Poetry makes my head hurt.

[dannoofthedead]

It really does. I've got no idea what to do with this. I spend more time writing poems and essays than actually working on my stories and its an even bigger pain in the ass to try and sell a poem to a magazine. I've tried placing this one in a handful of mags that have all rejected it. Please, give it a read and tell me what you think. I'd really like to put it somewhere in print and I'm sure it could use a bit of work. The Last One The cold dark night outside the window, Blows echoes through the hall, While moonlight on the swaying trees, Cast shadows on the wall. The screen door cracks against its frame, The hinges groan and creak, A lonely dog howls at the moon, While all the world grows bleak. A crumpled pack of cigarettes, On the balcony ledge they lie, As crumpled as the man beneath them, Withered, brittle and dry. An empty world grows quiet, Watching the years creep by, Mourning over the broken husk, Of the last one to survive.

[blind2d]

some of it is confusing, but the overall tone is great. keep it up, newcomer!