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Literature Text
You never promised me the world,
you just showed it to me
from your faulty lighthouse,
where everything flashes and flickers.
Clutching the skirts of a seizure;
trapped in your flywheel,
spinning indefinitely.
A tentative touch would unbalance me,
send me ricocheting
off your cowardly silence,
and shooting into my grave,
black as the ace of spades.
Not a ripple in the pond.
For I was never the generator,
chained and churning underground,
just a tourist attempting to escape,
with not even indignant blame.
I built you a skyscraper
out of foolish blood oaths
and hymns written by blind faith;
while you watched
behind a screen of cracked professionalism.
Blinded by your flashbulb
as your hosepipe siphoned
everything out of me.
Like a bee in a flowerpot:
your incessant, meaningless buzzing,
as your fuzzy feelers
scoured my petals still delicate
in their forgotten youth,
forcing open buds not yet ripe,
ravenously absorbing parts previously untouched.
And now you're gardens away,
muffled by Asiatic lilies and Lollipop daisies,
as you conquer fresh beds.
But I can still hear you.
Feel you tearing into my tympanic membrane,
skittering up my ossicles,
and crawling into my cochlea.
Carp thrashing on the veneer,
coughing up consumption tainted screams
that'll never reach you.
So I tell the story,
and they insist it's novel worthy,
"just alter the mess of the ending".
And I laugh splinters at my cult,
spinning in an aspirin waltz,
with all the fleet and grace of a bullfight.
Sinking into my seasick mattress,
tracing flamenco letters,
trying to conjure my signature.
I never held the pen.
you just showed it to me
from your faulty lighthouse,
where everything flashes and flickers.
Clutching the skirts of a seizure;
trapped in your flywheel,
spinning indefinitely.
A tentative touch would unbalance me,
send me ricocheting
off your cowardly silence,
and shooting into my grave,
black as the ace of spades.
Not a ripple in the pond.
For I was never the generator,
chained and churning underground,
just a tourist attempting to escape,
with not even indignant blame.
I built you a skyscraper
out of foolish blood oaths
and hymns written by blind faith;
while you watched
behind a screen of cracked professionalism.
Blinded by your flashbulb
as your hosepipe siphoned
everything out of me.
Like a bee in a flowerpot:
your incessant, meaningless buzzing,
as your fuzzy feelers
scoured my petals still delicate
in their forgotten youth,
forcing open buds not yet ripe,
ravenously absorbing parts previously untouched.
And now you're gardens away,
muffled by Asiatic lilies and Lollipop daisies,
as you conquer fresh beds.
But I can still hear you.
Feel you tearing into my tympanic membrane,
skittering up my ossicles,
and crawling into my cochlea.
Carp thrashing on the veneer,
coughing up consumption tainted screams
that'll never reach you.
So I tell the story,
and they insist it's novel worthy,
"just alter the mess of the ending".
And I laugh splinters at my cult,
spinning in an aspirin waltz,
with all the fleet and grace of a bullfight.
Sinking into my seasick mattress,
tracing flamenco letters,
trying to conjure my signature.
I never held the pen.
I've been fiddling with this one for a few days. Not so fond of the first two verses, but I really like the last three.
Comments6
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melding metaphors into flawless free-verse,
undertones wrenched from an unnoticed universe
layered on lyrical lines of despondent desires
fueling the pentip with feral filigree's fire
Seasoned with searing synonyms,
frenzied feelings in hectic hymns
profound projections of penetrating pains;
such is the nature of her writing!
she who mastered the sewing of emotion into word
one blind fall from a towering wall,
yields only the slick splatters of written matters.
Words bloom like perfumes,
sticking on streets of signless siderooms,
She could put them all on paper
save, for a sealing signature
...
alas, I have no skill in lit.
though the one I admire has conquered it~
I love your poems through and through
perhaps some day I'll write as good as you XD
crappy attempt at poetry aside, I loved this. it's one of my favorites by you to date~ you have a real talent for writing, and always manage to imbue your work with such a great sense of emotion! and the imagery is just fantastic! parts of your writing are often abstract enough for the reader to picture differently with in their head as they read; making for a unique tale every time. I really love your poetry, and hope to see more masterpieces like this in the future~
undertones wrenched from an unnoticed universe
layered on lyrical lines of despondent desires
fueling the pentip with feral filigree's fire
Seasoned with searing synonyms,
frenzied feelings in hectic hymns
profound projections of penetrating pains;
such is the nature of her writing!
she who mastered the sewing of emotion into word
one blind fall from a towering wall,
yields only the slick splatters of written matters.
Words bloom like perfumes,
sticking on streets of signless siderooms,
She could put them all on paper
save, for a sealing signature
...
alas, I have no skill in lit.
though the one I admire has conquered it~
I love your poems through and through
perhaps some day I'll write as good as you XD
crappy attempt at poetry aside, I loved this. it's one of my favorites by you to date~ you have a real talent for writing, and always manage to imbue your work with such a great sense of emotion! and the imagery is just fantastic! parts of your writing are often abstract enough for the reader to picture differently with in their head as they read; making for a unique tale every time. I really love your poetry, and hope to see more masterpieces like this in the future~