force
Which has given birth, to myself.
Can not, be alone, I thought,
as this branch always nourished me.
Silently, I watch him fading,
depressed, and rotting.
I watch him crying, retreating,
back to his own, little bud.
I question myself, so
I try to stop him,
but now it's too late.

That, which I am deprived off the most,
is knowledge.

Trying to find, what happened whithin.
I have no clue
to what is happening.
I have to help him, and stop him from fading away.
I have to gain more knowledge, crucial for my growth,
and the reason for that is,
it's the time of yearning,
just for me.
Last edited by LiquidDream at Aug 6, 2010,
This presents the following images:

standing in a bookstore, at the typically lackadaisical poetry section, thinking of that quote I heard somewhere there's no money in poetry and looking for something worthy. I flip to random pages, read a poem, flip to the front, to the back, read a poem. then I look for where it belongs. If a poem moved me, if it started quaking my heart and some solid surface starts glowing orange, either by lava or streetlight, and I can see the writer where they're describing, looking around their world, pen in hand. I usually don't find the right spot. I would find your slot. Publishable because this is what the public and the publishers like, but not quite revolutionary.

What's with all the commas? More than the excessive language, the punctuation is overflowing, even distracting. It makes me want to pause more than line breaks do, and I'm never really sure why I'm pausing. The flow dies a hip hop death, and the voice is hesitant and weak.

What I do enjoy is the consistency. You've got an idea, and you ran with it, and the process of trekking from beginning to end is clear and concise. I could make my way in the dark, which helps sometimes - as tragically romantic as it is to be lost (we're poets, after all), it's good for the soul to have some direction, which I think is this poem's greatest strength.