Tales of a Lunatic
#1
A story that begins with a young woman's journal entries:

The music playing on the overhead system at the Burger King elevated my mood of happiness but then it fell into a well of nostalgia invoking a sense of loss or time captured then lost stripping the part of me that molds my skin and holds me upright (identifiable stature), laying bare my heart which tossed about(as if) into the tarred street, its membraneous muscly moisture picking up dirt, grime, twigs, and bits of dried up leaves stirred up from last winters thaw. (Incidentally), I own my fear, happiness eludes me in a deep slipped moment of apprehension. I swallow the fly, unwittingly. She stings me and flits away with glee. Unbuttoned faith dips and lows. And I own fear, she is mine like an ugly dog I groom and tend to.


I'm convinced of my fame like a virgin at the bonfire, awakening to the truth of her untasted beauty widening within like an inverted funnel, connecting to a glistening stream.

How could I convince you that I am the innocent victim? When in reality, I am the perpetrator?

On the subway platform I hear the beat of Africa. It brings me to my roots.

I am the definition of myself. But is the manifestation of my internal universe acceptable?


To be continued....
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#2
(07-24-2014, 03:48 AM)poe Wrote:  A story that begins with a young woman's journal entries:

The music playing on the overhead system at the Burger King elevated my mood of happiness but then it fell into a well of nostalgia invoking a sense of loss or time captured then lost stripping the part of me that molds my skin and holds me upright (identifiable stature), laying bare my heart which tossed about(as if) into the tarred street, its membraneous muscly moisture picking up dirt, grime, twigs, and bits of dried up leaves stirred up from last winters thaw. (Incidentally), I own my fear, happiness eludes me in a deep slipped moment of apprehension. I swallow the fly, unwittingly. She stings me and flits away with glee. Unbuttoned faith dips and lows. And I own fear, she is mine like an ugly dog I groom and tend to.


I'm convinced of my fame like a virgin at the bonfire, awakening to the truth of her untasted beauty widening within like an inverted funnel, connecting to a glistening stream.

How could I convince you that I am the innocent victim? When in reality, I am the perpetrator?

On the subway platform I hear the beat of Africa. It brings me to my roots.

I am the definition of myself. But is the manifestation of my internal universe acceptable?


To be continued....
Hypo,
This is languishing in this poetry forum and I hesitate to suggest that the reason may be that er...it isn't poetry. If you want it moving to, say, general discussion, just say the word.
Best and best intentions,
tectak
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#3
Word. -Thanks Tectak.
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#4
(07-26-2014, 03:44 AM)poe Wrote:  Word. -Thanks Tectak.
Done.
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#5
Poe, I tried to put this into poetic shape. I'm not trying to say this is how it needs to be, but maybe you will find something of value in it.

Dale
_________________________________________________________
The music playing at Burger King elevates my mood,
then it falls into a well of nostalgia,
laying bare my heart which is tossed
about a tarred street. (There needs to be a simile other than comparing "heart" to "moisture", as moisture is not an object, it is a condition)
Like moisture picking up dirt,
grime, twigs, and bits of leaves
stirred up from last winters thaw.
I own my fear, like owning an ugly dog
that I groom and tend to.

Like a virgin at a bonfire;
awakening to the truth
of her untasted beauty,
I am convinced of my fame. (should "fame" possibly be "infamy"?)
Could I convince you that I am an
innocent victim, when I am the perpetrator?

On the subway platform I hear the beat of Africa.
I feel the deep connection to my heritage.
I define myself:
the manifestation of my internal universe.
I cannot say I approve.
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?

The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
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