we’re sappy and thick
like syrup dripping off your chin
dribbling against the plaid variances of your
favourite shirt,
and I would follow each strand, thumb across flesh
scooping then tasting, sickly sweet on my tongue
but oozing warmth through the pit
of my stomach.
we’re too alike, you and I
playing tic-tac-toe so we both could win
and the x’s and o’s would play on affections and
embraces yet to happen
solely reminiscing for those wishes spent on candles
or the 11:11’s you would stop and wait for
in a clichéd pause or intake of breath.
I could imagine your eyes fluttering open
wide and watery with a predetermined hope.
we’re banking on pretention,
plucking withered petals off a drooping haggard stem
or counting comets at they hit and burn
in orbit till they fall and crumble to dust for us
but we’re not pages torn from novels;
my armors rusted and your dress has moth holes.
we wont find happily relatable with ever after
and you’ll not pass through my every thought.
but when you do, I will mourn each second that you’re not
and treasure the ones you have been.
You've got flow. Sure there are some unnecessary bits, but its hard for me, personally, to peel back the essential from the nonessential, so that'll be up to you. I really liked it. it has a breathless, tumbling quality, that one gets from romance, eh? Still, it was a little too sweet and nostalgic despite how your poem seemed to want to rebel against it. The 11:11 wishes were good, but it wasn't a full bodied love. There's no darker tone.
Yatta!
Hi Dreamwalker!
This piece needs one or two edits. I've just typed out the corrections here.
my armour's rusted
we won't find happily relatable to ever after
Then there is this:
and you’ll not pass through my every thought.
but when you do, I will mourn each second that you’re not
and treasure the ones you have been.
Okay, I think this ought to be:
and you’ll not pass through my every thought.
but when you do, I will mourn each second that you don't
and treasure the ones you did.
Though the second one is more grammatically correct, I like the ending of the first one more. So use your own discretion here—perhaps you can make it "passing" and the last two lines would probably fit.
As for the flow—I like the way it moves. Your construction is very much like an expanded sonnet, and it works perfectly.
Your word choice also fits in very well—but listen to Karzkin, perhaps, when he says that you sound as if you're just showing how good a poet you actually are. Your word choice is impressive, though.
Overall, a very impressive piece of work. Keep it flowing!
Walker!
). The thing is, there are flashes of brilliance, then you flit to decidedly ho-hum stretches. For example;
First, the title. Have you tried mashing your palms against the keyboard? Apparently that's what Kamas does when she's stuck for a title.
Now, poem. It could improve (I mean, would I be here if it couldn't?
Lovely, couldn't ask for better. But then;
What? Why? It's clever that's for sure, but that's it. You're showing off your chops, and it's impressive, but it's just... wanky. You're proving you're good just because you can. It happens here:
and here:
These are all fantastic in and of themselves, but what do they add to the whole? To illustrate what I'm talking about, listen to this track starting at about 1:45, then [/url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GyjO33n9Mcc]this[/url] track starting at about 1:00. It's the same trumpeter, the first recording from is from 1945 and the second is from 1990. Notice how on the second recording Dizzy plays much, much less? You know what he said when someone asked him about it? He said "I've always been playing the right notes, but now I've learned how to leave out the ones I didn't need." Don't chop out just because you can. We know you're good, and you know you're good. No need to remind us at every opportunity
Finally, this:
This. Just... everything about this. Yes.
Yours, as always,
K.
Derp, screwing up the second link. Why no edit button?! Try here: this