Waking up to the first thought when you're smothered in deep, unmoveable depression.
-Blink-
The first thoughts begin to surface. They feel like my wrist chaffing against sandpaper. Gritty thoughts that rough away the skin and leave little freckles of blood Hot white skin
beaded with blood How tender the nexus of braided veins has become My lifeline of soft blue thought pulses thickly Through the monotony of sealed wrists. Why get up and prepare my teeth and knife and fork and plate? When breakfast is just the clatter and scraping of spoons on porcelain plates? Why pound my heartbeat into the floor? With the balls of my feet. Why direct my skeleton around the house? When the skin of my person is still snagged and stretched and r-i-i-i-i-ipppping
along the bedframe. When my every goal is trapped in the cold air between the pleats of your dress -Blink-
I love this, it made me tear up. I'm done writing now, you stole my thunder with this one..
Posted 12 Years Ago
12 Years Ago
Oh, it's the Ventriloquist lol. In my poetic theory, there is the Muse, and the Ventriloquist. You.. read moreOh, it's the Ventriloquist lol. In my poetic theory, there is the Muse, and the Ventriloquist. You were the Ventriloquist. Don't stop writing, Jacki. You have the Image, you were almost there, I haven't checked out what you've posted, so maybe you are there. Your only problem was your intimacy with your writing, that you were so close to it that you didn't think as to weather your reader would hear what you were trying to say. You're complexities, in terms of writing, make it cryptic. Then again, what do I know....
....that wasy my only problem with your words, that is....not that it's an actual problem
12 Years Ago
yea, I know. I gotta keep working it through. Thanks for showing me the site though and for always b.. read moreyea, I know. I gotta keep working it through. Thanks for showing me the site though and for always being HONEST about my writing
12 Years Ago
you are the best underground poet I've met. And I've met a lot. I sincerely mean that, everything .. read moreyou are the best underground poet I've met. And I've met a lot. I sincerely mean that, everything else aside. Keep writing for sure.
Man that first description is f*****g LUSH. Maybe it's the frequency with which I have sanded my own skin, but s**t, that was money. Then the "monotony of sealed wrists." I don't think it's the wine... wait. That's f*****g great... It's those lines that breeze over simply, almost unnoticed, but then you realize are mustard gas that get me. Yes! The f*****g moNOTONY... That's really perfect, you b*****d! ...Then the cascade of questions, and we are interrogated. There is an agitated air in them, a deep frustration. And then you hit the s**t again, what the f**k!: "When my every goal is trapped in the cold air between the pleats of your dress." Alright alright... There's a looong poem in there. A f*****g book in there, honestly. Those lines, man, those lines. Just keep bringing them. 100/100.
Ohhh, this I liked. Very strong lines. Powerful poem. I can feel the depression. Great job! :) I liked how you wrote ripping. It really shows the feeling. I loved this.
"gritty thoughts".... love that! It is kind of a double there.
I really like the use of the word "nexus" which to me has a slightly ominous feeling to it. I don't know why, just the sound of the word I guess.
The last line was quite a bit of a surprise for me. I like surprising! I like this poem. Great job!
A powerful poem my Poet friend. Strong lines led reader into struggle and the description create wild thoughts and visions. No weakness in the outstanding the poem.
Coyote
roger ebert, in his review of the original bad lt. with harvey keitel, noted that the character wakes up defeated. this brought me to that dude. love the monotony of sealed wrists.
Depression is a cold b***h...I love every line of this piece because I can relate to it on so many levels. I cannot tell you the number of mornings I have gone through this routine. (Well, minus the pleated dress) Most times I get out of bed...sometimes...I don't. Really well done, James.
I began writing when I was in the fourth or fifth grade. We were extremely poor and my mother had purchased an old typewriter from a yard sale for me, tired of trying to decipher my mangled handrwitin.. more..