Around a bend of halved leaves
around a shaft of hard rocks
To see all alike is never seen
and rarely do we savor its after maths
I sink in her and she in me
Pandora is stuck to the glue of her box
Psycho analytics give Freud a fright
but me and her? We are up all night.
Last edited by Adolescent09; 01-08-2014 at 02:01 AM.
My hide hides the heart inside
Why the division of words? (Like "after maths" instead of aftermaths?)
"It is perfectly okay to write garbage--as long as you edit brilliantly." -- C. J. Cherryh
What exactly do you want to say? Your poem is like what i think of what are in my handbag--prayer book, condom, tylenol, lipstick, nutribar. They don't connect with each other, and they are in there because I use them.
"You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you because you're all the same."
--Jonathan Davis
Think it sounds like fun and you were having fun writing it. No further analysis needed. Even from Freud.
For those who believe,
no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not,
none will suffice.
Does having fun in writing a poem make it a good piece and without flaws? Your non-sequiturs are tiring. Do you want the readers in this forum to keep quiet? Is this the reason why Hillwalker does not bother to comment anymore? Instead of slighting other commenters, why don't you focus on why you like a certain poem and why it is flawless to you? it seems all poems to you are good and beyond criticism. How can one learn from you if all you write is either "good" or "nice"? Back-patting is for teens. If you can't give constructive criticisms or comments that offer ideas and alternatives, let others do them.
Last edited by miyako73; 01-10-2014 at 10:53 PM.
"You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you because you're all the same."
--Jonathan Davis
Cheers 73. That's that decided.
For those who believe,
no explanation is necessary.
For those who do not,
none will suffice.
I had a near death experience and this poem was personal. There is a time for constructive criticism and there is a time to reflect. The voices of those who have had guns pointed in their face, have attempted suicide (and other things) and have struggled in life are rarely heard. The random handbag post aptly describes my life. No father, a negligent mother, no friends, no one who ever cared about me. I spill whats in my brain onto the page and ask for no more. I'm borderline schizophrenic so I think cops are chasing me every 10 minutes. I'd come here for slack but even here I get people rebuking me. In the end I feel like an exile. My neighbor kicked me off his property. My so called best friend abandoned me. I've been in psychiatric hospitals 5 times now but I do not care and I do not give up. Even exiles have a voice whether you'd like to listen to it or not. I get flashbacks of being on the turnpike without a shirt and a gun pointed at my face. I fear no one anymore and I could care less if I get shot. My poems reflect the neglect and suffering i've put up with my whole life from suicidal ideation to homicidal ideation. In the end no one cares. And guess what? I still feel I have the right to say I was once homicidal. I have the right to say I was once suicidal. I have the right to post this. And if I get locked in a mental hospital again for someone calling the police on me I will sue the living daylights out of them. My rights will no longer be violated and I will no longer live in this cage.
My hide hides the heart inside
Around a bend of halved leaves refers to a car speeding past grass and mowing it at the rate its going.Originally Posted by Adolescent09
It takes balls to go at that speed hence the hard rocks.
all alike is never seen is a reference to the fact that the science that correlates both the mowing of the grass and the mental audacity to go at that speed is never seen (theoretically speaking symmetry does not exist in nature).
As acceleration is constant velocity increases. All the english people who hate math so damn much don't even realize that the computers they type on wouldn't exist without it. Neither would their cars.
I sink in her and she in me refers to the love I have for fast speed.
Pandora is the evil that is my lust for my car. My acknowledgement of the lust is a form of repentance.
Crazy people such as myself who test Einstein's theory at 3 in the morning give psychiatrists/psychologists a fright.
The yin-yang relationship I have with my car is no different from the battle i have with my mind. We are up day and night both in the spiritual and in the natural.
Personal poetry, as I said.
My hide hides the heart inside
I've been rereading your poem since my last comment. It stubbornly revealed myself to me. Don't worry you are not alone. Your poem did not give up on me. Why should you give up? Take it from someone abilified and seroqueled.
why turnpike? Are you from Boston?
Last edited by miyako73; 01-17-2014 at 07:07 PM.
"You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you because you're all the same."
--Jonathan Davis
I just want you to know that I read everything you post, even if I don't always leave a comment. Please keep posting.
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