Cold and Sharp But Much Too Small

Spoiler

So... really quick, raw write. I'm really not sure if I like it or not, because I tried to start out using a different style, but I quickly lapsed back into my own. Also, the topic is something that I usually don't touch because it's used to often. Any thoughts at all are appreciated. (Note the alliteration in the previous sentence. That should make you want to stay, right?)

I have to leave-- the house suffocates me, almost like a living being trying
to press all the air from my lungs with stagnant air and memories, bitter on the bone wall.
I hate the walls, powdery with whitewash-- I feel like I can't touch them, like each brush takes away dead
skin from my house onto my black sleeves, slowly being stained with pure.
I need a smoke. Or a drive.
Door slams--rain on concrete--rusty door screeches with ferocity--quick-switch ignition of a beat up car.
All muted and numb and filmy.

I love to screech my tires across the road, even though driving fast has never done much for me--
the black lines remind me that I can change things and make them mine
and something other than asininely gray cement. I like that.

I can feel my car struggle under my fingertips, and I love the control,
love the control,
where I can pull the mechanical beast to where I want it and rip at its leash
and tear it against its neck. But it's too docile, and once it's warmed up
and the road is one I recognize, it falls into pouring obedience on
the white lines of the empty highway, and there it is again. Home.

The rolls of the gears feel like home, like oceanic rhythms and tides of a womb, and I'm
almost at that place where I can feel like everything is right, but it's... safe.
Nauseatingly warm and safe and everything is too close, and I can feel my
chest tighten and my face sweat and I can feel that fucking red swathing across my skin.
Breathe.

I need to reach out and touch something, scratch it--my nails catch on the texture of my dashboard, and I
rip the end of one off. It was too long anyways.
But, even as the blood starting rivuleting from the end of my finger, I can feel the heat
and humidity of dry air conditioning. And I realize that I need
cold, I need to tear something into myself that's freezing, to play with
the temperature of my veins and freeze the sides so my blood can properly boil.

And with a touch of my foot, the too docile car comes to a stop. And with a
click of safety--ching of the keys--hollow scream of a car door
I'm out of the warmth and into rain smacking me in the face, buffeting against my lukewarm skin.
And it's there, but it's still too dull. I need
sharpsharpsharp
like chewing glass or blinking razors, but there's only that dull raindrop, stupid blunt force trying to
unsuccessfully to drive me to my knees. Too gentle. I want hail. Lightning. I want something to hurt me.

I need to rip and tear and dig my fingers into something and not get them back--
I need to lose myself into something that's able to scratch that burn and get
that bite right under my ribcage-- I consider driving back and getting into a barfight.
Seems like a broken beer bottle might be able to reach it, and I've always liked the color
green with red, but the car is far behind me now and I run into the woods on the side of the
street, trying to find all the loose branches I can. I want that whiplash, and I hope I can
find some place to fall. And there's a cliff, jagged rocks passively pointing up at me,
almost like arrows telling where to go.

The rocks are too small, too shallow, but maybe they can help.

Hey, Persy...I'm back.

This seems really effortless. If this is what you can conjure up in a short amount of time then I'm definately jealous! Your writing style is right up my street and it would take me forever to craft something like this. You tend to use a lot of description and when I try to use description I end up added wayy to many adjectives. With your work there seems to be the perfect balance. What's your secret?

Persephoneia wrote:I have to leave-- the house suffocates me, almost like a living being trying
to press all the air from my lungs with stagnant air and memories, bitter on the white wall.

I tried writing something like this a few years ago...something about the walls of a room acting like guards...but anyway, love the personification here.

Persephoneia wrote:Front door slam--rain on concrete--rusty door screeching with ferocity--quick-switch ignition of a beat up car.
All muted and numb and filmy.

I love to screech my tires across the road, even though driving fast has never done much for me--

Some people might say that the repetition of the word 'screech(ing)' should be changed, but I kinda like the connection you've created.

Persephoneia wrote:I can feel my car struggle under my fingertips, and I love the control,
love the control, where I can pull the mechanical beast to where I want it and rip at its leash
and tear it against its neck. But it's too docile, and once it's warmed up
and the road is one I recognize, it falls into pouring obedience on
the white lines of the empty highway, and there it is again. Home.

Like the repetition and absolutely adore the metaphor here. It's really simple, somewhat obvious, but its well-placed.

Persephoneia wrote:I need to reach out and touch something, scratch it--my nails catch on the texture of my dashboard, and I
rip the end of one off. It was too long anyways.
But, even as the blood starting rivuleting from the end of my finger, I can feel the heat
and humidity of dry air conditioning. And I realize that I need
cold, I need to tear something into myself that's freezing, to play with
the temperature of my veins and freeze the sides so my blood can properly boil.

Good use of sarcasm and humour at the start of this stanza. The rest of it pretty dark, which I like!

Persephoneia wrote:And with a touch of my foot, the too docile car comes to a stop. And with a
click of safety--ching of the keys--hollow screech of a car door
I'm out of the warmth and into rain smacking me in the face.
And it's there, but it's still too dull. I need
sharpsharpsharp
like chewing glass or blinking razors, but there's only that dull raindrop, blunt force trying to
unsuccessfully to drive me to my knees. I want hail. I want something to hurt me.

Just pointing out, you've also repeated the word 'docile' from one of the stanza's further up...but you're probably aware of that. The narrator's desperation is pretty subtle which gives the impression that they're going to get what they want in the last stanza.

Persephoneia wrote:I need to rip and tear and dig my fingers into something and not get them back--
I need to lose myself into something that's able to scratch that burn and get
that bite right under my ribcage-- I consider driving back and getting into a barfight.
Seems like a broken beer bottle might be able to reach it, and I've always liked the color
green, but the car is far behind me now and I run into the woods on the side of the street, trying to find all the loose
branches I can. I want that whiplash, and I hope I can find some place to fall. And there's a
cliff, jagged rocks passively pointing up at me, almost like arrows telling where to go.

The rocks are too small, too shallow, but maybe they can help.

The repetition and quicker pace here tells the reader that we're getting closer to the edge (pardon the pun.)
The use of enjambament also creates a feeling of restlessness.

All in all, I really love your use of onamatopoeia (spelling?), metaphors and similies. Another successful piece of work!

Keep Writing!
-Sop.-

HI!

Personally, I think darker imagery is needed. You have the emotion and the anger and frustration, and some good description but id on't think it's dark enough, I think maybe you need to read some dark imagery to be inspired.

But I like what the idea was behind the piece, and I like the concept.

That's my only point really, I think the darker this one is the better it will be.

Keep it up :L

~Retro disco666

Percy! *pounces*

I feel like I can't touch them, like each brush takes away dead
skin from my house onto my black sleeves, slowly being stained with pure.

When you read this as one line or as a sentence, can you see where the wording seems a smidge awkward near “my house onto my black.”

stupid blunt force trying [/b]to[/b]
unsuccessfully to drive me to my knees.

*cough* somethingsoundsfunnyhere *cough*


So, aside from those two little typos, there’s nothing I found outright that was wrong. Right off the bat, I wanted to comment and say that this felt very scatter brained (which I usually dislike) but the more I read the more I started to high the backspace keys on my keyboard because the scatter brained feeling was very true to the character. Heck, it felt like me this morning when my dad dropped my giant dictionary on me to wake me up. (Your day is never good if it starts out that way.) But the feel of disorder in this and honest, simple words, feels refreshing.

I loved the driving descriptions too. Me, the minute I feel tense or upset, I like to get in my car and hit the gas pedal. It feels good. And sense I live in the middle of nowhere, I have those beautiful long stretches of country road that can go on forever without seeing a soul. So I connected with this.

The only dislike I have in this is the use twice of the lines that went along the idea of wanting to “dig my nails into something.” Using it twice felt funny and almost like you just ran short on ideas, ya know?

All in all, Percy, I like it. But if you have any questions, never ever hesitate to ask me.

~captain lileh

Here I am.

I have to leave-- the house suffocates me, almost like a living being trying This last part is weird - it makes sense, but the three words all ending in "-ing" is a little annoying.
to press all the air from my lungs with stagnant air and memories, bitter on the bone wall. You used "air" twice here.
I hate the walls, powdery with whitewash-- I feel like I can't touch them, like each brush takes away dead I'd move the line break so that "dead" starts off the next line. And the repeat of "wall(s)" sounds odd.
skin from my house onto my black sleeves, slowly being stained with pure. You're using a lot of adjectives.
I need a smoke. Or a drive. Too basic. It's much too obvious that the next lines are going to be describing a drive.
Door slams--rain on concrete--rusty door screeches with ferocity--quick-switch ignition of a beat up car. I'd get rid of the whole "rusty door" part. Firstly, "ferocity" is definitely over the top, and secondly, the entire comment doesn't flow well at all.
All muted and numb and filmy. Whoa, hold it. Too many images.

I love to screech my tires across the road, even though driving fast has never done much for me-- Well, it's never "done" anything for anyone.
the black lines remind me that I can change things and make them mine Eh. Let the reader figure this out for themself. Don't feed them the metaphors. Also, this line should end with a comma.
and something other than asininely gray cement. I like that. There are a number of reasons why this line should be reworked. 1) The "and" at the beginning sounds off, 2) the adverb sounds even more odd, and 3) the last sentence sounds simply odd.

I can feel my car struggle under my fingertips, and I love the control, Too many "my"'s. Change the first one to "the."
love the control, I think it would be cool to do something to this line...put it in parentheses? Something.
where I can pull the mechanical beast to where I want it and rip at its leash This is a pretty cliched metaphor. Much too clear and straightforward. I'm sure you can think of a better one.
and tear it against its neck. But it's too docile, and once it's warmed up Change "it against" to "at."
and the road is one I recognize, it falls into pouring obedience on The comma should be a semicolon. Also, how does obedience "pour?" The word sounds somewhat odd here.
the white lines of the empty highway, and there it is again. Home. "White lines..." "empty highway..." too many adjectives.

The rolls of the gears feel like home, like oceanic rhythms and tides of a womb, and I'm Though "home" and "womb" don't exactly rhyme, they sound enough alike that, combined with the rhythm, this line sounds just like some cheesy Dr. Seuss rhyme.
almost at that place where I can feel like everything is right, but it's... safe. Huh? This line's wording really needs to be modified.
Nauseatingly warm and safe and everything is too close, and I can feel my All the "and"'s are really confusing.
chest tighten and my face sweat and I can feel that fucking red swathing across my skin.
Breathe.

I need to reach out and touch something, scratch it--my nails catch on the texture of my dashboard, and I One can catch on something, but one cannot catch on the texture of something.
rip the end of one off. It was too long anyways. Get rid of "of one."
But, even as the blood starting rivuleting from the end of my finger, I can feel the heat "Starting" should be "starts."
and humidity of dry air conditioning. And I realize that I need
cold, I need to [tear something into myself that's freezing], to play with This ([...]) needs to be reworked.
the temperature of my veins and freeze the sides so my blood can properly boil. Uh...what?

And with a touch of my foot, the too docile car comes to a stop. And with a Get rid of both "too docile" and the second "and with."
click of safety--ching of the keys--hollow scream of a car door "Click of safety?" Do you mean lock? This is a pretty weird way to say that.
I'm out of the warmth and into rain smacking me in the face, buffeting against my lukewarm skin. "Smacking" sounds off.
And it's there, but it's still too dull. I need
sharpsharpsharp
like chewing glass or blinking razors, but there's only that dull raindrop, stupid blunt force trying to Don't like the repetition of "dull."
unsuccessfully to drive me to my knees. Too gentle. I want hail. Lightning. I want something to hurt me. Get rid of "unsuccessfully to."

As for the rest of the poem, you seem to repeat the exact same thing over and over, just in different words and with different subjects. It gets old. Give me something new to chew on.

I liked this. Hope my review helped in some way.

-Kafka

Normally I never do this, but I left comments in my quoted section.

Persephoneia wrote:I have to leave-- the house suffocates me, almost like a living being trying
to press all the [air] from my lungs with stagnant [air] and memories, bitter on the bone wall(?).
I hate the walls, powdery with whitewash-- I feel like I can't touch them, like each brush takes away dead
skin from my house onto my black sleeves, slowly being stained with pure.<---?(juxtaposition no working here)
I need a smoke. Or a drive.
Door slams--rain on concrete--rusty door screeches with ferocity--quick-switch ignition of a beat up car. (listing, listing, listing)
All muted and numb and filmy.<---show, stop telling

I love to screech my tires across the road, even though driving fast has never done much for me--<---?so what does the reader care then?
the black lines remind me that I can change things and make them mine(things/them? you can do better, that's poor choice)
and something other than asininely gray cement. I like that. (um...uh...ok? the reader doesn't! this reads like insane mutterings, and not in a way that's positive)

I can feel my car struggle under my fingertips, and I love the control,
love the control, <---better repetition, seems useful
where I can pull the mechanical beast(why insert this now?) to where I want it and rip at its leash
and tear it against its neck. But it's too docile, and once it's warmed up
and the road is one I recognize, it falls into pouring obedience on
the white lines of the empty highway, and there it is again. Home.
(I'm not sitting with the animal insertion here, doesn't work in the raw manner you want it to)

The rolls of the gears feel like home, like oceanic rhythms and tides of a womb<--(pretty, tides of a womb...that works), and I'm
almost at that place where I can feel like everything is right, but it's... safe. <---bad line
Nauseatingly warm and safe and everything is too close, and I can feel my (everything? well that's boring)
chest tighten and my face sweat and I can feel that fucking red swathing across my skin.
Breathe. (your poem lacks a real focus, I got more energy from "fucking red swathing across my skin", than everything prior. This feels like you need to parse down ideas and work on solely one aspect before expanding)

I need to reach out and touch something, scratch it--my nails catch on the texture of my dashboard, and I (again these unspecific pronouns, the death of this by far)
rip the end of one off. It was too long anyways.
But, even as the blood starting rivuleting from the end of my finger, I can feel the heat
and humidity of dry air conditioning. And I realize that I need
cold, I need to tear something into myself that's freezing, to play with
the temperature of my veins and freeze the sides so my blood can properly boil.

And with a touch of my foot, the too docile car comes to a stop. And with a
click of safety--ching of the keys--hollow scream of a car door
I'm out of the warmth and into rain smacking me in the face, buffeting against my lukewarm skin.
And it's there, but it's still too dull. I need
sharpsharpsharp
like chewing glass or blinking razors, but there's only that dull raindrop, stupid blunt force trying to
unsuccessfully to drive me to my knees. Too gentle. I want hail. Lightning. I want something to hurt me.

I need to rip and tear and dig my fingers into something and not get them back--
I need to lose myself into something that's able to scratch that burn and get
that bite right under my ribcage-- I consider driving back and getting into a barfight.
Seems like a broken beer bottle might be able to reach it, and I've always liked the color
green with red, but the car is far behind me now and I run into the woods on the side of the
street, trying to find all the loose branches I can. I want that whiplash, and I hope I can
find some place to fall. And there's a cliff, jagged rocks passively pointing up at me,
almost like arrows telling where to go.

The rocks are too small, too shallow, but maybe they can help.

My apologies for taking so long to get to this Perse!

So I read through this...and what's the title trying to do? That's a minor note, though it relates to my major concern here...what exactly are you trying to communicate? I have a hard time feeling a rhythm or flow, or exchange occurring. Rather, a mad dash of quick thoughts and then an end which is meant to be sudden, but seems like a torturous process to reach.

I put certain words in bold and italicized parts that I believe you need to look at, and see what they do the entire line and how it reads. Question marks appear where something is either too vague or makes little sense. In all, I think it should be obvious what I'm trying to say in each part. I didn't do this for the entire poem because I would litter it with comments.

This isn't meant to say it's a mess, but like I advised above, divide and dissect ideas individually. As is now, I see what you're presenting, but it's too chaotic. At the same time, it's really too much in the speaker's head. The internal is overriding the external to the point that I'm almost certain they're unreliable and don't really know what to make of the speaking voice.

Were I you, I'd take a step back and see what's written and see what exactly I did and why I did it. Determine your voice and the focus of your words. Stop relying "I am, I do, I (verb)" and find a new way to express this speaker's thought.

Feel free to message me about any of this.