Sometimes poetry is blunt
harsh, with jagged marks
torn across the page
spat down in flooding torrents
the rush warmth of blood to a wound
strangely relieving until it turns cold
with air's gentle touch.
I say this only for the sake
of the only words I know right now
the only words that cannot fit
into a lilting pattern now.
This--
I cannot stop the fast approaching distance,
neither can I remain shielded
by the cool camoflauge of night,
and who I am is cut deep and red
and lost in the confusion
that exists in No Light.
My voice--my gentle voice,
still trapped in a slight girlish tone
is hoarse with an ache of a cry
caught in my throat.
But no Savior ends the cage of time,
or the enivetable road
and no hope is smashed
beneath the palms of predictability.
Author notes
Okay, here we go. This is probably the most typical of the poems that don't get put up here. No title, never finished, dashed out on a page. This is the first draft, the only draft, spelling mistakes and all.
Comments
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i like it allot
great great job
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The title [though I know it was the first line used in replacement] makes this poem extremely ironic.
"Sometimes poetry is blunt
harsh, with jagged marks
torn across the page
spat down in flooding torrents"
And you're right. But its when one goes into explanation of it, telling the story in detail, that it becomes abstract. Foreign yet familiar.
Again, I say clever.
"neither can I remain shielded
by the cool camoflauge of night"
Refers back to the abstract nature of poetry. Being lost in something you know well is there. Maybe just being complacently ignorant of its existence.
For the third time tonight, I think you've proven yourself wrong on this bet. You're brilliant. Accept it and be pround of it.
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