Published April 15, 2007
The sweat upon my skin crusts like blood tonight,
as your guitar picks itself within the ribs of my head.
Love, they may taunt me,
but it is less than your tiptoe of snow.
This sweat is my own concoction,
dirty and trickling like dead leaves.
Oh, I wish you had set it there,
timed it like an ugly grandfather clock.
I will never understand you,
how you will not thaw beneath my gaze.
You wither away in that ill-fitted suit,
until I sponge my skin alone.
written: Tuesday 12th December 2006.
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141,261 Literary Works • 674,331 Reviews
I like your unconventional imagery a lot! It's very simple yet descriptive. Especially this one:
I agree that the last stanza could use some looking into though.I do have to agree with Mad. You do have some really spectacular imagery going on, but it's very scattered. But the main thing I a problem with is that your ending stanza...
...doesn't really define anything. I mean, the conclusion is not really anything major or self-defining or lesson-learning or anything like that...so the meaning of the poem is lost.
Happy Editing,
WM
I like the imagery, it's very powerful. The "guitar picks itself" was a very good choice of words.
I really like the word "concotion".
Another nice piece of imagery.
The word choice is really good, again, very interesting and descriptive.
I'm a bit lost as to the meaning of the poem - I'm sure that if I look at it long enough I'll get it but I'm struggling a bit at the moment. A very good piece of poetry.