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| I really like this style that you have written in, in the past two pieces, you've got really good way of shanging the tone of the peotry into a flow of rythm, by showing different points of view. Even though this last piece seemed entirely in the first person, it somewhat show's a conflict or maybe a dialect within the inner- self.. |
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Ok. Here's two more poems that I wrote a while ago and was too lazy to post. The first poem I wrote after reading some of the comments in the SI thread. The second one is about child abuse I was trying out a new style. You know me. Mister Variety. 
Cut My Thread
The incisions feed me
Scarlet fluid finds its path along my body
Pulsing, the crimson never ends
The pin***** starts the release
The thrust of the blade assures it of its course
Once pure silver, I draw it out
Now tainted
To match my soul
But Does It Make You Whole
O, the world may chain me
But I'll beat it to the scarring
Twisted beast am I
The sharper the edge
The more hypnotizing the injury
You call me weak
But you'll wretch at the sight
Of what I do with dagger, razor, knife
But It Will Take Your Life
In likeness to emergence from water
I break the surface of my ignorance
My eyes awaken and flash with realization
The horrid tears in my flesh bring no satisfaction
Howling for the price I've paid
I stumble upon truth
My thoughts that pain bring freedom
Denied
For freedom brings no pain
And Freedom You'll Obtain
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Letter to Beast
Dear Dad,
This is your son. You know, the worthless mouth, the mindless flesh, your one mistake. Anyways, I write to you from eternal hell. I'll see you soon.
Phone's off the hook, monotone beeping
TV's left on, reruns repeating
Toys on the floor, what a scene, so decieving
And meanwhile, I lie here, endlessly bleeding
It only took a single hit, one blow to set me back
Back into soil, crawling with insects who feast on the past
Just one swing to close my eyes, and drop me in a box
A box in a hole, deep under the earth, my eyes still closed
beat me into self-loathing and drink your life away
numb the pain by transfer, from fist to innocence
feed me with failure and chew upon memory
i'll break down doors to your soul and haunt your seconds
"The gun's on the counter. The runt's on the floor. His moaning won't end. STOP, KID, STOP. Hell, what have I done? The blood. Oh god. The blood. My sins. Multiplied. St. Peter. Goddammit. The gun. Where's the gun?"
Well, I gotta get going dad. The demons are calling. They said to say hi.
Love,
One More Thing To Feed |
______________________________________
--
Last edited by Phyxius : 11.26.02 at 20:40:23.
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I really can't imagine where that last poem "Letter to Beast" came from, but it's a bit vicious... anyways I enjoyed it, I like how you call yourself(or is it not about) "One More Thing To Feed".. I used to feel the same way. But I'm hoping that your not actually thinking abot this...
Anyways it seems very personal... |
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New poem for you all to read. *jumps his thread to the top of the stack*  By the way, this is not actually new, but old...so don't start thinking I'm crazy just cuz it is somewhat morbid. Here ya go! (Heh...I'll give RP to the person who guesses what this poem's about...and seeing how stewmac is usually the one to comment first, I suggest you try to beat him to it)
Metamorphosis of Mortality
Twisted fatality that feeds upon sorrow
My attempts for your banishment only multiply your strength
Deep fears of complete control trigger desperate actions
Betraying all those I love, my rage fulfills my hunger, hate destroys reason
Burning wreckage marks my path, screams becoming my signature
The inability to function properly is morbidly fascinating
Howl at the sun, for the moon brings serenity
Gripped by the neck, the pitiful squirming, last movement
My claws bear the blood of a thousand mortalities
Their fate held in my tightening grip
Their pleas reaching ears deafened to prayers
Eyes opened, eyes closed, breath stopped
Sanity is but a foolish concept, restricting the mind
It limits the right to shed old skin and heal under ritualistic violence
I race through the night, stars outlining my path
Each night, life taken, soul tainted
Wretched truth that reveals my horrid deeds
My refusal of human thoughts caused the death of companions
The transformation I've gone under ripped the threads of my mind
Taking the knife, staring at what's left of those I love, rage thrusts the blade
Transformation Complete |
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| Is that a person who transformed into one of the undead, whose soul could not be put to rest because of things inside her? That's how I find the poem. |
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R.I.P. March 2002 - October 2006
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| That was extremely close. The only parts you missed were that it is a male (which is completely understandable since i never even hinted at it) and that it isn't undead, sorta just like a werewolf or something. I don't know. Anyways, congratulations! *donates 1000 rp* |
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yeah i thought so, that was really good.
Quote:
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Deep fears of complete control trigger desperate actions
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this is a very good use of words, I like the ryhme you put in almost every two words.. really fluid flowing. |
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Well, I'm gonna post two more I cranked out while in detention (bad Phyx) before I go to bed. Here they are. They are a little bit more dark than normal, but heh..when isn't my poetry dark?
(This one's about my grandma's nursing home...lots of emotion put into this one)
Happy Miles Nursing Home
One trembling hand, brown spots marking the age
Reaching out to grab mine
Her tears imprisoning confusion within the sparkling wet
Chapped lips fail to speak words of protest
As her touch fails to meet mine
I know not why she goes
But I sure know where
To the sleep of white halls
Room after room
Cramped with your elders
Goodbye leaves my mouth
And her sobs start the rage
Gramma's gone sonny
Her life has now passed
Her body may move
But her mind did not last
Sweet irony that the hallways of hell
Are bright, clean and well-kept
As an egg, pure with perfection
With grotesque chaos inside
Surrounded by veterans, old ladies, insane
Gramma hides in her cage
The sickly sweet stench of loose bowels
The moaning and pounding of those who can't take it
Food fit for a peasant and service extinct
Gramma's gone sonny
She rests now in hell
But, hon, it's ok
At least you're doing well
Slip doctor's the money and shove family away
To unburden yourself of the menial tasks of food, clothing and love
Hop into a jumpsuit and head for a jog
While Gramma does laps on urine stained linoleum
Day after day
Or stares at the ceiling, counting the flies
Eventually, insanity becomes entertainment
The walls disappear
Welcome to nursing
Your friends live in your head
No need for your family
Seems they think you're dead
Well, the day I stood up and I took Gramma's hand
I sat in a bright, noisy room with Grandpa counting the minutes
And her eyes, showing only small dots of last sanity
Flashed at my sight and beckoned me closer
Saliva poured from her mouth, hair laid upon pillow and she sighed
Her putrid breath crinkled my nose, yet startled my ears
As Gramma begged me to murder, pleaded for death, bargained for an end
And with a crackling howl, screamed for past happiness
And prayed, that I'd have enough sense to grab hold of a knife if MY nursing home called
Welcome to nursing
Where doctors are lying
And what keeps you awake
Are your hopes of soon dying
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I have to head for the sack so I'll post the second one tomorrow. |
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...hmmmm
i can tell that there was a lot of
emotion put into this one...and i
feel that i can make a connection with this poem
*sighs*
What i noticed that was interesting was how ya used
oxymorons (sp) ei., "sweet stench
to me that get across a feeling that can't be described....
well done and i enjoyed it |
______________________________________
If yuh real badman nuh fraid fi buss gun (WOO!!!)
When mi a come up don't stand up just run
Mi mek blood stain fi get a custom
(BLOCKA BLOCKA!!!!) First serve to first come (HA!!!!)
τ|.|τ
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