Dear Sir,
Here are several little problems I have encountered with your teenage ode to bereavement.
First of all, let me say that the content, if not directly meant to be so, does in fact seem to be very oedipal, and let it be know that the professor does in no way condone incestuous relations, no matter how lovely your mother may be. I realize there are numerous examples of, shall I say, “healthy looking” middle-aged women, with breasts still standing tall like daffodils in the summer, and sculpted posteriors, firm like the ancient mounds of Stonehenge, but the practice of copulating with the one from whose womb you had been initially ripped from, strikes the professor as being very seedy and tasteless, much like American country music.
Nevertheless, let us get to the work at hand.
First let me talk about the title. “Twixt,” is short for “betwixt,” or in modern English, “between.” However, a flower cannot be growing between a weed, since there must be at least three objects involved in order for one of these objects to be considered to be between the other two. Perhaps consider the plural, “weeds.” Let us move on.
“I shall drink this dried-up cup of rain”
Now, poetic licences and freedoms are afforded to everyone, but dear child, drinking that which is already dried-up is, at the least, an improbable scenario.
I shall pledge it with it’s red to your beverage,
Regardless of the fact that “its” should be written as such and not as a contraction, you must pardon my French when I tell you that the professor has no idea what the fuck you are trying to say here. Are you pledging the cup or the rain? Is the cup red or is the rain red? What is your mother’s beverage of choice? My mother harbours a relative affection for Spanish Sangria.
For puny people in shade of your hue.
First of all, you need to place an article in front of “shade,” preferably “the.” Secondly, do you write “shade” as in the degree in which a colour is mixed with black and the gradation of darkness, or as a physical space of partial darkness? Also, is the “hue” you write of the Vietnamese city of Hue? Just a joke my friend, the professor had quite a bit of brandy with his brunch today and in such cases inherits a keen predilection for a bit of the old, shall I say, tomfoolery. I jest with you, let it be known.
As I breathe my last breathe of rain.
As you breathe your last breathe? Dear scholar, you cannot perform an action to a verb. You can breathe a breath, but you surely cannot do what you have written.
I return to thee, my pain-mother.
No hyphen necessary between pain and mother. No big deal though, as they say.
And inside, I won’t become a part of you,
Every destiny is one; I will become you.
You sick, sick little boy. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Actually, forget I asked that.
Better luck next time scholar, and if your mother is indeed a stunning woman, feel free to have her call me to set up a parent-teacher conference.
Best regards,
Professor Azal