Why is it

[loboflo]

Hi. I wrote this poem last night and I'm hoping to get some feedback. Please keep in mind it was partially written eith the intent of being spoken aloud.  But please also note that there is talk of self harm and suicide.  Thank you.
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Why is it that everytime I ask you if we can do something, the answer is always i’d love to, but i'm too busy right now maybe later this week.  But then later this week never comes.  Why is it that everytime I need help you aren’t there.  Yet you always say let me know if you need anything.  But when that happens nothing happens.  Why is it that anytime I try to seek advice from you, it always becomes my fault somehow.  Or that I did something wrong.  Why is it that we make plans and you cancel them to spend time with your other friends.  Why is it that even when I was contemplating driving off a bridge that was the first time I’d talked to you in what felt like forever.  Why is it that even after I almost drove off the bridge that nothing has changed.  Why is it that everyone only seems to care when it gets to that point.  Why is it that nothing has changed except everything inside of me.  Why is it that I hate myself more than ever.  Why is it that my pain isnt valid just because I never stop hurting.  Why is it that I alternate between starving myself and eating until I’m about to burst.  Why is it that I can’t even get my therapist to understand what is really troubling me.  Why is it that I can’t even tell anyone my true thoughts without being afraid of hurting them.  Yet they give zero fucks about whether or not I am hurt.  Why is it that no matter how many times I draw those lines across my thighs with the sharpie I keep in my bedside table, I never feel satisfied.  Why is it that I push the marker harder and harder into my legs to try and feel something other than misery.  Why is it that I refuse to sleep even though that is the only place that I am usually safe from myself.  Why is it that I can’t even get my family to understand how much I really want to die.  Why is it that I don’t even know the person who looks back at me through the mirror.  Why is it that the laugh lines that I have had since middle school are permanently etched into a frown.  Why is it that no matter what I do nothing is ever right.  Why is it that people can feel free to treat me like shit and then expect me to forgive them like nothing happened.  Why is it that people can disregard me so quick and not care whether I am eating or not.  Why is it that after everything my friends stood by me through that they are so quick to abandon me.  Why is it that I feel like quitting school is the best option for me but even if I did I wouldn’t know what to do with my life next.  Why is it that no matter how long I sit here watching grass grow that no one asks if I’m ok.  Why is it that I question what the future will be like and whether or not I will be alive to see it.  Why is it that no matter how much I long for the release of death that  I can’t do it.  Why is it that I just have to wait for circumstance to do it for me.  Why is it that when talking about why I almost drove off the bridge that I somehow am at fault because I had rejected offers to do things before so people stopped trying.  Why is it that I feel too numb to even cry.  Why is it that I’ve lost all hope for myself.  Why is it that it feels like none of this will change.  Why is it that no matter how many happy or funny things I do, watch, read nothing changes the hole that consumes me from the inside out.  Why is it that people are literally sleeping feet away from me and I feel as if I am hours away from anyone.  Why is it that a week and a half ago I almost killed myself and everyone has no concerns over leaving me alone for almost five days.  Why is it that no one takes me seriously.  Why is it that I am just a punchline to everyone or the loser who always tags along.  Why is it that no one cares enough to make me a priority even sometimes.  Why is it that people see my pain and think nothing of it.  Why is it that everyone seems to hate me at the drop of a hat.  Why is it that no one else is held to the same standard that I am.  Why is it that I feel the need to spend my money on things because people refuse to help me.  Why is it that I feel like I am the last person on the planet.  Why is it that I feel that no matter what I try none of this will change.

Because until I find a reason to change it, nothing will ever change.

[Richard]

Hey loboflo,
My biggest suggestion would be to break this piece into stanzas. I found this really hard to follow because it's just a giant blob of words. I think there's some fertile emotion here worth exploring. However, the structure of the piece distracts from that emotion. I would also suggestion trying to vary your wording a bit. I know the word "why" is important here, but there are other ways to ask that question. Below I'll gave you an example of one possible way to restructure this into stanzas:

Hi. I wrote this poem last night and I'm hoping to get some feedback. Please keep in mind it was partially written eith the intent of being spoken aloud.  But please also note that there is talk of self harm and suicide.  Thank you.
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Why is it that everytime I ask you if we can do something,
the answer is always i’d love to,
but i'm too busy right now maybe later this week. 
But then later this week never comes. 

Why is it that everytime I need help you aren’t there. 
Yet you always say let me know if you need anything. 
But when that happens nothing happens.  -I hope this helps explain what I said above. You would just do the same for the rest.

Why is it that anytime I try to seek advice from you, it always becomes my fault somehow.  Or that I did something wrong.  Why is it that we make plans and you cancel them to spend time with your other friends.  Why is it that even when I was contemplating driving off a bridge that was the first time I’d talked to you in what felt like forever.  Why is it that even after I almost drove off the bridge that nothing has changed.  Why is it that everyone only seems to care when it gets to that point.  Why is it that nothing has changed except everything inside of me.  Why is it that I hate myself more than ever.  Why is it that my pain isnt valid just because I never stop hurting.  Why is it that I alternate between starving myself and eating until I’m about to burst.  Why is it that I can’t even get my therapist to understand what is really troubling me.  Why is it that I can’t even tell anyone my true thoughts without being afraid of hurting them.  Yet they give zero fucks about whether or not I am hurt.  Why is it that no matter how many times I draw those lines across my thighs with the sharpie I keep in my bedside table, I never feel satisfied.  Why is it that I push the marker harder and harder into my legs to try and feel something other than misery.  Why is it that I refuse to sleep even though that is the only place that I am usually safe from myself.  Why is it that I can’t even get my family to understand how much I really want to die.  Why is it that I don’t even know the person who looks back at me through the mirror.  Why is it that the laugh lines that I have had since middle school are permanently etched into a frown.  Why is it that no matter what I do nothing is ever right.  Why is it that people can feel free to treat me like shit and then expect me to forgive them like nothing happened.  Why is it that people can disregard me so quick and not care whether I am eating or not.  Why is it that after everything my friends stood by me through that they are so quick to abandon me.  Why is it that I feel like quitting school is the best option for me but even if I did I wouldn’t know what to do with my life next.  Why is it that no matter how long I sit here watching grass grow that no one asks if I’m ok.  Why is it that I question what the future will be like and whether or not I will be alive to see it.  Why is it that no matter how much I long for the release of death that  I can’t do it.  Why is it that I just have to wait for circumstance to do it for me.  Why is it that when talking about why I almost drove off the bridge that I somehow am at fault because I had rejected offers to do things before so people stopped trying.  Why is it that I feel too numb to even cry.  Why is it that I’ve lost all hope for myself.  Why is it that it feels like none of this will change.  Why is it that no matter how many happy or funny things I do, watch, read nothing changes the hole that consumes me from the inside out.  Why is it that people are literally sleeping feet away from me and I feel as if I am hours away from anyone.  Why is it that a week and a half ago I almost killed myself and everyone has no concerns over leaving me alone for almost five days.  Why is it that no one takes me seriously.  Why is it that I am just a punchline to everyone or the loser who always tags along.  Why is it that no one cares enough to make me a priority even sometimes.  Why is it that people see my pain and think nothing of it.  Why is it that everyone seems to hate me at the drop of a hat.  Why is it that no one else is held to the same standard that I am.  Why is it that I feel the need to spend my money on things because people refuse to help me.  Why is it that I feel like I am the last person on the planet.  Why is it that I feel that no matter what I try none of this will change.

Because until I find a reason to change it, nothing will ever change.

I look forward to seeing where you take this piece from here.

Keep writing,
Richard

[billy]

as an open mic poem it doesn't matter how it's laid down because you'd be the one reading it. as a written poem it needs line breaks. [line breaks would also help the speaker with the rise and fall of certain parts within the poem.] at first the poem didn't hold me the opening felt weak but after a few lines i was drawn in by the extended questions. i think some of the [why is it] lines could be said differently to enhance what's being asked though i will admit the line sort of drives home a point. that said i think it's because you're aming at a slam mic poetry reading.

Hi. I wrote this poem last night and I'm hoping to get some feedback. Please keep in mind it was partially written eith the intent of being spoken aloud.  But please also note that there is talk of self harm and suicide.  Thank you.
---------
Why is it that everytime I ask you if we can do something, the answer is always i’d love to, but i'm too busy right now maybe later this week.  But then later this week never comes.  Why is it that everytime I need help you aren’t there.  Yet you always say let me know if you need anything.  But when that happens nothing happens.  Why is it that anytime I try to seek advice from you, it always becomes my fault somehow.  Or that I did something wrong.  Why is it that we make plans and you cancel them to spend time with your other friends.  Why is it that even when I was contemplating driving off a bridge that was the first time I’d talked to you in what felt like forever.  Why is it that even after I almost drove off the bridge that nothing has changed.  Why is it that everyone only seems to care when it gets to that point.  Why is it that nothing has changed except everything inside of me.  Why is it that I hate myself more than ever.  Why is it that my pain isnt valid just because I never stop hurting.  Why is it that I alternate between starving myself and eating until I’m about to burst.  Why is it that I can’t even get my therapist to understand what is really troubling me.  Why is it that I can’t even tell anyone my true thoughts without being afraid of hurting them.  Yet they give zero fucks about whether or not I am hurt.  Why is it that no matter how many times I draw those lines across my thighs with the sharpie I keep in my bedside table, I never feel satisfied.  Why is it that I push the marker harder and harder into my legs to try and feel something other than misery.  Why is it that I refuse to sleep even though that is the only place that I am usually safe from myself.  Why is it that I can’t even get my family to understand how much I really want to die.  Why is it that I don’t even know the person who looks back at me through the mirror.  Why is it that the laugh lines that I have had since middle school are permanently etched into a frown.  Why is it that no matter what I do nothing is ever right.  Why is it that people can feel free to treat me like shit and then expect me to forgive them like nothing happened.  Why is it that people can disregard me so quick and not care whether I am eating or not.  Why is it that after everything my friends stood by me through that they are so quick to abandon me.  Why is it that I feel like quitting school is the best option for me but even if I did I wouldn’t know what to do with my life next.  Why is it that no matter how long I sit here watching grass grow that no one asks if I’m ok.  Why is it that I question what the future will be like and whether or not I will be alive to see it.  Why is it that no matter how much I long for the release of death that  I can’t do it.  Why is it that I just have to wait for circumstance to do it for me.  Why is it that when talking about why I almost drove off the bridge that I somehow am at fault because I had rejected offers to do things before so people stopped trying.  Why is it that I feel too numb to even cry.  Why is it that I’ve lost all hope for myself.  Why is it that it feels like none of this will change.  Why is it that no matter how many happy or funny things I do, watch, read nothing changes the hole that consumes me from the inside out.  Why is it that people are literally sleeping feet away from me and I feel as if I am hours away from anyone.  Why is it that a week and a half ago I almost killed myself and everyone has no concerns over leaving me alone for almost five days.  Why is it that no one takes me seriously.  Why is it that I am just a punchline to everyone or the loser who always tags along.  Why is it that no one cares enough to make me a priority even sometimes.  Why is it that people see my pain and think nothing of it.  Why is it that everyone seems to hate me at the drop of a hat.  Why is it that no one else is held to the same standard that I am.  Why is it that I feel the need to spend my money on things because people refuse to help me.  Why is it that I feel like I am the last person on the planet.  Why is it that I feel that no matter what I try none of this will change.

Because until I find a reason to change it, nothing will ever change.

[Missmissy]

hello loboflo,
This is my first critique sorry if it isn't too good. I enjoyed your piece and it really struck a chord with me. I love the repeated question and ending with you answering it. I feel like some of the lines could be combined or edited a bit, I think it would really drive your point through a bit shorter direct sentencing. I also think when you read this piece you should gradually increase the intensity of your voice to convey your frustration or really drive home the "why is it" part. hope this helps in any way and I hope you keeping writing

[Ally]

Hi loboflo,

I think this has a lot of potential, whichever direction you take it. Perhaps you could reorder some of the questions for greater impact? However, that's a very tentative suggestion, as I realise there might be a reason for how it's structured at the moment and I can't see it because I don't have enough experience. Also, I'm not familiar with open-mic poetry, although I recently made a friend who attends poetry slams :-)

Best wishes,
Ally

[Xlateralus]

Lobofo,

As others have mentioned there isn’t enough structure in this poem. Yes you have constant refrain, but because it is the most often refrained phrase of the disgruntled, it doesn’t elevate the poem beyond the background noise of facebook posts.

Also, a lot of lines in the poem do not provide context or example. I have no idea what you mean by “why do i have to spend my money because other people won’t help me”.. it reads as if your looking for a handout, but i’m not sure if that was your intent. As a spoken piece, i’m not sure it works because the audience has almost nothing to connect too, its a very me piece.