he plucked the strings of my heart like an untalented harpist
you know no end to your plucking
and you know no beginning to your disease
summon every follicle of my skin to raise my hairs to their ends
and pluck until your fingers bleed, my friend
for my love is as willing as my heart is frail
so tender are the fingers of those that know not of love,
hardened are the hearts of those that do,
and sickened are the minds that hold tenaciously to this false feeling
this sense of uncomforting comfort
of unraveling the unraveled
relishing in my vulnerability appears to be a game to you
another one of those games i always seem to lose
i hope my heart strings rip your fingers apart
and i hope you keep plucking them when they do
maybe then will calluses appear
maybe then you'll realize who's playing the harp
Author notes
I wrote this from personal experience.. and, being a female, this poem is about a guy instead of a girl like heart-shaped box.. it is more or less a response to thesong than a theory of what the song is actually about. hope you like it.
A contest entry
- ice and salt on skin by bird-mad girl.
1000 points, ended January 2, 2008, 8 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
WELCOME TO ALLPOETRY!
I liked it. I think that you did wonderful with form and metaphor in this.
"he plucked the strings of my heart like an untalented harpist
you know no end to your plucking"
The opening lines really had me. Welcome and feel free to ask any questions.
Despair
Adding your comment:
