To "release and be" is the best part of love.

Don't know what to make of this.

This is the kind of poem that wins contests. It probably brought loud applause if you read it before an audience. It has the normally desired elements. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoy its flow and appreciate the images and descriptions. But it sacrifices meaning for prose, follow-through for rhythm. It is like a beautiful melody having lyrics that seem beautiful because of their attachment to the music.

Maybe a more descriptive title might have eased my misunderstanding or failure to know what you mean.

An essay. A statement of position. Not a poem. I agree with you.

How is this an acrostic? What do the first two lines mean? How does Snow White pale in one mirror more than in any mirror?

The last verse is nice.

Ouch! And write a lot of poems.

You've convince me. I'd love to. Just a few clean-ups would make your offer perfect. Please say either "will" or "can" in the third line, I'm so enamored I don't care which. And please tell me if there is something due you or if there is just dew on the grass. As for what reamins of me, that's tomorrow, this is tonight. Gosh, is my lipstick smeared?

I'm exhausted.

I've kissed a smoker, and it is like licking an ashtray. It's their business what they do with their health, and it's mine what I think of mine and their effect on it.

This kind of poem either gets bashed on Poemranker or it gets ignored, both because nobody wants to associate with your Christian faith. I rather admire your courage.

This isn't very well written, but maybe I couldn't do better in your circumstance.

I see you changed the ending, and the rest seems all different too. "perfect and peculiar us" is very nice.

Old age, minds fail, memories and desires last. Not bad.

Big deal

Almost all the trees cut for pulp and paper are grown on farms. To say we should save a tree by using less paper is like saying we should eat less corn.

I like "hyperactive serpent on a sibilant slither." A bit strange in spacing and language at the end though.

Good rant.

I'm with you on the pain, the cold.
Why drive-way, not driveway?
If it's a rewrite, why "throat.When?"

If you're going to insist on this new orderliness in your poems, I'm going to wonder just how much of a rebel you really are anymore. Rhyming and meter? But there's a gap here being bridged by young lioness poems, and I like the way it flows.

A disconnected flow that can only mean love. And maybe to polish it up for her would be a turn-off.