Based on J Alfred Prufrock

I was wondering what you thought of my poem. It was an English assignment this year. The idea was to write a poem about ourselves in the style of Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by T S Elliot.
Let us walk now, you and I,
Where the lights are dim and there lives a fly
Who buzzes around with out a reason;
Let us walk, amongst the empty chairs,
The crowded halls
Of a simple fantasy land where the troubles of the outside world do not exist
And meaningless dreams of simple teenagers take precedence:
Halls that flow like herded sheep
That are pushed in all directions
To force me into the overwhelming question…
“What’s wrong with me?”
Let us walk and make our entrance.

In the room where children seem to stay
And speak only of magic and keep reality at bay.

The fancy shoes that click loudly on the earth
The fancy cloths that think they’re of the earth
Trod heavily upon the broken land
Forgot that such as we are made of, such we be,
Allowed their mothers to be destroyed,
Chose simple, monetary gain,
And neglecting to recall this simple sacrifice,
Moved on about their lives, and left those lonely places there to die.

And indeed there will be chances
For the fancy cloths that flow through crowded halls,
Thinking they are of the earth;
There will be chances, there will be chances
To understand the meanings of which you speak;
There will be chances to desecrate and make,
And chances for all the changes and trials of the earth
That present opportunities on your path;
Chances for you and chances for me,
And chances for a million conversations,
And for a million thoughts and actions,
Before the ringing of a single bell.

In the room where children seem to stay
And speak only of magic and keep reality at bay.

And indeed there will be chances
To ask, “What’s the point?” and, “What’s the point?”
Chances to stop and stare at space,
With a scar in the center of my face—
[They will say: “Her nose is oddly shaped!”]
My pair of jeans, my waistline clinging desperately to my non-existent hips,
My sweatshirt warm and cozy, but bolder by its scripts—
[They will say: “But how her frame is lacking shape!”]
What’s the point
Of waking up?
In a minute there are chances
For thoughts and answers which a minute will reverse.

For I have seen them before, seen them all: -
Have seen the secrets, tales, and lies,
I have measured out my life with bags of tea;
I see the bodies moving, moving without purpose
About the directionless halls.
So how should I presume?

And I have seen the eyes already, seen them all—
They eyes that stare out in an empty gaze,
And when I am gazing, staring at the wall,
When I am lost and blundering about the hall,
Then how should I begin
To toss out all the garbage of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have seen the hair already, seen it all—
Hair that is clean and shiny and light
[But in the sunlight, flaked with bits of sand!]
It is nothing more or less
That makes me so digress?
Hair that reaches for the face, or stretches to a neck.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have talked at midnight in darkened rooms
And watched the drumming fingers
Of disinterested students in floppy shoes, sitting at their desks?…

And the dawn, the morning, move so groggily!
Woken too soon by such rude means,
Groggy, tired, or it malingers,
Dragging through the halls, here with you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and biscuits,
Have the wisdom to remove the moment from its sickness?
But though I have cried and feasted, cried and begged,
Though I have seen my head [made somewhat scarred] kicked across the floor,
I am no villain—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness pass,
And I have seen some man from nowhere look me over, and act an ass,
And in short, I was hurt.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the biscuits, the tea,
Among the kettles, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have taken in the matter with a sigh,
To have woken from those golden slumbers,
To ponder some overwhelming question,
To say: “People drain me
Should say: “living is easy with eyes closed,
Misunderstanding all you see.”—
If one, sitting in a crowded room,
Should say: “That is exactly what I meant.
That is it, exactly.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the mountains and the lonely lanes,
After the poems, after the teacups, after the computer keys that click into the night—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a brush cast random strokes upon a wall:
Would it have been worthwhile
If one, sitting in a crowded room or craning a neck,
And turning to the faces, should say:
“That is exactly what I meant.
That is it, exactly.”

No! I am not Lennon, nor was meant to be;
Am a lonely, lowly, person, one that will do
To create some inspiration, start a change or two,
Advise the man; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, conscious, and strong-willed;
Full of good ideas, but a bit conceited;
At times, indeed, almost insufferable—
Almost, at times, a fool.

I feel old…I feel old…
I feel as though my mind is growing mold.

Shall I wear a lonely skirt? What is the point of being bland?
I shall wear a boxy tee, and walk barefoot through the sand.
I have heard horses nickering, band to band.

I do not think that they will nicker to me.

I have see them running through the hills
Rolling amongst the daisies in the grass
When there comes a place that has an itch.

We have festered in the lonely halls
By horses glowing in the golden sun
Till we expire, and pass on.