Brutal.
To steal my dreams
The curve of a blade
Slashing through lines
Making mockery of feelings
That are/once were
Real.
Pencil scores on paper
Thick black lines
Like the trail of slugs
Or black fly.
Dead.
Scores of red rivulets
On bare arms running
Chasing something
That could have
Been.
Ain’t Sunday afternoons
Hell.
Comments
Ewan | July 14, 2008 - 08:13
The first stanza for me conjures up an idea of criticism wounding a writer. The second, a writer's new look at their own work after some criticism. I liked the idea of the blood (?) 'chasing something that could have been' in the last stanza, it suggests self-harming or perhaps the self criticism that writers indulge in, often to excess.
For myself, I would avoid the overt statement of the last two lines. I wouldn't know what to suggest, but do believe that this is only prevented from being an excellent poem by this bold/bald statement.
Even so it is very good indeed.
regards
Ewan
QueenElf | July 16, 2008 - 17:34
Thanks Ewan. You got it right. I was working on something that kept eluding me. Feeling the frustration that comes from old feelings. Haven't self-harmed for years. Yes, you are right about the last two lines...trying to shrug it off/doesn't work.