Young Writers discussion
Poetry
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Whoaaaaaaaaa. I love the formatting in this one. Really unique!!
Mod
Oh, the structure of this is so evocative and so well thought-out and things. As Brigid said, it definitely serves a purpose - and also I think it intensifies the actual meanings of the words and makes the reader have to think un more detail about them. It's a lovely piece. I hope it doesn't sound patronising to say that since you've been posting so much poetry lately I've noticed your writing has really matured, and your style is so distinct!
No, it's not patronizing at all, I really appreciate it! Thank you.
Wow, I really love how you did that with the formatting! Are you sure you're not some 1000 year old wise person, here to gift us with your awesome poetry? ;P
Alina wrote: "Wow, I really love how you did that with the formatting! Are you sure you're not some 1000 year old wise person, here to gift us with your awesome poetry? ;P"This is what I wanna know.
Mod
un.
i love you,*
i hate you**
*(i say as your complexion comes into my sight,
i'm dizzy, you're breathtaking,
i write thousands of words,
dozens of love poems, all to you, i'm in
love)
**(i say as i tear your pictures off my wall,
like i tear the skin off my arm,
like i tear you out of my lungs,
because hating you means i hate myself,
and i can't even stand to hear your name)
deux.
it burns to run a blade
across your arm, eve
n though the blade i
s my own, my nail,
my teeth, but it bur
ns all the same, and
the thought of you l
eaving me is one i c
an't stand, because i
f you leave me now,
i'll take a chamber t
o my skull and you'l
l regret anything yo
u've ever said, and
i'll regret the fact th
at i can't be there p
ersonally to laugh.
trois.
e.............................on
..la........................si
......ti.................es
..........on.......pr
................de
!elation!,depression,back and forth,
like a battered ball,
observed by a hundred people,
and no one cares about
that which is lifeless,
and i continue to be
beat.
quatre.
who am I?
They've asked Me
that for Years now,
since I was a Little Girl,
but now I'm a Grown Up Man,
(or at least I'm almost there,
god save me now)
and it's just within my grasp,
my name in gold from the
pavements of heaven, and just
as my fingertips grace it,
I fall from glory again,
into that Valley of desolation,
and i see those glowering Eyes
taunt me maliciously, and they
ask,
who are you?
cinq.
i suppose it doesn't matter.
they say i'm crazy,
here's some pills,
like that'll make it any better
when i could just as easily
take my breath away
with them.
"abandoment anxiety,"
is what you claim,
"attention whore,"
is what they hear.
red marks on my skin
are my freinds, don't you see?
can't you hear? can't you hear those
screams turn to sobs turn into hysterical
laughter when i see my fingers
web apart? because when you're
that desperate, everything is funny,
nothing is real, nothing is--
delusional.
as if it was real to begin with.