09-10-2013, 03:11 AM
Virginity. Chastity. Innocence.
Removed from beginner's luck--
The beginner's fucked.
I am a modern-day Hercules
To this new-age hydra.
Do you want the hyphens? You don't really need them.
I can love your beast into submission. I am naive.
I will always be.
Some lines overcrowd the thing. Like the one above.
Samson: Blind, weak, and hairless.
She finished.
It's hard being the one you need,
And this one.
Seeing the blank helpless face on each day.
I owe you so much yet have so little to give.
I am weak. I am green.
I am too young and I am too old.
The same could be said for any of the lines here. Though they do somewhat demonstrate being green, too young or too old.
This perfection is the best contrast to my constant dysfunction.
Even in wanting you, I do no right.
This line says too much. Like self annotating; though it gives the feel of obsessive self-consciousness. All the same, the poem could do well without it.
The night finally came, and in taking in your solemn Adonis,
I caught myself disinterested.
Checking out the girl at the front of the bar.
The subtle curve of her back.
The flowing frame of her lush
Brunette fringe on her
Broad cheekbones.
Her skin something between velvet, alabaster, and a bright, glowing Dahlia.
The lucky denim that caresses her perfect thighs.
Her immaculate, delicious, ripe lips.
And yet I know what would happen if she took even the smallest stem in our direction-- glanced even in passing at my foolishness.
I would turn away her sweet nectar
And long fondly for solemn Adonis.
Statuesque. Handsome. Ethereal.
Like a plague, I carry the sandstone in sweeping red waves.
Needing. Longing.
Always having yet always wanting.
It is finished only in remaining incomplete.
You could sort all this out a little better. Though I admit, I like the way it is.
Ouch that hurt.
Solemn Adonis wants no part.
Part adds up,
Part just hurts.
Wise Adonis,
Saving the trouble of something I could never make work.
And yet it feels like drowning.
The strange rush of a faceless imagined love couples with the knowledge that it would not be him.
It melts and swirls like steaming hot fudge,
And burns and is sweet and is thick.
Number one, she is the same.
I can never know what she wants,
And I'll never tell.
The fantasy of movie happiness gets swallowed deeper and deeper.
The scene I don't think I'll ever want,
I don't think I'll ever get,
I don't think will ever fulfill me.
But it feels like I've lost something.
I've lost the ring that was never mine and that I didn't want
And that won't surface.
Sometimes knowing is hurting,
And hurting like this doesn't feel good but there isn't another way.
I don't know any other way.
Sitting terrified of getting back what was lost forever an never even mine.
It fizzles out in a dull kind of solipsism, and clumsy fragments. It has its charms, but you could smooth it out a little. Sculpt something more substantial out of the big block of it. Though I do think its messiness has some charm. It's a big mess, but that seems to be your point.
Removed from beginner's luck--
The beginner's fucked.
I am a modern-day Hercules
To this new-age hydra.
Do you want the hyphens? You don't really need them.
I can love your beast into submission. I am naive.
I will always be.
Some lines overcrowd the thing. Like the one above.
Samson: Blind, weak, and hairless.
She finished.
It's hard being the one you need,
And this one.
Seeing the blank helpless face on each day.
I owe you so much yet have so little to give.
I am weak. I am green.
I am too young and I am too old.
The same could be said for any of the lines here. Though they do somewhat demonstrate being green, too young or too old.
This perfection is the best contrast to my constant dysfunction.
Even in wanting you, I do no right.
This line says too much. Like self annotating; though it gives the feel of obsessive self-consciousness. All the same, the poem could do well without it.
The night finally came, and in taking in your solemn Adonis,
I caught myself disinterested.
Checking out the girl at the front of the bar.
The subtle curve of her back.
The flowing frame of her lush
Brunette fringe on her
Broad cheekbones.
Her skin something between velvet, alabaster, and a bright, glowing Dahlia.
The lucky denim that caresses her perfect thighs.
Her immaculate, delicious, ripe lips.
And yet I know what would happen if she took even the smallest stem in our direction-- glanced even in passing at my foolishness.
I would turn away her sweet nectar
And long fondly for solemn Adonis.
Statuesque. Handsome. Ethereal.
Like a plague, I carry the sandstone in sweeping red waves.
Needing. Longing.
Always having yet always wanting.
It is finished only in remaining incomplete.
You could sort all this out a little better. Though I admit, I like the way it is.
Ouch that hurt.
Solemn Adonis wants no part.
Part adds up,
Part just hurts.
Wise Adonis,
Saving the trouble of something I could never make work.
And yet it feels like drowning.
The strange rush of a faceless imagined love couples with the knowledge that it would not be him.
It melts and swirls like steaming hot fudge,
And burns and is sweet and is thick.
Number one, she is the same.
I can never know what she wants,
And I'll never tell.
The fantasy of movie happiness gets swallowed deeper and deeper.
The scene I don't think I'll ever want,
I don't think I'll ever get,
I don't think will ever fulfill me.
But it feels like I've lost something.
I've lost the ring that was never mine and that I didn't want
And that won't surface.
Sometimes knowing is hurting,
And hurting like this doesn't feel good but there isn't another way.
I don't know any other way.
Sitting terrified of getting back what was lost forever an never even mine.
It fizzles out in a dull kind of solipsism, and clumsy fragments. It has its charms, but you could smooth it out a little. Sculpt something more substantial out of the big block of it. Though I do think its messiness has some charm. It's a big mess, but that seems to be your point.