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An Old Poem
pen and paper wilt on the table
beside starving dreams and i,
i am the last chance - the last breath
the last drop of creativity, the last
of imaginations standing on
nothing looking for something
different
my rolling eyes are poems
and i dream a novel;
i am the father of illegitimate children
that lead imagined lives,
my stubborness a subtle fuck you
to growing old and giving up,
my desperate hope
pathetic and different and lonely
like everyone i meet
and so i'm packing pieces of me
and when I've finished
I'll send them off
UPS ground
in a little brown box
five to ten business days
postmarked somewhere new
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I love it...
"i am the father of illegitimate children
that lead imagined lives,
my stubborness a subtle fuck you
to growing old and giving up,..."
Reminds me of myself! |
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These parts stood out to me, I can really connect with them
"my rolling eyes are poems
and i dream a novel"
&
"my stubborness a subtle fuck you
to growing old and giving up"
great work, can't wait to read that novel |
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| great poem. thought and insight. lovely use of language and imagery 'packing pieces of me in a little brown box' i think the first stanza was the strongest. i dont think the last two lines of stanza 2 fitted in with the tone of the poem or the delicacy shown in stanza 1.nice ending. |
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Comment by: Valerie - 2006-05-24 19:28
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Beautifully crafted. I don't agree with the negative comments. This
is truely creative writing. There is so very much that I like about this poem, and so many wonderful lines. If I were to choose one line
out of the many that was particularly meaningful for me, it would be,
"I am the last chance-the last breath,the last drop of creativity,the last of imaginations standing on nothing, looking for something different." Bravo! |
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I found myself drawn into this piece because in your attempt to create something out of the despairing nothingness that is the abscence of the muse you reminded me of a similar excercise (one of my first posts on SI). You took a different approach to it which of course is one of the beauties of crossing the path of other people struggling to express similar feelings.
I like the image of dreams starving while at the table. Placed where they should be fed, but lacking nourishment. |
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