Revision 2:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy, but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work left in a graveyard;
a window pane depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews made of razors, last one breaking free
attacked the victim with its sharp blade.
Chaotic and haphazard gashes made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms.
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
but experiences like shadows remain.
Maybe one day enough light
from all directions might make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke for pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.
Revision 1:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard;
Done on a window pane it depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews were made of razors, the last one breaking free
attacking the victim with its sharp blade.
Chaotic and haphazard gashes were made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s
“Comfortably Numb,” the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms.
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
experiences like shadows that remain.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.
Original:
I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
(02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
I liked the opening strophe. After that, there's too much gnashing of teeth and moaning without giving the reader any reason to be emotionally invested in the narrator's plight. I caught my finger in a car door the other day, so why should I care about you slashing yourself? If it's childhood sexual abuse, rape, or a cheating lover, then you have my sympathy and attention. But you never tell me or hint at it.
EDIT: let me clarify what I meant by the above - the 'you' should be read as 'narrator', who may or may not be the author. I am not suggesting that the author is speaking in her own voice - she may or may not be, that is none of my concern. But whether narrated in her own voice or the voice of an imagined third person, a background to the suffering is necessary for the poem to work.
Mayhaps the author isn't asking for sympathy? I believe we're to detach the poem from the author...in which I don't have much to say about it. On the topic of self mutilation, I am generally quiet.
(02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.--- I was going to say 'Don't you mean eyelid?' either way both are a cliche which spoil this otherwise excellent opening stanza
I carved, slashed, crosshatched-- --Not sure about them two dashes and their purpose. Is crosshatched all one word, some places say that it's hyphenated
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.-- This line kind of leaves me wanting more information, although I do like the idea of it being symbolic.
Had I known about scarification-- I don't feel that the mention of 'scarification' adds anything here. It seems an odd thing to say that had you known there were others that made art from scars... When it feels like what you are really saying is, 'Had I thought ahead'
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.-- Who are they?
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.-- To make what go away? The pain. This is a little bit confusing.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.-- And hence the reason for the title, if 'ox in a yoke' is another way of saying 'beast of burden' then it is bordering on cliche
Hi,
The first part of the poem works better for me but is somewhat spoilt by the end which seems to be wanting to add some kind of justification for the mutilation. I don't feel as though it is needed. And although I said that the line about the graveyard left me wanting more information, I feel as though it would make an excellent last line of the poem. That's not to say that what comes after should be scrapped, just that if it could be moved to be the last line I think it would work.
Thanks for sharing,
Mark
(02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye. the opening indeed is engaging, agree batting an eye is cliche. "No one ever noticed"? but that's almost too much
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations. Even though self mutilation in others annoys me, I did find this cool. A hobby I have is woodworking, and sometimes there is the inadvertent injury. Blood is an interesting dye in wood; considering the real physical presence of yourself in something you made is also interesting, but maybe unwise.
My best work I left in a graveyard. Too goth.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.Starting to feel the regret; it doesn't quite get there, but nice sensory cross over.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains. A little too rhetorical, I think that's what Ambrosial Revelation is noting. Perhaps more stating how there are permanent shadows etc etc
Maybe one day there will be enough light I think I get the shadow followed by the light angles, but it isn't played out so well.
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
Please understand I did like your poem.
(02-21-2016, 02:25 PM)Achebe Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
I liked the opening strophe. After that, there's too much gnashing of teeth and moaning without giving the reader any reason to be emotionally invested in the narrator's plight. I caught my finger in a car door the other day, so why should I care about you slashing yourself? If it's childhood sexual abuse, rape, or a cheating lover, then you have my sympathy and attention. But you never tell me or hint at it.
EDIT: let me clarify what I meant by the above - the 'you' should be read as 'narrator', who may or may not be the author. I am not suggesting that the author is speaking in her own voice - she may or may not be, that is none of my concern. But whether narrated in her own voice or the voice of an imagined third person, a background to the suffering is necessary for the poem to work.
Thanks for the feedback in regards to my teeth knashing and moaning.
(02-21-2016, 02:29 PM)newsclippings Wrote: [ -> ]Mayhaps the author isn't asking for sympathy? I believe we're to detach the poem from the author...in which I don't have much to say about it. On the topic of self mutilation, I am generally quiet.
Yes this is not an attempt at sympathy seeking. It is drawn from personal experiences and isn't detached from the narrator. It seems this is really bad.
(02-21-2016, 02:53 PM)ambrosial revelation Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.--- I was going to say 'Don't you mean eyelid?' either way both are a cliche which spoil this otherwise excellent opening stanza
I carved, slashed, crosshatched-- --Not sure about them two dashes and their purpose. Is crosshatched all one word, some places say that it's hyphenated
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.-- This line kind of leaves me wanting more information, although I do like the idea of it being symbolic.
Had I known about scarification-- I don't feel that the mention of 'scarification' adds anything here. It seems an odd thing to say that had you known there were others that made art from scars... When it feels like what you are really saying is, 'Had I thought ahead'
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.-- Who are they?
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.-- To make what go away? The pain. This is a little bit confusing.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.-- And hence the reason for the title, if 'ox in a yoke' is another way of saying 'beast of burden' then it is bordering on cliche
Hi,
The first part of the poem works better for me but is somewhat spoilt by the end which seems to be wanting to add some kind of justification for the mutilation. I don't feel as though it is needed. And although I said that the line about the graveyard left me wanting more information, I feel as though it would make an excellent last line of the poem. That's not to say that what comes after should be scrapped, just that if it could be moved to be the last line I think it would work.
Thanks for sharing,
Mark
Thanks Mark. You have pointed out numerous specific issues for me to look at for revision. Thank you for the feedback.
(02-22-2016, 12:39 AM)aschueler Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye. the opening indeed is engaging, agree batting an eye is cliche. "No one ever noticed"? but that's almost too much
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations. Even though self mutilation in others annoys me, I did find this cool. A hobby I have is woodworking, and sometimes there is the inadvertent injury. Blood is an interesting dye in wood; considering the real physical presence of yourself in something you made is also interesting, but maybe unwise.
My best work I left in a graveyard. Too goth.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.Starting to feel the regret; it doesn't quite get there, but nice sensory cross over.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains. A little too rhetorical, I think that's what Ambrosial Revelation is noting. Perhaps more stating how there are permanent shadows etc etc
Maybe one day there will be enough light I think I get the shadow followed by the light angles, but it isn't played out so well.
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
Please understand I did like your poem.
Thank you for the feeeback. I am going to work on some changes in a bit. I appreciate it. This was based on reality, from a long time ago. I really did leave a painting in a graveyard and I think it is significant. Maybe I can expand on it so it doesn't come across as goth. It was a very dark time...but I was never "goth." Maybe this wasn't a good subject to write about...I chose it because I thought it would be a more unique subject.
(02-22-2016, 01:33 AM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 02:25 PM)Achebe Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
I liked the opening strophe. After that, there's too much gnashing of teeth and moaning without giving the reader any reason to be emotionally invested in the narrator's plight. I caught my finger in a car door the other day, so why should I care about you slashing yourself? If it's childhood sexual abuse, rape, or a cheating lover, then you have my sympathy and attention. But you never tell me or hint at it.
EDIT: let me clarify what I meant by the above - the 'you' should be read as 'narrator', who may or may not be the author. I am not suggesting that the author is speaking in her own voice - she may or may not be, that is none of my concern. But whether narrated in her own voice or the voice of an imagined third person, a background to the suffering is necessary for the poem to work.
Thanks for the feedback in regards to my teeth knashing and moaning.
(02-21-2016, 02:29 PM)newsclippings Wrote: [ -> ]Mayhaps the author isn't asking for sympathy? I believe we're to detach the poem from the author...in which I don't have much to say about it. On the topic of self mutilation, I am generally quiet.
Yes this is not an attempt at sympathy seeking. It is drawn from personal experiences and isn't detached from the narrator. It seems this is really bad.
(02-21-2016, 02:53 PM)ambrosial revelation Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.--- I was going to say 'Don't you mean eyelid?' either way both are a cliche which spoil this otherwise excellent opening stanza
I carved, slashed, crosshatched-- --Not sure about them two dashes and their purpose. Is crosshatched all one word, some places say that it's hyphenated
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.-- This line kind of leaves me wanting more information, although I do like the idea of it being symbolic.
Had I known about scarification-- I don't feel that the mention of 'scarification' adds anything here. It seems an odd thing to say that had you known there were others that made art from scars... When it feels like what you are really saying is, 'Had I thought ahead'
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.-- Who are they?
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.-- To make what go away? The pain. This is a little bit confusing.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.-- And hence the reason for the title, if 'ox in a yoke' is another way of saying 'beast of burden' then it is bordering on cliche
Hi,
The first part of the poem works better for me but is somewhat spoilt by the end which seems to be wanting to add some kind of justification for the mutilation. I don't feel as though it is needed. And although I said that the line about the graveyard left me wanting more information, I feel as though it would make an excellent last line of the poem. That's not to say that what comes after should be scrapped, just that if it could be moved to be the last line I think it would work.
Thanks for sharing,
Mark
Thanks Mark. You have pointed out numerous specific issues for me to look at for revision. Thank you for the feedback.
(02-22-2016, 12:39 AM)aschueler Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye. the opening indeed is engaging, agree batting an eye is cliche. "No one ever noticed"? but that's almost too much
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations. Even though self mutilation in others annoys me, I did find this cool. A hobby I have is woodworking, and sometimes there is the inadvertent injury. Blood is an interesting dye in wood; considering the real physical presence of yourself in something you made is also interesting, but maybe unwise.
My best work I left in a graveyard. Too goth.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.Starting to feel the regret; it doesn't quite get there, but nice sensory cross over.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains. A little too rhetorical, I think that's what Ambrosial Revelation is noting. Perhaps more stating how there are permanent shadows etc etc
Maybe one day there will be enough light I think I get the shadow followed by the light angles, but it isn't played out so well.
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
Please understand I did like your poem.
Thank you for the feeeback. I am going to work on some changes in a bit. I appreciate it. This was based on reality, from a long time ago. I really did leave a painting in a graveyard and I think it is significant. Maybe I can expand on it so it doesn't come across as goth. It was a very dark time...but I was never "goth." Maybe this wasn't a good subject to write about...I chose it because I thought it would be a more unique subject.
I think it is a good subject. Keep trying, I am sure you can find a way to make it not "goth". Good poetry comes from serious, difficult things generally.
(02-22-2016, 02:17 AM)aschueler Wrote: [ -> ] (02-22-2016, 01:33 AM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ] (02-21-2016, 02:25 PM)Achebe Wrote: [ -> ]I liked the opening strophe. After that, there's too much gnashing of teeth and moaning without giving the reader any reason to be emotionally invested in the narrator's plight. I caught my finger in a car door the other day, so why should I care about you slashing yourself? If it's childhood sexual abuse, rape, or a cheating lover, then you have my sympathy and attention. But you never tell me or hint at it.
EDIT: let me clarify what I meant by the above - the 'you' should be read as 'narrator', who may or may not be the author. I am not suggesting that the author is speaking in her own voice - she may or may not be, that is none of my concern. But whether narrated in her own voice or the voice of an imagined third person, a background to the suffering is necessary for the poem to work.
Thanks for the feedback in regards to my teeth knashing and moaning.
(02-21-2016, 02:29 PM)newsclippings Wrote: [ -> ]Mayhaps the author isn't asking for sympathy? I believe we're to detach the poem from the author...in which I don't have much to say about it. On the topic of self mutilation, I am generally quiet.
Yes this is not an attempt at sympathy seeking. It is drawn from personal experiences and isn't detached from the narrator. It seems this is really bad.
(02-21-2016, 02:53 PM)ambrosial revelation Wrote: [ -> ]Hi,
The first part of the poem works better for me but is somewhat spoilt by the end which seems to be wanting to add some kind of justification for the mutilation. I don't feel as though it is needed. And although I said that the line about the graveyard left me wanting more information, I feel as though it would make an excellent last line of the poem. That's not to say that what comes after should be scrapped, just that if it could be moved to be the last line I think it would work.
Thanks for sharing,
Mark
Thanks Mark. You have pointed out numerous specific issues for me to look at for revision. Thank you for the feedback.
(02-22-2016, 12:39 AM)aschueler Wrote: [ -> ]Please understand I did like your poem.
Thank you for the feeeback. I am going to work on some changes in a bit. I appreciate it. This was based on reality, from a long time ago. I really did leave a painting in a graveyard and I think it is significant. Maybe I can expand on it so it doesn't come across as goth. It was a very dark time...but I was never "goth." Maybe this wasn't a good subject to write about...I chose it because I thought it would be a more unique subject.
I think it is a good subject. Keep trying, I am sure you can find a way to make it not "goth". Good poetry comes from serious, difficult things generally.
I did do some revising. I am hoping it is an improvement, but it might be even more goth now lol.
It's better but of course revisions bring in other issues.
(02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]Revision 1:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard;
Done on a window pane it depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews were made of razors, the last one breaking free
attacking the victim with its sharp blade. Not goth now but more real, but wordy. However I have to admit not sure how to reduce. Window pane for real?
Chaotic and haphazard gashes were made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s Ah Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb and its empty promises. I relate but this is veers off too far I think.
“Comfortably Numb,” the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms. There will be different opinions likely on this line but I really like it
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
experiences like shadows that remain.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.I can't help but think that all this rdifficulty leads to greater strength like resistance training improves physical strength.
Original:
I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
(02-22-2016, 10:15 AM)aschueler Wrote: [ -> ]It's better but of course revisions bring in other issues.
(02-21-2016, 12:21 PM)Casey Renee Wrote: [ -> ]Revision 1:
I always felt a nervous hopeful flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy but nobody
ever cared to ask why.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched,
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard;
Done on a window pane it depicted a naked
rape victim cowering in the corner of a church floor.
Pews were made of razors, the last one breaking free
attacking the victim with its sharp blade. Not goth now but more real, but wordy. However I have to admit not sure how to reduce. Window pane for real?
Chaotic and haphazard gashes were made
to my life’s soundtrack, Pink Floyd’s Ah Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb and its empty promises. I relate but this is veers off too far I think.
“Comfortably Numb,” the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
My poor tender wrists and arms. There will be different opinions likely on this line but I really like it
You can't remember horrible pain exactly,
just that there was and it wasn’t from the cuts,
experiences like shadows that remain.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make the dark stains go away.
Scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke pulling a wagon
stacked with life sagas sliding and tipping askew.
A shadow cannot be chased, only unmade.I can't help but think that all this rdifficulty leads to greater strength like resistance training improves physical strength.
Original:
I always felt a nervous flutter
buying razor blades and peroxide
at the local pharmacy
but nobody ever batted an eye.
I carved, slashed, crosshatched--
watched as rivulets ran down,
admired them, the wounds
sometimes dripping into paint,
leaving DNA in my creations.
My best work I left in a graveyard.
Had I known about scarification
I might have made designs instead of
chaotic and haphazard gashes, the scars
a reminder of ugliness so loud
my ears still ring now.
They say you can't remember pain.
True, you don't, just that there was,
but it is there like a shadow that remains.
Maybe one day there will be enough light
from all directions to make it go away.
The scars won't matter and I won't be so tired
from being an ox in a yoke.
Thanks for returning Aschueler. Indeed it was on a window pane; well actually a whole window. Back in the day I had happened upon a construction site. Numerous windows were being thrown out, so I procured several for myself. But I do not have to write pane; I could just refer to the window, or maybe the material doesn't need to even be mentioned.
Difficulties lead to a paradox. Yes a person does build strength like in resistance training, but there is a haunting weakness too (or at least after a whole bunch of crap). It comes and goes...I imagine it differs per person per culmination of experiences too.
I appreciate your feedback and will think about how to trim this down.
Quote:Thanks for returning Aschueler. Indeed it was on a window pane; well actually a whole window. Back in the day I had happened upon a construction site. Numerous windows were being thrown out, so I procured several for myself. But I do not have to write pane; I could just refer to the window, or maybe the material doesn't need to even be mentioned.
Difficulties lead to a paradox. Yes a person does build strength like in resistance training, but there is a haunting weakness too (or at least after a whole bunch of crap). It comes and goes...I imagine it differs per person per culmination of experiences too.
I appreciate your feedback and will think about how to trim this down.
Interesting idea there with the window pane.
Anyway, I was trying to nudge the overcoming from it a bit too much and make it your idea.
Not the same but still:
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou, 1928 - 2014
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
(02-27-2016, 08:15 AM)aschueler Wrote: [ -> ]Quote:Thanks for returning Aschueler. Indeed it was on a window pane; well actually a whole window. Back in the day I had happened upon a construction site. Numerous windows were being thrown out, so I procured several for myself. But I do not have to write pane; I could just refer to the window, or maybe the material doesn't need to even be mentioned.
Difficulties lead to a paradox. Yes a person does build strength like in resistance training, but there is a haunting weakness too (or at least after a whole bunch of crap). It comes and goes...I imagine it differs per person per culmination of experiences too.
I appreciate your feedback and will think about how to trim this down.
Interesting idea there with the window pane.
Anyway, I was trying to nudge the overcoming from it a bit too much and make it your idea.
Not the same but still:
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou, 1928 - 2014
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Oh I love her and that is a great poem, full of an empowering mood. I have moments like those where I am at the top of a mountain invigorated. But this isn't one of those times. Sometimes hauntings waft up and there is just so much to carry sometimes. But yes I become very inspired, empowered, and spiritual too.
Oh her poem is so good. She is an inspiring woman.
