Young Writers Society

this is a poem I attempted to write, anyway. there is a message I want to get across but I just don't know how to do it.

This burning sensation
twists inside my stomach
it clamps onto my heart and
seeps through my skin into
my aura. Sweet fuses singe
my soul like messy fingerprints
in a gaping, open wound



my blood on your fingertips

And you cut me with your words
and infect the wound.
You take my intent and hold it hostage,
replacing it with yours.
Your version of me. And I
don't like her

she is little more than a cellaphane
face with a plastered on smile.

feigned ecstacy drips through my pores
you're stolen me, strangled my inspiration
left my spirit in the darkness chained to the
wall of hopelessness

and my blood is still warm on your fingertips


* I really wish I could get the point of this across better than I do. But anyway, suggestions are welcome. I would love to be able to make this less cliche.*

I like it, it was very grousome, but it didn't take anything away from the poem.
But, I think I know what you were talking about, it seems like a woman is jelous of someone? I don't know that might sound stupid but thats what I got. I'll try reading it again and mabye i'll pick up more. But this is a good poem, I like it.

Because this is one of those poems that is best left unscathed and unrevised (minus the grammatical errors) unless you want to stipulate changing the whole poem, I am going to post the poem I would have written.

*

My poem:

Twisting and slashing
through gluttonous innards
clamping and writhing
round a tender heart,
my tender heart, and
slithering through my veins
and out my skin into my
aura. sweet fuses singe me
like clumsy fingers in
an open wound.

my blood
on your sticky hands

Your words sting
and bruise me up
and down my body
molding my skin and my bones
to the image
you want to see

a small doll in your hands
you manipulate her strings
make her smile and perform tricks
she is nothing more than your marionette

yeah i have felt the burn
and i have been through the grind
long enough to know
that nobody cares
that nobody cares
that nobody cares
anymore

in the morning when i wake up
i will see the cuts and scars on my
hands and my face and
remember that you gave them to me.

***

I enjoyed this poem, but I think you could still tweak it a little, retain its meaning, and have a very good piece.

Yes, I have to agree with Incandescence- and you, lol. It seemed like you knew where you wanted to go you just didn't know how to say it...

Later, I'll probably go through it again and find the weak spots. But for now...gosh, I'm tired...lol

I'm not in a fantastically critiquing mood, so I'll leave it at this - it was good, but the random italic in the middile was silly, and I don't like the way the flow changes during the poem.

wow brad.

that's sort of how I wanted it, you're right...
I wish I had written that poem!
geez....

thanks for the crit you guys.