Again, this is a little snapshot of some of the autobiographical stuff I'm working on. I know that by itself it doesn't have a whole lot of meaning, but I'm just trying to get this stuff out so I can start piecing it together.
Everything started to turn topsy turvy. Most of the time I floated around in a dizzy haze, and the disconnect between me and the world felt insurmountable. I was locked in to a glass cage, fogging up the walls with my own dirty air, sour and old. Noises sounded so distant, like I was wearing ear plugs, and I took no notice of them. I don’t mean this metaphorically, I was literally observing everything passively because none of it was happening to me, none of it made sense. I wasn’t even there, those things couldn’t touch me. Everything physical took on a strange surreal quality, like an image in a circus mirror. People’s faces weren’t communicative, they were just lumps of flesh like rubber, every face, every body looked like a corpse, dead flesh, lifeless. I didn’t know how to be a part of it all anymore. I had spent too much time in my glass cage, listening to the malicious whispers and watching the old black and white movie playing on repeat. My time spent in the practice room gave me peace, peace in the focus and distraction of my hard work. But even this catharsis happened in my glass box.
My visits to the psychologist shook my glass cage at its foundations. The constant pressures to step out, to see people, to connect with someone, all made me question whether I could get out, and sometimes it did seem possible. But in the end, all of the mess, all of the noise, and the pain, and the fear, couldn’t form words. I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry and shake and scream please, help me, I’m dying, I can’t do this, get me out of here, but I thought the words would just ricochet off the glass and disappear in to silence. I didn’t think anyone would care. My cage just got smaller and smaller.
To say that I was suffocating wouldn’t be right, because my own sour air was cycling through my lungs. I was decaying, I was eating myself alive, tearing the flesh from the bones with every hate-filled thought. My own brain was eating me alive, and no one could get in to stop it.
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I like this, very refective! You have some excellent vocabulary and some wonderful analogies/metaphors. (I especially love 'I was decaying, I was eating myself alive, tearing the flesh from the bones with every hate-filled thought').
Criticisms:
'the disconnect between me' -did you mean disconnection?
'tearing the flesh from the bones'- try 'tearing flesh from bone' or 'tearing my flesh from my bones'
Overall this was excellent, I really enjoyed it and I'll keep an eye out for more.
Thank you
Tearing flesh from bone flows so much better, thank you!
No problem, happy to help!
Your writing reminds me a lot of Edgar Allen Poe, especially in "The Masque of the Red Death." I loved how you didn't just WRITE how you were feeling, you SHOWED it through imagery, metaphors, similes, and symbolism. It starts off so beautifully, but then I think you lose some of it's elegance when you say:
"I don’t mean this metaphorically"
I think you lose the majority of the foundation of the poem by saying that. But still, it doesn't prove to be distracting when added; it doesn't serve as a distractor.
To critique it, I would say be cautious of mixed metaphors. I think the more metaphors used in any poem or prose, the better; however, if you begin to mix them together, they tend to get confusing.
My favorite part, by far, was your last verse:
"To say that I was suffocating wouldn’t be right, because my own sour air was cycling through my lungs. I was decaying, I was eating myself alive, tearing the flesh from the bones with every hate-filled thought. My own brain was eating me alive, and no one could get in to stop it."
To say that YOU were the cause of your suffocation/decaying made it so much more personal and relatable. I think that was a great way to end it!
I look forward to reading more!