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Literature Text
i. You aren't the ruins of Greece.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourself if
you keep whiplashing yourself in high-speed
collision with a gale storm and expecting yourself not to vomit fire.
iii. You aren't the crying wolf who needs to howl for attention.
But the inked tide in my mind will never subside with
you knocking on my birdcaged-bones. My graphite
palm will still reek of your words ramming into my
mind cave and I will still leave bite marks on your poetry
because I don't want to admit I crumble like a mimosa
plant burning in bonfire - flinching, shrinking, collapsing.
I don't want to coat my skin in your echo like a maniac
chanting your last words. I don't want my cheeks to turn
into the colour of the ocean squall and engulf myself in
monotonous grey and black whirlpool.
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees or
ocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps into
your wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey hands
and silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider is
creeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.
ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.
You don't have to get why your wounds rot like
the speed of a full-on hail storm and why others
have bowstring smile and pretty eyes all the
damn time. You don't have to know why your
musical box blasts in gunfires and thunderbolts
while other have rose tattoos exploding in fierce
fireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. You
can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails and
scraped metallic heart. You can't love yourself if
you keep whiplashing yourself in high-speed
collision with a gale storm and expecting yourself not to vomit fire.
iii. You aren't the crying wolf who needs to howl for attention.
But the inked tide in my mind will never subside with
you knocking on my birdcaged-bones. My graphite
palm will still reek of your words ramming into my
mind cave and I will still leave bite marks on your poetry
because I don't want to admit I crumble like a mimosa
plant burning in bonfire - flinching, shrinking, collapsing.
I don't want to coat my skin in your echo like a maniac
chanting your last words. I don't want my cheeks to turn
into the colour of the ocean squall and engulf myself in
monotonous grey and black whirlpool.
(G.L)
-To you who write until you bleed and cry and die
-To you who write until you bleed and cry and die
Literature
Thinking of Me and You
It seemed almost like
You were right there again,
Just waiting for me
With your hands outstretched.
But it was just a dream,
And even though I knew it,
I still cried when I woke up,
Thinking of me and you.
Literature
What have you said at 3 am?
Eyelids are heavy,
thoughts heavier,
feelings heaviest
and they say-
many fears are born
of fatigue and loneliness,
maybe this starlit conversation,
you'll discover
the thing he fears most,
with those sandbag eyes
and train wreck sentences,
is losing you.
Literature
you are what you love
this girl dreams
far too much;
her bed has turned into
a nightmare graveyard,
full of wilted roses
and broken spines.
wanderlust is a toxin.
one that fills her lungs with each
breath and with every poisoned
heartbeat, she yearns for a world
with moons of gold and a silver sun.
yet—
she would rather listen
to those sweet nothings than have
the philosophy of reality
shoved down her throat.
this girl does not want
to live in black and white;
no, she craves color
and the freedom it tastes like and if
the chains that that shackle her
starving soul refuse to unlock,
she will tear them apart
with her own two hands.
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I attempt a harsher style than usual. I hope it's okay.
Don't glorify your sadness as though it will bloom into a beautiful sad story. It won't. It will paralyse you and kill whatever that is living inside you. Don't abuse yourself while trying to love yourself. That won't work. Know that someone out there loves you. And if they don't, love yourself the way you want to be loved.
Thank you so much for browsing, feel free to leave comments (that would be nice), and have a lovely day!
Don't glorify your sadness as though it will bloom into a beautiful sad story. It won't. It will paralyse you and kill whatever that is living inside you. Don't abuse yourself while trying to love yourself. That won't work. Know that someone out there loves you. And if they don't, love yourself the way you want to be loved.
Thank you so much for browsing, feel free to leave comments (that would be nice), and have a lovely day!
© 2014 - 2024 Milk-and-Pie
Comments62
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Devious Rating
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Originality:
Technique:
Impact:
I am amazed by how many different angles were used in this poem to describe the absurdity of romanticizing one's own pain. Every metaphor was incisive, and every imagerial description gripping. Well done.
What might make this a more effective piece would be more syntactic line-breaking. As it currently stands, the poem breaks at unnatural points within clauses, which helps create harshness, but detracts from the reader's ability to understand each message in the context of the whole poem. For example, the opening stanza:
You don't combust into fascination when the black
rose you planted years ago finally bloom and poison
your veins and stop your heart beat in black splotches
and dirty grenade.
Can be reorganized so that the sentence is easier to read, like:
You don't combust into fascination
when the black rose you planted years ago
finally bloom[s] and poison[s] your veins and stop[s] your heart beat
in black splotches
and dirty grenade.
The other potential gain from this kind of reorganization is that it adds variation to line length. Generally, big blocks of text are a turn-off, even when each line of text is five or six words long. It makes it easier on the reader's eye and concentration when line length differs from stanza to stanza.
All in all, this was a fascinating poem; I had a lot of trouble coming up with suggestions for improvement. Keep up the great work.