New poem:
Quote:
Synthetic
Our roads are paved with gods
and cults that were slaughtered
by old religions.
Careful.
You'll slip in their blood
and slice your hands on the teeth
of long dead deities.
Don't mourn them.
Our shelves are lined with a multitude
more, lifeless eyes waiting to spark
with the life your belief breathes into them.
What kind would you like?
There are desert gods gritty with sand
and the flaking blood of their victims,
their breath hot on the back of your neck
with furnace heated fury.
Or maybe you'd prefer the bloodied corpses
of the martyred gods, some rough
like the wood they died on--
do not touch or they'll splinter
you through with guilt and judgment
--others are soft with smiles
and healing hands that only heal
in conjunction with doctors, medicine,
yourself.
And then there are the American gods,
bright with artificial colors and garish
re-imagining of ancient cultures
reinvented to fit our one nation
under God or gods.
You ask me: “Which one is true?”
And the answer is
all of them.
none of them.
you have to choose.
Now, see, this is why I usually stick to prose. ):
Our roads are paved with gods
and cults that were slaughtered
by old religions.
Careful.
You'll slip in their blood
and slice your hands on the teeth
of long dead deities.
Don't mourn them.
Our shelves are lined with a multitude
more, lifeless eyes waiting to spark
with the life your belief breathes into them.
What kind would you like?
There are desert gods gritty with sand
and the flaking blood of their victims,
their breath hot on the back of your neck
with furnace heated fury.
Or maybe you'd prefer the bloodied corpses
of the martyred gods, some rough
like the wood they died on--
do not touch or they'll splinter
you through with guilt and judgment
--others are soft with smiles
and healing hands that only heal
in conjunction with doctors, medicine,
yourself.
And then there are the American gods,
bright with artificial colors and garish
re-imagining of ancient cultures
reinvented to fit our one nation
under God or gods.
You ask me: “Which one is true?”
And the answer is
all of them.
none of them.
you have to choose.
Now, see, this is why I usually stick to prose. ):
This first poem is something I wrote for Deafening the Silence's contest Poetry Poker in which she gave all contestents five words to work into the poem. Feel free to tear it to bits. I'm especially unhappy with the ending so any suggestions and comments regarding the last five or so lines would be much loved. <3
Also...I hate, hate, hate the title but am having trouble thinking of anything workable, so, again, suggestions and/or comments = many <3's.
Quote:
Doubt (Edits=1)
When I pray,
another language
slides from my mouth
and all I hear
is a chant
of chain-linked
untruths
keeping time
with the metronome
of my breathing.
You’ve told me prayer
has power,
and I’d like to think
that’s true,
but I’ve spent years
following the spiraling
cord of vacant
words, searching
for a source,
a divine spark
or shock
to fuel my devotion,
and all I found
was an optical
illusion.
Now supplication
is an act of stealth,
and I pull the blanket
of denial over my head
to hide from my own
disbelief.
My lips move
to speak a mask
into existence
and disguise
my doubt
with transitory
platitudes
that will always
lack translation
in the absence
of an anonymous god,
but when I close
my eyes, all I see
is a winding path
of wishful thinking.
When I pray,
another language
slides from my mouth
and all I hear
is a chant
of chain-linked
untruths
keeping time
with the metronome
of my breathing.
You’ve told me prayer
has power,
and I’d like to think
that’s true,
but I’ve spent years
following the spiraling
cord of vacant
words, searching
for a source,
a divine spark
or shock
to fuel my devotion,
and all I found
was an optical
illusion.
Now supplication
is an act of stealth,
and I pull the blanket
of denial over my head
to hide from my own
disbelief.
My lips move
to speak a mask
into existence
and disguise
my doubt
with transitory
platitudes
that will always
lack translation
in the absence
of an anonymous god,
but when I close
my eyes, all I see
is a winding path
of wishful thinking.
'Kay, same deal as with "Doubt"--I'm not very comfortable with the ending. In fact the entire last stanza seems...off. At least to me.
I do like this title, though. It's less obvious than "Doubt" is in my opinion. But I'm still open to suggestions.
Anyway, tell me what you guys think. Be brutal. ^^
Quote:
Crush
“There is a fine balance,”
she said, “of satellites and planets,”
and he believed
because he never thought
to question the words
that burned in her eyes
and flowed like smoke
from her mouth,
and if her truth cut
him like the knife blade
edge of her smile,
he’d bleed for her
if it meant his blood
might mean something
more than salt and bitterness
in the end.
“Sometimes I’m the moon,”
she said, “sometimes the sun,”
and he knew that she was far
away though she scorched
him with her skin
and feverish touch,
her searching
lips like ice on his,
her face close enough
that he could see
the slivered moons shining
in her eyes,
and he wondered how
he could ever catch
hold of that
insubstantial light.
“It‘s all about the gravity,”
she said, “so don’t get too close,”
and he wasn’t sure now
if she was the sun
or the moon,
but when she laid her head
on his chest, she crushed
his ribs with the weight
of her certainties,
and he struggled to breathe
in a world where the tides rose
and boiled according
to her whims
and the solar flares
and lunar pulls that slithered
beneath her flesh.
“I never meant to hurt you,”
she said, “but we can’t escape physics,”
and he knew
that it was an excuse
but one that was heavy
with truth,
so he let her fall
back into orbit and icy distance
and mourned the loss
of her gravity
and its devastating weight,
and he found himself wishing
that his pull was as strong
as hers, that he could crush
her with a passing glance,
but he was only human.
“There is a fine balance,”
she said, “of satellites and planets,”
and he believed
because he never thought
to question the words
that burned in her eyes
and flowed like smoke
from her mouth,
and if her truth cut
him like the knife blade
edge of her smile,
he’d bleed for her
if it meant his blood
might mean something
more than salt and bitterness
in the end.
“Sometimes I’m the moon,”
she said, “sometimes the sun,”
and he knew that she was far
away though she scorched
him with her skin
and feverish touch,
her searching
lips like ice on his,
her face close enough
that he could see
the slivered moons shining
in her eyes,
and he wondered how
he could ever catch
hold of that
insubstantial light.
“It‘s all about the gravity,”
she said, “so don’t get too close,”
and he wasn’t sure now
if she was the sun
or the moon,
but when she laid her head
on his chest, she crushed
his ribs with the weight
of her certainties,
and he struggled to breathe
in a world where the tides rose
and boiled according
to her whims
and the solar flares
and lunar pulls that slithered
beneath her flesh.
“I never meant to hurt you,”
she said, “but we can’t escape physics,”
and he knew
that it was an excuse
but one that was heavy
with truth,
so he let her fall
back into orbit and icy distance
and mourned the loss
of her gravity
and its devastating weight,
and he found himself wishing
that his pull was as strong
as hers, that he could crush
her with a passing glance,
but he was only human.
This next poem was written for the second round of Poetry Poker. I'm not really sure how I feel about it. It's kind of similar to "Crush" as it deals with the same two characters (from a book series I am working on--the little chibis in my signature, by the way), but something about it bothers me a little, though I'm not entirely sure what. Maybe you guys could help me out, yeah? <3
Quote:
Acid Rain
Her world is a constant shifting
of paradigms and peach laden skies
heavy with logic’s acid rain,
but she loves the burn, the stripping
and peeling of flesh from bone
because emotion is soft,
and she prefers the cold aching
smoothness of human intellect.
He wishes he could understand
but knows that he will have to settle
for the bitter half truths
she creates in the indigo darkness
of her mind until they spill
from her mouth and eyes, drip
down her face like tears,
and he can taste the acid in the air.
Sometimes he weeps with her
even though her tears aren’t real.
He doesn’t know why she keeps
him close when she hates the brush
of skin on skin, the shock
of him in her bones,
and he doesn’t know why
he stays when her promises are glitter
explosions in the sky, brilliant,
blinding, then forgotten
in the rainy days to come.
Sometimes he looks for the echoes
of reflections in the puddles left behind,
but all he finds is silt and mud, slivered
blades that cut, and sometimes
he can hear his years breathing,
whispering about time better spent
with three already gone, eaten
by the rain and the hollow
expanse of her gaze.
Still he stands with her beneath the sky,
and lets the downpour burn until they are the same
in a world of peach laden skies and acid rain.
Her world is a constant shifting
of paradigms and peach laden skies
heavy with logic’s acid rain,
but she loves the burn, the stripping
and peeling of flesh from bone
because emotion is soft,
and she prefers the cold aching
smoothness of human intellect.
He wishes he could understand
but knows that he will have to settle
for the bitter half truths
she creates in the indigo darkness
of her mind until they spill
from her mouth and eyes, drip
down her face like tears,
and he can taste the acid in the air.
Sometimes he weeps with her
even though her tears aren’t real.
He doesn’t know why she keeps
him close when she hates the brush
of skin on skin, the shock
of him in her bones,
and he doesn’t know why
he stays when her promises are glitter
explosions in the sky, brilliant,
blinding, then forgotten
in the rainy days to come.
Sometimes he looks for the echoes
of reflections in the puddles left behind,
but all he finds is silt and mud, slivered
blades that cut, and sometimes
he can hear his years breathing,
whispering about time better spent
with three already gone, eaten
by the rain and the hollow
expanse of her gaze.
Still he stands with her beneath the sky,
and lets the downpour burn until they are the same
in a world of peach laden skies and acid rain.
So, a new old poem...thing. Meh.
Basically, I took something that I wrote ages ago on another account, edited it a tiny, tiny bit, and now I'm not sure what to do with it. At all. I can't even remember what the original point of it was, though I am fairly certain I wrote it about Kyle. His attempted suicide, maybe.
So, going with that idea, any way I can make the subject clearer or state it better? I'm really not a fan of this poem, so any help you guys could give me would be awesome.
Quote:
Eclipsed
He breathes,
still and unmoving
because he sees
nothing--just black,
though the moon
flickers overhead,
and silver light
stutters behind
his eyelids.
The sound of water
drips, leaking
into unconsciousness,
but he is not awake.
He hears nothing
in the end
when the sky glints
silver and black again,
and he fears the light
will die, go out,
and someday it will.
Already the stars
fade--too slow,
too damn slow
when light makes
his eyes ache behind
eyelids, searing,
blinding,
don't wait:
He wants to end this tonight.
He breathes,
still and unmoving
because he sees
nothing--just black,
though the moon
flickers overhead,
and silver light
stutters behind
his eyelids.
The sound of water
drips, leaking
into unconsciousness,
but he is not awake.
He hears nothing
in the end
when the sky glints
silver and black again,
and he fears the light
will die, go out,
and someday it will.
Already the stars
fade--too slow,
too damn slow
when light makes
his eyes ache behind
eyelids, searing,
blinding,
don't wait:
He wants to end this tonight.
So, um, yeah, new poem. Unfinished. Don't like it. It needs to die. Help me kill it, please and danke.
Quote:
Untitled
You tell me this is wrong
and this is true.
Your smile stretches
with the satisfaction
that comes from feeding
on the cough syrup
sweetness of absolutes,
and when your lips crack
and bleed in the dry
air your morality breathes,
you only smile wider
because you love to play
the martyr when blood
gives you the excuse.
What am I supposed to say,
and how do I explain
the beauty of fluidity
in a concrete world?
I hate its edges and angles
and the one way streets
where I can see the cracks
and the fact your concrete
is made of glass.
I know that it will
shatter under the pressure
of all your sure convictions
that slip through your fingers,
too heavy to hold, slick
with your certainties.
You tell me this is wrong
and this is true.
Your smile stretches
with the satisfaction
that comes from feeding
on the cough syrup
sweetness of absolutes,
and when your lips crack
and bleed in the dry
air your morality breathes,
you only smile wider
because you love to play
the martyr when blood
gives you the excuse.
What am I supposed to say,
and how do I explain
the beauty of fluidity
in a concrete world?
I hate its edges and angles
and the one way streets
where I can see the cracks
and the fact your concrete
is made of glass.
I know that it will
shatter under the pressure
of all your sure convictions
that slip through your fingers,
too heavy to hold, slick
with your certainties.
So, in addition to being a very bad writer and going on to write new s**t before I've edited the stuff I have, I actually went and wrote a few haikus and senryus. Um, two of each? But, yeah, I really don't like the syllable restrictions that are imposed by these forms because I think they make things unnecessarily difficult, but since I'm lecturing someone else about the use of the senryu and going on about how the syllable restrictions aren't an excuse for lazy writing, I figured I should attempt to write a couple myself. You know, that way I can make a point from experience. Anyway, I think my favorite of these is the last one, but, um, it's weird? So I dunno.
Quote:
Teeth
The frost bites the grass
And creeps up the windowsill:
Winter's icy teeth.
Sighting
Flaming fur sets fire
To the path's dry crinkled grass,
Gone in an instant.
Aging
Old bones creak, weathered
By years and too much passion,
Solid beneath flesh.
Bittersweet
She breathes snakes and ice
And he feels her lips slither,
Shiver round his neck.
The frost bites the grass
And creeps up the windowsill:
Winter's icy teeth.
Sighting
Flaming fur sets fire
To the path's dry crinkled grass,
Gone in an instant.
Aging
Old bones creak, weathered
By years and too much passion,
Solid beneath flesh.
Bittersweet
She breathes snakes and ice
And he feels her lips slither,
Shiver round his neck.
So, that's all the poems I'm willing to post publically at the moment (the rest are either unfinished or completely sucktastic), but when I post a new one (which I'm sure to do eventually), I'll let you guys know in the topic title. ^^
