Tastes of Defeat

Defeat:
A bitter, twangy substance
that sticks to the roof of my mouth
and makes it feel dry,
like I never fulfilled my thirst--
I lost.

I lick my lips in hope
that saliva helps--
but instead taste blood,
a chapped lip
cracked like an old tombstone--
stepped on.

My hand shoots up
to feel the cut--
I forget how disgusting my hands were.
Momentarily, I'm shocked:
I see the dirt between the nails
and blood clotting on the pad of my index.

Fatigue drifts over me
as a dense shower of rain--
lulling me to sleep,
only in time to be slapped in the face
by the clash of thunder,
water slitting my view of hope
into unforgiving shards of glass,
stabbing my conscience
one
after
another.

My attempt at consuming the idea
left me choking,
even the thought was disgusting.

I lost.

I really liked this piece... the imagery was fantastic, and was filled with emotion. I feel like something was lacking though: perhaps a reason for the defeat? I'm not quite sure. This is a piece that, if I had written, I would have stared at for five minutes trying to figure out what it is.

This is a great description of the feeling of defeat either way... you have excellent phrasing and some really nice details in there. Sorry I can't be of more help.

Overall, great job.

-Coral-

Icanbefixed!

What happened? The last poem you posted was so very eloquent and luscious and wonderful. This, in comparison (Which one shouldn’t do, but does because it can’t be helped) is bland and drab.

I recognise the change in subject matter, but you’re writing something which could be emotive, evocative and painful to the reader. Defeat is something no one wishes to be confronted with but your poem doesn’t give me that, it gives me some physical symptoms, some good description but no emotion, no good feeling. Defeat is something which, I believe, needs feeling. I want to cringe at the implications, I want to feel like you’re speaking directly to me, that you’re even accusing me for being defeated (which would change the intent of your poem, so you can ignore that last bit as personal preference). You could do this, you could make this a poem which is about YOU rather than I, which I think it is right now.

Why do I think it is a “I” and not a “YOU”? Because the voice is soft and it’s slow, there’s no feeling of the other looking in, there’s observation but that is too specific, or not specific enough depending on your intention. Re-write the poem by substituting all “you” for “I” and see what you have, whether it’s more emotive and whether there are stronger feelings coming from the poem. If not, switch it back and toughen it up, be accusatory, be depressed, be in your face with an issue no one likes confronting.

Above all, have fun with this. Have fun with your imagery and with metaphor and simile, make us feel this defeat and all those which have preceded it.

Please Pm me if you change this at all, I’d love a second look!

*Hearts* Le Penguin.

Hey there, Fixed! =D

icanbefixed wrote:Your hand shoots up
to feel the cut--
you forget how disgusting your hands were. A period was needed here.
momentarily, you're shocked:
you see the dirt between the nails
and blood clotting on the pad of your index.

To start, your imagery in this poem is fantastic; I felt like I could really see someone going through this in my mind. I especially loved the "lips, cracked like an old tombstone," line - I haven't heard that comparison before, and it is indeed quite creative on your part.

You also did a nice job with the flow of the poem; I read it without difficulty and without having to pause and re-read anything. However, I do slightly agree with Penguin. Perhaps this is an "I" and not a "you." I almost want to see what it would be like if you went from first-person view. If you change this at all, please PM me. The only other mistake I did catch on to was the tiny punctuation mistake you made, and that isn't too much of a problem; definitely an easy thing to fix, eh?

Well, I'll see you around.

~Mizz