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6/11/2017 3:54:04 AM Julia Romano Posts: 4	Everything I shove down Keeps running back up Now my hands are bruised And the smell exudes What do they think of me Disturbed my myself How do they see me I’m so far buried Sheltered from view Deep in the porcelain bowl So impatient and true Spitting fire, always burning It’s always burning, Always hurts I crave the sick Nothing else to do And it makes me tired I’m exhausted So tired, I can’t sleep Too scared to choose edited by juliaromano on 6/11/2017
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6/11/2017 5:55:50 PM Jerome Malenfant Posts: 26	The main problem I have with the poem is that it offers no hint to the reader as to why the person in the poem does what she does.
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6/11/2017 8:33:48 PM Julia Romano Posts: 4	zaq12wsx wrote: The main problem I have with the poem is that it offers no hint to the reader as to why the person in the poem does what she does. hmm, i'll have to consider that, but the thing about bulimia is you don't really know why you do what you do. everyone knows the consequences of forcing yourself to throw up, yet we do it anyway. there really is no reason for eating disorders
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6/11/2017 8:39:48 PM Julia Romano Posts: 4	maybe if i add this as the last stanza? The farther my fingers seep, The smaller I’ll be I need help, I don’t want it I’ll die for thin, I’ll die for it but then i feel like it's too in your face? ugh someone help me please! edited by juliaromano on 6/11/2017
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6/11/2017 10:58:20 PM Jerome Malenfant Posts: 26	Well then, maybe an acknowledgment in the poem that 'you' don't know why you do this. I think the poem should offer some insight to the reader into the mind of a bulimic. Otherwise it comes off as just whining, and the response from the reader when the poem says "it hurts when I do this" might be just 'then don't do that!"
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6/18/2017 3:51:50 PM Darren White Posts: 31	I think one of the main problems is that is is very "telling", a description of what is happening. I know it is very difficult to step out of oneself, and then to write in poetic language. But it is the main problem with your poem. I am having a different problematic relation with food. If I would write a poem about it, I might try for the first few lines something like this: Five o'clock, I plate the plate with: 20 peas 1 potato 1000 stares, arranging rearranging counting 21 Will there be ease, will the fragrance of freshly cooked peas ever be the best scent ever? See? I am not claiming this to be a wonderful poem, I just quickly wrote a few lines for you, maybe it is helpful or not. I hope it helped you on your way.
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