Everyone hates poetry, so here's some.

Discussion in 'Art, Literature, and Music' started by Solistra, Apr 27, 2014.

  1. Solistra

    Solistra Veteran Veteran

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    Yes, the title was completely serious. No, that sentence wasn't sarcastic, either.

    Honestly, I'm uncertain about what I should write here. I haven't really shared anything that I've written in any kind of public way (excepting the occasional short story or poem) for... a number of years now. I suppose the most pertinent thing to mention is that I write, primarily, confessional poetry and character-driven short stories -- and both have a tendency to be quite dark, potentially disturbing. Shocking, right?

    Anyway, for that reason, I'll post anything in this topic within spoilers -- although I don't really expect anyone to have a problem with something I've written, I've found that it's better to forewarn than not to.

    In any case, just to get this topic started, I have three poems which I wrote relatively recently and do not wish to submit for publication, so... here they are.

    (Oh, and one last thing: I absolutely love critique and criticism of anything I do -- I want to get better, and the best way to do that is to know your own weaknesses. So please, if you have any comments or criticisms, say so. I would love to hear what you have to say.)

    Choking on Roses

    I want to know the taste of your fingertips,
    So listless,

    The contours as they trace the lines

    Of these flowers we left so far behind;

    To be so murderous,

    Swallowing the loveless:

    Ring fingers are my Christ,

    But this is not communion

    And you won't climb off your cross.
    Lilies For

    Water laps upon the shore, irrespective,
    The air a murmur -- tremulous:

    To be salt-stained and caressed, but

    The tears would just dilute it.

    There are no words for this hatred.

    The sky is just to scream,

    And I'm pregnant with your emptiness --

    But this metaphor is a shattering mirror,

    And I'm just an abortion placed in this cradle

    To so playfully drown:

    After all,

    What better way to die

    Than to fill my lungs with life?

    "But better to build bridges," you said,

    So I sold you one to cross --

    And I'll savor the taste of your sweat

    As the skin peels and burns.

    Narcissus would be proud,

    After all:

    I only became selfish

    Once what I did affected you.

    I want you to eat the words
    I never spoke.

    This emptiness, vague reminiscence,

    These silent lines

    Running through shallowed veins

    And pouring out my eyes --

    The sinew and sawdust,

    The mist of bones and earth,

    The heart and lungs

    And all the spaces in between --

    Words of God and whispers of truth,

    Quiet lies and

    The shadows left in the pale

    Of unforgiving light.

    I could be what's left of this:

    The hair and bone wrapped in twine,

    The fear and pulling of puppet strings, or

    I could swallow this innocence

    And vomit the dreams.
    Last edited by a moderator: Jan 8, 2015
  2. Solistra

    Solistra Veteran Veteran

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    All in Due Time

    This is optimistic nihilism:

    All that's done is dead,

    And the truth is just a liar

    With nothing left to lie about.

    So we dance,

    Adrift amongst endless gardens --

    Flowers grown of flesh and death,

    Monuments to endure --

    Scattering the seeds

    And crushing their lovers,

    Moments to be captured

    That fade to dust in weathered hands.

    And it settles,

    This film of sentiment,

    Each footfall of the adagio

    Cleansing stolid perseverance,

    The light cast upon us

    Leaving shadows of our souls.

    We're impassive, yet enraptured,

    Lain beneath the winds

    Stealing seconds to behold --

    Tales of hours,

    The whisper of constants,

    And stories of our own.

    Yet they sway,

    Lost of protectants,

    And fall to infinite gardens

    As the wisps of dying lovers

    Watching flowers grow from stone.

    This is desperate idealism:

    All we've done is inconsequent,

    Yet we continue anyway.
    Narcissus likes this.
  3. Narcissus

    Narcissus Master of Matters Veteran

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    In my own little world.
    First Language:
    I found these all to be a very interesting read. I am a fan of dark writing. I reread each of them a few times and grew more fond of them after each reading. Unfortunately, I am no expert on poetry, so I can't really give any useful suggestions or comment aside from saying that they were worth the read.

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