You are a sickness
which envelops
opens up deep wounds
you
are the disease
you
spineless
deathless
weasel
I retch at the thought
of you
in the midst of your decay
you still blame me
you
vacant
grasping
fool
if worlds were just,
you would be the first to die;
you will not escape this fury.
#
In the end,
everything burns.
Author notes
Editing. Help/suggestions always appreciated.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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If this is a drunkard friend, thats what it sounds like any way. I can see the feelings towards a drunk. It was a pleasure to read.
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Thank you.
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I'd suggest offering more complete descriptions of whatever scoundrel this poem is about. It reads quite quickly, and while it's already a pretty good poem, it could be better. Also, "envelopes" has a third "e."
That said, it ain't bad. It is nice reading a poem that goes rather quickly and makes quite clear what it's talking about. -
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My dictionary isn't helping me here - perhaps I can't spell envelopes, in which case bloody hell, but I was going for the pronunciation: 'en-vel-ops' rather than the elongated 'o' sound, so perhaps will leave that as it is, for now at least (will find a better dictionary).
Anyway, your criticism is very much appreciated and I shall probably rehash this - fleshing out the words with some descriptions.
Thank you.
Barbie. Xx
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