Likeness

[ISawASpaceship]

I put my head
against a smooth, silk blanket.
It kept me comfort for a while.
It was soft to the touch
and welcoming
as the arms of it
surrounded me,
enfolding me in a net of safety,
burning away all fear,
burning away all pain.
The silk felt like me.


My hands met a mirror
as I rested in the embrace of silk
and I felt the likeness
that the mirror held
to my hand.
The mirror felt like the silk blanket.
The mirror felt like me.


The mirror felt like me
and as touched the mirror
I gazed into the windows of a building
that had once been hardened
but now the windows were soft,
soft like silk
and I being curious needed to feel
the feel
of the silk
that was in the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
for the windows of the building
felt like the silk blanket.
The windows of the building felt like me
and I could see
that the inside
was not so different
from what I had been
before I had found better days.


Now,
I miss the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
that greeted me warmly
because they were trying to fight the lonely,
if only for a time.
I miss them because they felt like silk.
The silk felt like me.
The silk felt like me.

[Kerbonzo_beenz]

I put my head
against a smooth, silk blanket.
It kept me comfort for a while.
It was soft to the touch
and welcoming
as the arms of it
surrounded me,
enfolding me in a net of safety,
burning away all fear,
burning away all pain.
The silk felt like me.


My hands met a mirror
as I rested in the embrace of silk
and I felt the likeness
that the mirror held
to my hand.
The mirror felt like the silk blanket.
The mirror felt like me.


The mirror felt like me
and as touched the mirror
I gazed into the windows of a building
that had once been hardened
but now the windows were soft,
soft like silk
and I being curious needed to feel
the feel
of the silk
that was in the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
for the windows of the building
felt like the silk blanket.
The windows of the building felt like me
and I could see
that the inside
was not so different
from what I had been
before I had found better days.


Now,
I miss the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
that greeted me warmly
because they were trying to fight the lonely,
if only for a time.
I miss them because they felt like silk.
The silk felt like me.
The silk felt like me.

This is a bittersweet reminder of childhood for me. Those times spent in blankets and comfort, now reduced to a soft vivid memory in contrast to the harsher world of adulting. Thank you for sharing.

[busker]

I put my head
against a smooth, silk blanket.
It kept me comfort for a while.
It was soft to the touch
and welcoming
as the arms of it
surrounded me,
enfolding me in a net of safety,
burning away all fear,
burning away all pain.
The silk felt like me.


My hands met a mirror
as I rested in the embrace of silk
and I felt the likeness
that the mirror held
to my hand.
The mirror felt like the silk blanket.
The mirror felt like me.


The mirror felt like me
and as touched the mirror
I gazed into the windows of a building
that had once been hardened
but now the windows were soft,
soft like silk
and I being curious needed to feel
the feel
of the silk
that was in the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
for the windows of the building
felt like the silk blanket.
The windows of the building felt like me
and I could see
that the inside
was not so different
from what I had been
before I had found better days.


Now,
I miss the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
that greeted me warmly
because they were trying to fight the lonely,
if only for a time.
I miss them because they felt like silk.
The silk felt like me.
The silk felt like me.

There is the kernel of a good poem in this one. I like the idea of the sheets as a guard between you and the world. It is not a new idea (nothing ever is), but it can still be told well.
If you make it less obviously about you, and think of how to make it interesting for the reader, it can work well.
Imagery, sonics, rhythm, and succinctness are missing here.

[ISawASpaceship]

I put my head
against a smooth, silk blanket.
It kept me comfort for a while.
It was soft to the touch
and welcoming
as the arms of it
surrounded me,
enfolding me in a net of safety,
burning away all fear,
burning away all pain.
The silk felt like me.


My hands met a mirror
as I rested in the embrace of silk
and I felt the likeness
that the mirror held
to my hand.
The mirror felt like the silk blanket.
The mirror felt like me.


The mirror felt like me
and as touched the mirror
I gazed into the windows of a building
that had once been hardened
but now the windows were soft,
soft like silk
and I being curious needed to feel
the feel
of the silk
that was in the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
for the windows of the building
felt like the silk blanket.
The windows of the building felt like me
and I could see
that the inside
was not so different
from what I had been
before I had found better days.


Now,
I miss the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
that greeted me warmly
because they were trying to fight the lonely,
if only for a time.
I miss them because they felt like silk.
The silk felt like me.
The silk felt like me.

There is the kernel of a good poem in this one. I like the idea of the sheets as a guard between you and the world. It is not a new idea (nothing ever is), but it can still be told well.
If you make it less obviously about you, and think of how to make it interesting for the reader, it can work well.
Imagery, sonics, rhythm, and succinctness are missing here.

I feel that I should mention this is not about a literal blanket. I didn't know if anyone had caught on what the windows, the mirror, and the blanket was discussing. I have a second poem and it will give more insight. There's hidden meaning beneath the words.

---

I put my head
against a smooth, silk blanket.
It kept me comfort for a while.
It was soft to the touch
and welcoming
as the arms of it
surrounded me,
enfolding me in a net of safety,
burning away all fear,
burning away all pain.
The silk felt like me.


My hands met a mirror
as I rested in the embrace of silk
and I felt the likeness
that the mirror held
to my hand.
The mirror felt like the silk blanket.
The mirror felt like me.


The mirror felt like me
and as touched the mirror
I gazed into the windows of a building
that had once been hardened
but now the windows were soft,
soft like silk
and I being curious needed to feel
the feel
of the silk
that was in the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
for the windows of the building
felt like the silk blanket.
The windows of the building felt like me
and I could see
that the inside
was not so different
from what I had been
before I had found better days.


Now,
I miss the blanket,
the mirror,
and the windows of the building,
that greeted me warmly
because they were trying to fight the lonely,
if only for a time.
I miss them because they felt like silk.
The silk felt like me.
The silk felt like me.

This is a bittersweet reminder of childhood for me. Those times spent in blankets and comfort, now reduced to a soft vivid memory in contrast to the harsher world of adulting. Thank you for sharing.

Actually, I should point out that the blanket, the mirror, and the windows of the building are not literal. There's a deeper meaning involved.

[busker]

I feel that I should mention this is not about a literal blanket. I didn't know if anyone had caught on what the windows, the mirror, and the blanket was discussing. I have a second poem and it will give more insight. There's hidden meaning behind the words

Actually, I should point out that the blanket, the mirror, and the windows of the building are not literal. There's a deeper meaning involved.

This is poetry, not a new quantum theory of gravitation, so there is no need for excessive cleverness. And in fact, using vague symbols is the easiest thing to do. I could write a poem about a talking apple that is actually my internal trauma personified. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to waste the reader’s time with it.
The reader is not interested in the secret language of your mind. A shrink might be, if you pay good money. A reader is only interested in something that resonates with him. To do that, you need to craft the poem better and make it more accessible, otherwise it’s a journal entry for yourself.
So even if the sheets and the window were your defence mechanism and your inner dreams of a better life, you can tie all that up in a more interesting, artistic way for the reader. That’s what’s missing.

[ISawASpaceship]

I feel that I should mention this is not about a literal blanket. I didn't know if anyone had caught on what the windows, the mirror, and the blanket was discussing. I have a second poem and it will give more insight. There's hidden meaning behind the words

Actually, I should point out that the blanket, the mirror, and the windows of the building are not literal. There's a deeper meaning involved.

This is poetry, not a new quantum theory of gravitation, so there is no need for excessive cleverness. And in fact, using vague symbols is the easiest thing to do. I could write a poem about a talking apple that is actually my internal trauma personified. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to waste the reader’s time with it.
The reader is not interested in the secret language of your mind. A shrink might be, if you pay good money. A reader is only interested in something that resonates with him. To do that, you need to craft the poem better and make it more accessible, otherwise it’s a journal entry for yourself.
So even if the sheets and the window were your defence mechanism and your inner dreams of a better life, you can tie all that up in a more interesting, artistic way for the reader. That’s what’s missing.

Actually it was written to be sentimental towards a person that I know would enjoy the imagery and I thought it would be fairly obvious after stating that all of these things felt like me. Especially, since a window and a mirror cannot feel like silk. I feel that the context of me sending it to Westley is important. 
Man, hand, eyes.

[Tiger the Lion]

I feel that I should mention this is not about a literal blanket. I didn't know if anyone had caught on what the windows, the mirror, and the blanket was discussing. I have a second poem and it will give more insight. There's hidden meaning behind the words

Actually, I should point out that the blanket, the mirror, and the windows of the building are not literal. There's a deeper meaning involved.

This is poetry, not a new quantum theory of gravitation, so there is no need for excessive cleverness. And in fact, using vague symbols is the easiest thing to do. I could write a poem about a talking apple that is actually my internal trauma personified. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to waste the reader’s time with it.
The reader is not interested in the secret language of your mind. A shrink might be, if you pay good money. A reader is only interested in something that resonates with him. To do that, you need to craft the poem better and make it more accessible, otherwise it’s a journal entry for yourself.
So even if the sheets and the window were your defence mechanism and your inner dreams of a better life, you can tie all that up in a more interesting, artistic way for the reader. That’s what’s missing.

Actually it was written to be sentimental towards a person that I know would enjoy the imagery and I thought it would be fairly obvious after stating that all of these things felt like me. Especially, since a window and a mirror cannot feel like silk. I feel that the context of me sending it to Westley is important. 
Man, hand, eyes.

Hey Spaceship. I just wanted to affirm that Busker's advice on this poem is invaluable if you're looking to improve your poetry and process. So many of us start out imagining that our private jokes might pass as metaphor. Myself included. Hard lessons are how we move on from journal scratchings to a semblance of actual poetry. Thanks for the reminder, Busker.

[ISawASpaceship]

This is poetry, not a new quantum theory of gravitation, so there is no need for excessive cleverness. And in fact, using vague symbols is the easiest thing to do. I could write a poem about a talking apple that is actually my internal trauma personified. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to waste the reader’s time with it.
The reader is not interested in the secret language of your mind. A shrink might be, if you pay good money. A reader is only interested in something that resonates with him. To do that, you need to craft the poem better and make it more accessible, otherwise it’s a journal entry for yourself.
So even if the sheets and the window were your defence mechanism and your inner dreams of a better life, you can tie all that up in a more interesting, artistic way for the reader. That’s what’s missing.

Actually it was written to be sentimental towards a person that I know would enjoy the imagery and I thought it would be fairly obvious after stating that all of these things felt like me. Especially, since a window and a mirror cannot feel like silk. I feel that the context of me sending it to Westley is important. 
Man, hand, eyes.

Hey Spaceship. I just wanted to affirm that Busker's advice on this poem is invaluable if you're looking to improve your poetry and process. So many of us start out imagining that our private jokes might pass as metaphor. Myself included. Hard lessons are how we move on from journal scratchings to a semblance of actual poetry. Thanks for the reminder, Busker.

I find the idea of "actual poetry" to be humorous. There is an audience for everything and everyone has an opinion like everyone has a nose. One may say that metaphor is not needed here. Another may say that to liken a lover to a blanket to show security and comfort shows sentimentality. That same person might enjoy the picture of a mirror as a hand because it implies that the mirror  is the same as the woman, implying that the likeness between the two is like looking at one's reflection. That same reader might also like the picture of a woman looking into the eyes of the man she loves and seeing that those eyes are now soft, the image of a window meaning she can see into him. What is poetry if it is not made with feeling? Dribble that is agonizingly churned out for the masses. Now, your opinion is valid but I simply disagree. To each their own.  And you might want to be careful. Poe might roll over in his grave one day and spring forth from the dirt if you should imply that metaphor in poetry is not real poetry.

[CRNDLSM]

Style is important, short and long poems have their place, it's how the words are used, I don't care if you share fluffy wordy repetitive private jokes, as a reader i can also let the critiques influence my opinion, and anyone can share an opinion. Readers judge authors and critics.

[Tiger the Lion]

Actually it was written to be sentimental towards a person that I know would enjoy the imagery and I thought it would be fairly obvious after stating that all of these things felt like me. Especially, since a window and a mirror cannot feel like silk. I feel that the context of me sending it to Westley is important. 
Man, hand, eyes.

Hey Spaceship. I just wanted to affirm that Busker's advice on this poem is invaluable if you're looking to improve your poetry and process. So many of us start out imagining that our private jokes might pass as metaphor. Myself included. Hard lessons are how we move on from journal scratchings to a semblance of actual poetry. Thanks for the reminder, Busker.

I find the idea of "actual poetry" to be humorous. There is an audience for everything and everyone has an opinion like everyone has a nose. One may say that metaphor is not needed here. Another may say that to liken a lover to a blanket to show security and comfort shows sentimentality. That same person might enjoy the picture of a mirror as a hand because it implies that the mirror  is the same as the woman, implying that the likeness between the two is like looking at one's reflection. That same reader might also like the picture of a woman looking into the eyes of the man she loves and seeing that those eyes are now soft, the image of a window meaning she can see into him. What is poetry if it is not made with feeling? Dribble that is agonizingly churned out for the masses. Now, your opinion is valid but I simply disagree. To each their own.  And you might want to be careful. Poe might roll over in his grave one day and spring forth from the dirt if you should imply that metaphor in poetry is not real poetry.

I think it was Poe who said "it's only metaphor when three or more people can distinguish it from self-indulgent jibbrerish. " I hope he won't haunt me for paraphrasing.

[ISawASpaceship]

Hey Spaceship. I just wanted to affirm that Busker's advice on this poem is invaluable if you're looking to improve your poetry and process. So many of us start out imagining that our private jokes might pass as metaphor. Myself included. Hard lessons are how we move on from journal scratchings to a semblance of actual poetry. Thanks for the reminder, Busker.

I find the idea of "actual poetry" to be humorous. There is an audience for everything and everyone has an opinion like everyone has a nose. One may say that metaphor is not needed here. Another may say that to liken a lover to a blanket to show security and comfort shows sentimentality. That same person might enjoy the picture of a mirror as a hand because it implies that the mirror  is the same as the woman, implying that the likeness between the two is like looking at one's reflection. That same reader might also like the picture of a woman looking into the eyes of the man she loves and seeing that those eyes are now soft, the image of a window meaning she can see into him. What is poetry if it is not made with feeling? Dribble that is agonizingly churned out for the masses. Now, your opinion is valid but I simply disagree. To each their own.  And you might want to be careful. Poe might roll over in his grave one day and spring forth from the dirt if you should imply that metaphor in poetry is not real poetry.

I think it was Poe who said "it's only metaphor when three or more people can distinguish it from self-indulgent jibbrerish. " I hope he won't haunt me for paraphrasing.

Just because you can't understand it, doesn't mean other people can't. The person I wrote to understood it. So did someone else I know. Perhaps it is self-indulgent but perhaps writing in general should be self-indulgent. Some of the worst works are written when a man decides that he will pander to everyone else's wants and wishes.