literature

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Deviation Actions

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Literature Text

Loneliness carves knives from my rib cage,
poking rhythmically at the beating chambers encased;
bleeding, I imagine
a waterfall of technicolor -
I poke my finger,
use it as ink.

My mother tells me I try too hard -
earning second, third, fourth place on a shelf
because people know I'll welcome them back in first,
that I would drill holes in my wrist,
extract my veins,
should they want to jump rope with them.

I can name one person who proves consistent,
understands,
also has to remember
to sand down a sharp rib cage.

I use my bone dust to make wishes,
blowing it out of my palm
like one would a dandelion,
hope to lose my anxieties
before I run out of rib cage
and my vitals fall out.

In vain I stitch
with locks of my hair
where I notice incisions -
perhaps from my nails
where I may have had control,
perhaps from the curved machetes that
curl around my organs
which sharpen on their own.

I find myself in the social worker's office
more often than I'll admit to;
my tongue is loose -
I'll stitch it later -
but I speak freely,
let go of my decaying masquerade.
The woman tries to teach me
how to fix myself without temporary stitches.
She validates my emotional standpoint
promises my fears of abandonment are understandable -
reminds me often to remember to breathe.

Deep intake,
a soft chill,
sigh, warmth from ashes -
I wonder if we all breathe the same,
tasting the cold in the world
attacking our throats,
marching way to our lungs,
if what we let out in exchange
are all fires just the same.

Sometimes I shoot sparks when I speak,
when inner blades poke too deep,
when I can't locate sandpaper.
If I were to indulge you with my fears,
to admit how much I need you,
your importance,
in the same breath
I would apologize for being a pest.
When we don't speak,
I'm afraid it's because of me;
logic tries to collide with anxiety -
insists you're just busy -
my rib cage stabs and drains
the cartilage in my spine -
I try to stop worrying
but I have no backbone.

I step around skeletons in my closet,
often tripping over them
on my way to dig their graves.
I never seem able to dig deep enough,
they gnaw their way back to the surface -
I focus instead
on trying to lay to rest
my fear of you joining them.
If someone could possibly give me a couple of pointers, I'm not sure if the sequence of the stanzas flow well enough; not sure if I should remove some parts.
© 2015 - 2024 Wikita
Comments22
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Nerohal's avatar
:star::star::star::star: Overall
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Vision
:star::star::star::star-empty::star-empty: Originality
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Impact

It's a rather generic topic, but one that I think most poets are guilty of at least at one point in their life - I'm not different. Therefore, I'm going to assess the merits of the piece and not the concept. First things first, you have a clear grasp - talent - for freestyle. It flows eloquently and without throwing in tongue-twisting turns of phrase that might cause an orator to slip up or the reader to lose control of the reception. I cannot fault you on technique in this regard.

You also throw in some rather elaborate and sharp imagery, my personal highlight being:
"I would drill holes in my wrist
extract my veins
should they want to jump rope with them."
I personally love ameliorated gore, and your mixture of childlike imagery and amateur self-inflicted surgery fits this criteria perfectly for me.

The only mild gripes I have is your repetition of certain words or phrases, such as "rib cage" and "stitch". I appreciate that this was probably intended for effect, albeit I personally find it spoils the immersion and comes across as slightly clumsy - no offence intended, of course!

Please do submit some more, I'd love to witness some more of your writing. <img src="e.deviantart.net/emoticons/s/s…" width="15" height="15" alt=":)" data-embed-type="emoticon" data-embed-id="391" title=":) (Smile)"/>