look inside again
as you frown
you do
a lot
you're
boldening
I made you
next time you frown
and feel sad
I'm alone
next time you
feel angry
I'm alone
next time you hate
me and twist the cord
I'm alone
why bother
to cut a prisoner who ate the keys
next time you smile
and feel good
and love me
and understand
what it means
to be alive
I'm alone
heartbroken
in a puddle of my own beauty
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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Hmm...
Is there no anger here? no fragments of glass? no padlocks (who ate the keys?) and no tears?
The concept of loss has long been favoured by poets. In their turns they variously bemoan the loss of beauty, youth, fame, life - and love. The poetry of loss is a genre unto itself. Immediately poignant by its implications of tragedy. Freighted with an irrevocable absence. Often shadowed by pain and sadness.
To me, you are valiantly attempting to make believe for awhile that the experience of loss may be impersonalised into perfection by practising it as an art (take a breather). Such a shame that you succeed in convincing neither yourself nor your reader.
~ crisstiena
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the point, crisstiena, is that splinters and padlocks and glass are all so used up in poetry that they're just old.
I don't want loss. I don't want big words either, but that's okay. Practicing loss as art? I don't know what you are trying to say, but I thought it was pretty obvious that this was written because I feel alone. I think just by being on this web site I convince the reader of that pretty well.
Well it's great that you can appear to know a lot about loss and thanks for the comment and stuff, it was... deep. excessivley, avante-garde deep.
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