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Literature Text
The dead do not feel pain.
And we,
the anesthetized youth,
stand rotting in the shelter of the houses we were born into;
among the dismantled shingles of our parents' roofs;
in the garage with half a dozen keyed cars,
a hundred thousand paper bills soaked in tears and gasoline.
If I could want,
I'd light a match.
But the rhythm --
The incessant pounding of fists against brick,
the clang of chains and steel against metal bars --
keeps even the heat
from changing my mind.
They --
the dead --
do not choose the path their feet are set upon.
And I --
also dead? --
cannot be moved enough to tell them my alternate direction.
No -- cannot speak,
cannot even draw blood in the name of pain or fear,
or even
loneliness...
And there again,
the call of the cage.
The strain of chains,
the pervasive heat of that parasitic promise of rest
and a life that isn't mine:
perhaps
a life of white;
of endless, artless space.
Or black oblivion.
A silence
to end my silence.
I fill for a moment,
feeling the edges of a heat I fear more than dead nerve endings,
more than inaction, more
that an eternity in stasis:
that passion I can't control,
that temptress of unhindered rage that beats its wings
against my crumbling cork board.
Just a moment,
then the beast sleeps:
The rattling stops,
The rhthym fades,
and all inmates are silent.
bum
buda-bum.
bum
buda-bum.
The dead do not choose.
I did not choose.
And still,
my heart beats.
And we,
the anesthetized youth,
stand rotting in the shelter of the houses we were born into;
among the dismantled shingles of our parents' roofs;
in the garage with half a dozen keyed cars,
a hundred thousand paper bills soaked in tears and gasoline.
If I could want,
I'd light a match.
But the rhythm --
The incessant pounding of fists against brick,
the clang of chains and steel against metal bars --
keeps even the heat
from changing my mind.
They --
the dead --
do not choose the path their feet are set upon.
And I --
also dead? --
cannot be moved enough to tell them my alternate direction.
No -- cannot speak,
cannot even draw blood in the name of pain or fear,
or even
loneliness...
And there again,
the call of the cage.
The strain of chains,
the pervasive heat of that parasitic promise of rest
and a life that isn't mine:
perhaps
a life of white;
of endless, artless space.
Or black oblivion.
A silence
to end my silence.
I fill for a moment,
feeling the edges of a heat I fear more than dead nerve endings,
more than inaction, more
that an eternity in stasis:
that passion I can't control,
that temptress of unhindered rage that beats its wings
against my crumbling cork board.
Just a moment,
then the beast sleeps:
The rattling stops,
The rhthym fades,
and all inmates are silent.
bum
buda-bum.
bum
buda-bum.
The dead do not choose.
I did not choose.
And still,
my heart beats.
Literature
At Night, I Cry
At Night, I Cry
At night, I cry because I can’t stop thinking about the old me
When no one’s around, I weep warm tears that slide down my cheeks slowly
And it’s odd, I feel so unsatisfied but I refuse to use the word “unhappy”
I think back to the times where I would just laugh with my little friends, gleefully
Now that I’m older, I feel myself constantly over-thinking
Just constantly thinking of bad habits and fears
Maybe it’s something I did; maybe I’m the bad seed
Maybe I do deserve this horrible treatment by my peers
Or maybe I’m just doing what I do best, over-think
I do it
Literature
kissing a ghost
bend.
once upon a
time, i
inhaled a shooting
star -
silver trail
it was a falling
star (in
ha[i]led)
like kissing a ghost
in the parking
lot in the
stairs hollow
lips pressed
against mine
you said darling i
won't be here
forever;
just long enough
to make you love
me,
sunrise dim on
the horizon, blur
ring the li(n)es -
there is the present
and there is the
future but the
past is merely
memories
/fingerprints
enclosed in
stories between
the pages
and the sun
it is strong it
is bright it is
scorching my moon-
possessed
flesh charring
my lungs burning
my heart
like kissing a ghost
blazing fire blazi
Literature
Dead Bodies Don't Cry
i.
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
ii.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go t
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Empty is a terrible thing to be.
Comments and critiques much appreciated, especially concerning stanza division, line breaks, and punctuation -- it got a little weird.
Comments and critiques much appreciated, especially concerning stanza division, line breaks, and punctuation -- it got a little weird.
© 2013 - 2024 xxDearOblivionxx
Comments9
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The character here comes out pretty clear in how her ponderances reflect herself, and by putting her on an existential precipice the story has a strong driving force. I think the heartbeat effect stanza is a tad redundant especially in the place of the more subtle last stanza which would seem to get the same point across if the heartbeat stanza was subtracted.
Ultimately it seems like the poem is exploring the idea of rebirth, and redefinition and whether its really possible to totally disassociate from one's past. The last three lines of the first stanza and the first two lines of the second seem to indicate that the narrator wants a clean break from who or what she was (and who she will be). She's bothered by the fact she didn't [essentially] choose her past and the results of its affects on her present and possible future, which is why she wants to be apart from her past, but now she's facing that whatever future is in front of her will undoubtedly be shaped by the past.
Most in some way reconcile their past with the new them, realizing that life often takes up the role of a tapestry, it you pull at one string you threaten to tear apart the whole thing. The narrator's struggle with that her life is impacted by choices that aren't hers are a reflection that she's concerned whatever destiny awaits her is out of her hands as well. It seems like she's taking that as a way of making herself insignificant, though the plodding forward of life may turn up future joy. Either way the poem seems to set up the idea that whether she falls into good times or not, because those results are not results of her choices they would be unsatisfying to her...
This has got some morbid introspection to it, its not really my cup of tea in narrative and I can't speak to the poetic structure punctuation use, but it seems like a decent work.