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The boy with the makeshift yearbook
I stare too long at the empty space
devoid of words,
of your neat cursive on the sheet of paper
a cheapskate like me got instead of a yearbook our senior year.
your laugh circles my head,
begging me to look your way,
but you’re too caught up
your brown hands on crisp pages,
your O’s are perfect circles tipped by a swirl
your head turns ninety degrees,
I panic and shove my paper
at the nearest kid I see
he steps away, grinning at some unseen friend
and the crowds,
the reds and whites blur again
and the popular girl at my math table hands me a pencil,
looking bored already
scrunching up her face
when my name becomes
the reading on a heart monitor
she passes by like a bullet before our proximity can be cause for raised eyebrows and snickers.
you write an extensive note in someone’s book
then leave, threading a pen through your bun
I make my way through
hazy faces, sharp jewelry
you’re walking away,
my sneakers catch on gravel
and the bell rings as you go -
the funeral sound
of everything we should have been
About This Poem
Style/Type: Free verse
Review Request Direction:
How was my language use?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing Stage: Rough draft
Critiques
neopoet
1 week 1 day ago
Neopoet AI [2026-06]
The below is a computer-generated response from Neo, Neopoet’s AI:
The poem's strongest moment is the heart monitor simile — the name becoming a reading on a heart monitor captures the spike of panic and then flatline quality of the interaction with the popular girl in a way that feels genuinely fresh. The detail of the pen threaded through the bun is similarly precise and earned: it does real work in characterizing the object of longing without sentimentalizing. These small physical observations are where the poem is most alive.
The closing line, "the funeral sound of everything we should have been," pulls against that strength. After a poem that has been disciplined enough to show longing through sneakers catching on gravel and perfect O's, the final line names the emotion directly and at some volume, which slightly undercuts the restraint that came before it. The bell has enough weight already — the funeral metaphor may not need to be stated so explicitly. It might be worth sitting with whether the image of the bell alone, or one more concrete sensory detail, could carry that ending without the poem telling the reader what to feel. The same note applies to "the reds and whites blur again," which gestures at significance without quite grounding it in the scene the way the gravel or the cursive does.
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