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Frigid

by Cspr


Seeing the world through different
lenses
is a conundrum.
Left eye pink,
right eye blue—
neither rose-tinted
All is somehow stainless steel,
boring and rather bland,
when it comes to romance.
You’ll stick around for food,
or a roof,
or a bed,
but flowers can’t make you love or want or need.
 
Flowers can’t make you love,
but this isn’t a surprise.
Shouldn’t be a surprise.
Bicycles,
balloons,
vases with sticks,
vanilla candles—
they don’t make you love.
Memories can make you love,
but they can make you indifferent,
hate.
Memories are velvet and sharpened knives
and will never be anything else.
The memory of hot chili eating off your back,
water dripping to the floor from the ceiling,
the blood on the bed,
what would they do but drive away?
 
Touch won’t make you love.
Hugs complimented by slaps,
sleeping-by complimented by sharp tongues,
they do nothing except trick.
But the warmth of stew,
the draftiness of an old house,
the harshness of a futon bed,
will keep you around.
You don’t know why.
The cold wash of the poison inside your body will
make you stay.
 
As insult to injury,
sight and scent and sound can hardly make you love.
The sight of someone leaving with another,
the sour smell of the unwashed,
the rattle of gossip.
 
No flower can make you love.
It is not your nature.
It will not ever be quite your nature.
You try.
It is never enough.
No matter violet, daisy, rose, or azalea—
no flower is worthy,
and the thankless lily you might have offered has withered
from lack of care
because nothing survives hardship forever.
And no one wanted a flower from you,
they just wanted you to take one and be silent,
silent as a flower.
 
It is an ugly flower now,
that lily you might’ve offered.
They tell you it’s okay,
toss it aside and take a flower,
any flower.
Tolerate it.
Pretend you’re glad for it.
We’ll welcome you.
Just lie.
We told you lies,
the biggest lie of all that lying is something we consider morally wrong,
so lie.
Just once.
Don’t be selfish.
Take the dying sunflower, pretend the red of anger and the white of numbness make rose, and plant a garden.


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98 Reviews


Points: 273
Reviews: 98

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Thu Jun 28, 2012 3:41 pm
Rainn wrote a review...



All of my edits are in parentheses(). It's just what I think, you don't have to change it if you like the way it is.

Seeing the world through different
lenses is a conundrum.
Left eye pink,
right eye blue—
neither rose-tinted
All is somehow stainless steel,
boring and rather bland,
when it comes to romance.
You’ll stick around for food,
or a roof,
or a bed,
but flowers can’t make you love or want or need.
(this who section doesn't rhyme very well)

Flowers can’t make you love,
but this isn’t a surprise.
Shouldn’t be a surprise.
Bicycles,
balloons,
vases with sticks,
vanilla candles—
they don’t make you love.
Memories can make you love,
but they can make you indifferent,
hate.
Memories are velvet and sharpened knives
and will never be anything else.
The memory of hot chili eating off your back,
water dripping to the floor from the ceiling,
the blood on the bed,
what would they do but drive away?
(The beginning part of this section rhymes better than the last part, but I still think you should concentrate on some rhyming practice.)

Touch won’t make you love.
Hugs complimented by slaps,
sleeping-by complimented by sharp tongues,
they do nothing except trick.
But the warmth of stew,
the draftiness of an old house,
the harshness of a futon bed,
will keep you around.
You don’t know why.
The cold wash of the poison inside your body will
make you stay.
(This one defiantly has more flow to it, but like I said before. Also, the "sleeping-by complimented by sharp tongues." Makes little sense. You should try something more like "Sleeping is complimented by sharpness of tongue." or something like that.)

As insult to injury,
sight and scent and sound can hardly make you love.
The sight of someone leaving with another,
the sour smell of the unwashed,
the rattle of gossip.
(no comments here)

No flower can make you love.
It is not your nature.
It will not ever be quite your nature.
You try.
It is never enough.
No matter violet, daisy, rose, or azalea—
no flower is worthy,
and the thankless lily you might have offered has withered
from lack of care
because nothing survives hardship forever.
And no one wanted a flower from you,
they just wanted you to take one and be silent,
silent as a flower.
(It is a pretty good verse, nothing much to say but It is not the easiest to read.)

It is an ugly flower now,
that lily you might’ve offered.
They tell you it’s okay,
toss it aside and take a flower,
any flower.
Tolerate it.
Pretend you’re glad for it.
We’ll welcome you.
Just lie.
We told you lies,
the biggest lie of all that lying is something we consider morally wrong,
so lie.
Just once.
Don’t be selfish.
Take the dying sunflower, pretend the red of anger and the white of numbness make rose, and plant a garden.
_______________________-
I like the story in this poem, but your rhyming needs some work. It the easiest poem to read, like I said above.
Keep it up!
Rainn




Rainn says...


*isn't*




To have more, you have to become more. Don't wish it was easier - wish you were better. For things to change, you have to change, and for things to get better, you have to get better.
— Jim Rohn