Young Writers Society

I had no idea where to put this, so if this place seems wrong let me know. I'm hoping to get some decent feedback on this. I wrote this in April. Enjoy.



Four squared and below, born in a leap year
Surrounded by goldenrod and stringed shadows
That pluck away silently in the night
And etch away their surroundings piece by piece
Until all that's left is his broken romance
And a lie upon his cheek.

Elly, darling,
Where is your worldress?
Tell me, darling,
Where is my infared, where is my soldier,
Where is my monster, where is my truth?
Where are flashing white pieces of me
Gathered in elegant, dark places
And satiny shadows of yesterdays spent gathered
Inside myself, inside my last piece of this,
My music and life,
Where is my life inside the infared, beyond their radar,
Tucked inside the pearly pockets of boys with
Guitar picks smacked with tiny pit-pats between their lips
Strumming out the words of delusion I gather
Inside myself for the time being.

He is my last, my one out of four, my guilty pleasure,
My not-quite sorrow, my mystery novel, and everything else.

The blue interior of the things I wish for on red stars over swingsets,
And the exterior of all my faults.

You, my sensation,
My very first sentimental longing outside the eye,
I am your worldress, your lipstick, your chalice of crystalized symphonies,
Your kamikaze, and your alternate ending
With a breath against your mouth as I inhale
The songs and stories inside you
As guitars play themselves with such abandon
While musicians make love against your reflection in the sky
That are too cold for themselves
With girls who are not my opposite but myself
Another sameness, another piece of me tucked away
Inside of you, us...

Inside our spiral shell inside of the mind of something
More powerful than dreams of androgynous figures
Leaning against telephone polls, underneath hanging black wires
That race to the sky
A look on their mouths,
And fourteen away from the last spoken word
And the disconnection of the fingertips
And cells.

(We are all disconnected.)

Wow. That's really cool. I love the way you use the words, but I don't think I quite get it. What does it mean?

Well, it's a little complicated, as this is a very personal piece, and I also hate explaining poems... I believe that poetry is meant to be understood, not explained. But yeah. I'll try and elaborate on this a little bit, as much as I fail at that, haha.

The main thing, I guess, is this is about two boys. One of them is real, one of them is not. The entire idea of the poem is giving up on something you want more than anything, for something that will turn out more painful in the end, but you have more control over... thus, the one that is not real. All the ideas of music that are thrown in are based on my idea that music is the most common tongue in the world. You can get through to anyone. The night I wrote this I was amazingly stoned at a friend's house, and we'd just had a huge party where a bunch of our friends played in a band. It was sensational, and there was this guy there that I completely adore, and the whole time he was singing he was staring at the microphone like it was a woman and he was trying to seduce her. I felt entranced. Then I started writing this is my head.

A lot of the dark images are centered around childhood fears, of the dark and monsters and shadows and whatnot.

So that's it, I guess. Two boys. Music. Dark images. And the rest, in a way, is abstract memory. Like I said, this is an extremely personal piece, and only a few of my close friends have actually gotten a lot of the images in this. I like writing stuff like this, anyways... it gives the reader a chance to see inside you, what's going on up there, how you see things. This is me, I guess.

Thanks muchly for commenting : )

A vague sense of understanding is emerging in my mind, I think. I couldnt tell you what it was about exactly but I love the pictures you create and I'm in awe of your power over words. My favourite lines; He is my last, my one out of four, my guilty pleasure/ My not-quite sorrow, my mystery novel, and everything else. I cant think of anything more to say about this poem. I love it.

Aw, thank you so much : )

here's my present to you, for sharing such a cool poem. hope its legible enough for you to understand.





CL

Awww, that's the coolest critique I've ever gotten! Thanks so much; I'm really glad you liked it.