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This thread was created on November 11, 2005
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Maskara
Topic ID: 5742
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Incandescence
If you've nothing nice to say, come sit with me.
Epic Novelist
Gender: 
Age: 18
Joined: 22 Nov 2004
Posts: 3020
Reviews: 901
Country: USA
402 Points
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 Posted: Sat Nov 12, 2005 2:54 am Post subject: Maskara |
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Your fragile pencil etches
verse in empty notebooks,
etches meaning in
silence until the lead cracks,
until the tears well up and
makes your mascara run black.
Your soft hands are covered
in chalk and your red sneakers
are fading, and you're watching
it all fade away, you're waiting
on the music from the speakers to start...
In dreams you are the girl who
lives in Spain, with no doubt
about her identity, her life, her
control. You are the girl with
an iPod who knows how
the world works.
But your soft hands are covered
in chalk, and your red sneakers have
seen better days, and you're watching
as it fades away, you're waiting on
the music from the speakers, but
you never plugged them in. |
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Tazy
Writer
Gender: 
Age: 20
Joined: 28 Oct 2005
Posts: 85
Reviews: 37
Country: Melbourne, Australia
300 Points
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| Posted: Sat Nov 12, 2005 5:01 am Post subject: |
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| One word wow and yoru only 15 good on you |
_________________
Just belive and you will acheive! |
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Tríona
Writer
Gender:
Age: 17
Joined: 05 Sep 2005
Posts: 57
Reviews: 39
Country: In between a rock and a hard place
300 Points
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| Posted: Sat Nov 12, 2005 1:51 pm Post subject: |
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 This poem really moves the reader (me)!
| Quote: |
Your fragile pencil etches
verse in empty notebooks |
The pencil, like the narrators voice in the world, is fragile.
A sense of longing is created in the stanza :
| Quote: |
In dreams you are the girl who
lives in Spain, with no doubt
about her identity, her life, her
control. You are the girl with
an iPod who knows how
the world works.
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 She wants to be confident and full of life like the girl in her dreams but she cannot....
| Quote: |
you're waiting on
the music from the speakers, but
you never plugged them in. |
Hauntingly beautiful!  |
_________________
Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said -
On wings they are carried-
After the singer is dead
And the maker buried.
Robert Louis Stevenson |
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| This thread was created on November 11, 2005 |
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