no wonder this was published. good god woman.
z
Because of Lumi, I did a thing.
She Never Drank Tea
She was always fascinated by flowers after the rain.
She said they looked like freshly-painted walls in an infant's room.
They're clean, she thinks, and whole; not dying yet.
And though she knows if she picks them, they'll wither from her cold breath,
she knows she must because there's a sadness
that creeps in if you leave the leaves alone
and walk away without taking them to hold.
Petals don't taste when they fall into cold cups of coffee,
but neither does blood that seeps from under her nails.
If she white knuckles the handle hard enough, her skin molds to the ceramic.
The heat recedes though, and leaves her to once again feel the cold
of summer nights against her thighs.
The bruises that flower across her skin,
they are angry burns that fade all too quickly,
and then she replaces them.
When she blows hard enough,
tears roll off her face like seeds of dandelions
blown into the wind.
And she fantasizes
that they become the stars she watches
when she can't sleep at night.
She never said why her favorite flower was a dandelion.
Cups are dirty after they're used, but she hates to wash them
because the stain of coffee reminds her that she made it through another day.
She cannot hold still anymore; she paces the bathroom floor,
resisting the urge to cough up her secrets so she doesn't have to hold them anymore.
She's finds it harder to look out the window now, to see the cars flash past.
No one ever sees the beauty of the morning anymore.
The flowers she's picked have wilted their slow way to death.
And her skin falls off in flakes and becomes the petals for new flowers.
Hi Tiny here!
Okay I absolutely love this poem. The entire way through I had a mental image of the scene, and that my friend, is a hard thing to do the entire way through a poem this length. The person before me pointed out the mistakes so I'm just going to point out the positives. You know how to leave a reader thinking and you use descriptive words leaving a very intense image. That you for this great poem!
Keep writing
Aw, Sparkie,
I love this poem. Insane.
So, here's what to love:
FORM!<3
The juxtaposition of this delineated form and the consistency of your images. So every stanza sort of jumps around to a new scene, a new idea, an emotion and yet, the jumping around works, because we are being anchored/rooted to this image of a flowers, and to the voice of your speaker. It brings each scene a familiarity and yet a new perspective. It keeps ideas fresh and interesting, while still making sense and bringing us back to the main idea. Btw -- your speaker here becomes a character. An interesting one -- I am left wanting to connect/know about her.
The bruises that flower across her skin,
She was always fascinated by flowers after the rain.
She never said why her favorite flower was a dandelion.
The flowers she's picked have wilted their slow way to death.
And her skin falls off in flakes and becomes the petals for new flowers.
and walk awaywithout taking them to hold.
They're clean, she thinks, and whole;not dying yet.
And though she knows if she picks them, they'll wither from her cold breath,
I'm not sure how I feel about this.
I both really like it and don't like it at the same time and I can't put my finger on what I don't like. It's weird. Maybe because of the way it's written, like the formatting of it. It just seems strange... I guess?? Oh well, you didn't write this to please me, and clearly a lot of other people find it more than suitable.
Your word choice is good. I didn't spot any technical errors. There was random rhyming at the end. I'm not sure if that was on purpose or not. I don't like how you used "anymore" twice in one stanza. But that's just an opinion, it works fine. I don't understand what the title has to do with the poem.
My favorite thing about the poem (and this is why I really, really like this poem): You used the dandelion for the flowers. Dandelions are typically seen as useless weeds that we have to deal with, but she sees the beauty in them. Is this woman considered a weed to the people around her? Is that what makes up her perpetual sadness? Does she find comfort in this flower, because she clearly sees herself in it? That's what makes this poem so good.
Wow. This is a stunning piece. I've read many works about depression, but nothing as moving as this.
So, you seem to prefer vague and lyrical style in your poetry as opposed to any form of overtness. That's good, that's fine. It gives this a surreal, beautifully disconnected feel to it.
However, it might be a bit too disconnected.
This here:
The bruises that flower across her skin,
they are angry burns that fade all too quickly,
and then she replaces them.
She cannot hold still anymore; she paces the bathroom floor,
resisting the urge to cough up her secrets so she doesn't have to hold them anymore.
Points: 1626
Reviews: 745
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