Fflow
Goodbye
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2001
- Posts
- 12,315
I'm working on a poem right now, and am having difficulty deciding if I like it all personal and intimate, as in 1st person I me You, etc... or in something a bit more disconnected with he she, etc... I know you've got an opinion, so please weigh in! Any other advice, suggestions, etc are also welcome. Really!
Pearl Thistle Plug Epistle - V1
by Sander Roscoe Wolff
October 1, 2006
Drinking milk, a flood of calcium in hopes of growing
luminescent glowing pearl, your love a grain of sand.
My heart slows, knowing it will not sustain this
frantic pace, racing away from you blindly
when you speak unkindly.
Won’t this magic coalesce? I’m a swine, now where’s mine?
I want to form one ‘round this formless soul, this
strained muscle that keeps beating itself against your walls.
You laugh at my fumbling metaphors, toss your hair and
suddenly not there.
It’s a thistle, grown around my healing heart, to ward off
eager, careless hands. Demands upon it will not stand.
This epistle blossom’s in the Spring,
the sting of cruelty long forgotten,
memories of misbegotten days.
How I long to forget you, dear. To not see your face
whenever I close my eyes. Forget your whispers, laugh,
and sighs. I close my eyes. This lingering appetite for
all that stills me, all that kills me, won’t be denied.
Have I died?
Drugs and alcohol, morphine and regret, a strange cocktail
mixed in a broken glass. Cigarettes burn, I can’t forget. I
yearn for that sting, the pain you bring, it cannot end until
I die. You are my life support. Am I strong enough
to pull the plug?
-----
Pearl Thistle Plug Epistle - V2
by Sander Roscoe Wolff
October 1, 2006
Drinking milk, a flood of calcium in hopes of growing
luminescent glowing pearl, her love a grain of sand.
His heart slows, knowing it will not sustain this
frantic pace, racing away from her blindly
when she speak unkindly.
Won’t this magic coalesce? he’s a swine, now where’s his pearl?
He want to form one ‘round this formless soul, this
strained muscle that keeps beating itself against her walls.
She laughs at his fumbling metaphors, tosses her hair and
suddenly not there.
It’s a thistle, grown around his healing heart, to ward off
eager, careless hands. Demands upon it will not stand.
This epistle blossom’s in the Spring,
the sting of cruelty long forgotten,
memories of misbegotten days.
How he longs to forget her, to not see her face
whenever he closes his eyes. Forget her whispers, laugh,
and sighs. He closes his eyes. This lingering appetite for
all that stills him, all that kills him, won’t be denied.
Has he died?
Drugs and alcohol, morphine and regret, a strange cocktail
mixed in a broken glass. Cigarettes burn, he can’t forget. He
yearns for that sting, the pain she brings, it cannot end until
he dies. She is his life support. Is he strong enough
to pull the plug?
Pearl Thistle Plug Epistle - V1
by Sander Roscoe Wolff
October 1, 2006
Drinking milk, a flood of calcium in hopes of growing
luminescent glowing pearl, your love a grain of sand.
My heart slows, knowing it will not sustain this
frantic pace, racing away from you blindly
when you speak unkindly.
Won’t this magic coalesce? I’m a swine, now where’s mine?
I want to form one ‘round this formless soul, this
strained muscle that keeps beating itself against your walls.
You laugh at my fumbling metaphors, toss your hair and
suddenly not there.
It’s a thistle, grown around my healing heart, to ward off
eager, careless hands. Demands upon it will not stand.
This epistle blossom’s in the Spring,
the sting of cruelty long forgotten,
memories of misbegotten days.
How I long to forget you, dear. To not see your face
whenever I close my eyes. Forget your whispers, laugh,
and sighs. I close my eyes. This lingering appetite for
all that stills me, all that kills me, won’t be denied.
Have I died?
Drugs and alcohol, morphine and regret, a strange cocktail
mixed in a broken glass. Cigarettes burn, I can’t forget. I
yearn for that sting, the pain you bring, it cannot end until
I die. You are my life support. Am I strong enough
to pull the plug?
-----
Pearl Thistle Plug Epistle - V2
by Sander Roscoe Wolff
October 1, 2006
Drinking milk, a flood of calcium in hopes of growing
luminescent glowing pearl, her love a grain of sand.
His heart slows, knowing it will not sustain this
frantic pace, racing away from her blindly
when she speak unkindly.
Won’t this magic coalesce? he’s a swine, now where’s his pearl?
He want to form one ‘round this formless soul, this
strained muscle that keeps beating itself against her walls.
She laughs at his fumbling metaphors, tosses her hair and
suddenly not there.
It’s a thistle, grown around his healing heart, to ward off
eager, careless hands. Demands upon it will not stand.
This epistle blossom’s in the Spring,
the sting of cruelty long forgotten,
memories of misbegotten days.
How he longs to forget her, to not see her face
whenever he closes his eyes. Forget her whispers, laugh,
and sighs. He closes his eyes. This lingering appetite for
all that stills him, all that kills him, won’t be denied.
Has he died?
Drugs and alcohol, morphine and regret, a strange cocktail
mixed in a broken glass. Cigarettes burn, he can’t forget. He
yearns for that sting, the pain she brings, it cannot end until
he dies. She is his life support. Is he strong enough
to pull the plug?
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