You Don’t Give Me Comments.
I stuck it out when I bled for all the pieces of me
That I gave away.
I thought that I was wrong and there was no place
In your repartee.
You don’t give me comments, you hardly speak
To me at all.
At the end of the day I wonder whether I am
Here at all.
I won’t sing you love songs, nor beg for a place
In the exalted halls,
Of those that somehow meet the criteria, the damn
Blasted slices.
The churned-up dreams that you cast aside for all
The wrong reasons.
Who are you to say – this is right –you must only
Write this way.
Or feel and express the bloodied water of tears taken
From chopped nipples?
Milk me then for every word I write and pray that
I don’t make it some day.
I will scream each word out loud and I will say
I found my feet
Not from anyone that ever encouraged me, rather that
I made it despite
Each wound that cut me to the bone and made me
Stronger, harder.
You don’t give me comments, though I played the game
Now turn out
The lights and tell yourself it doesn’t matter, just one pathetic
Person, lost to you.
Comments
Dendrite | February 28, 2008 - 23:49
Nice, thank the lady for this one. You see this feeling in poetry often:
Each wound that cut me to the bone and made me
but rarely this...
Stronger, harder.
it's pissed, then the last line yanks you back. I enjoy reading that tosses me around. Also contains that defeated conclusion... expect no encouragement... ring a bell?
Ewan | February 29, 2008 - 08:42
Swan song? I hope not! I guess we all have felt like this at some time. I found this a disturbing and powerful poem, especially this:
'Who are you to say – this is right –you must only
Write this way.
Or feel and express the bloodied water of tears taken
From chopped nipples?'
I am often reluctant to comment as, from time to time, I am unable to be particularly objective and can allow an emotional reaction to content to detract from my appreciation of style and technique. There are one or two writers I try not to comment on for this reason. This fault lies firmly at my door not the other writers'.
Nil desperandum.
QueenElf | March 4, 2008 - 15:09
The really annoying thing is that I don't even value my cherry-picked stories anymore...not without a comment. They must be chosen for some worth, but WHY!!!!! I can't even write any more.
tamara (not verified) | January 25, 2009 - 15:30
QueenElf,I relate very strongly to what you are saying here-this piece speaks to me but about the own occurences in my life-That is surely an art isn't it,when you can identify so strongly to a poem?
I think this is in a unique class of it's own!
Lynne.x