Pottyprof's Thread

I do a lot of writing mainly due to pent up emotions and a lack of other intelligent ways to express them. Feel free to ignore me. ^_^
</br>--- merged: Apr 1, 2013 9:41 PM ---</br>
This is my most recent poem written on a particularly bad day (yay depression)

Spoiler: Killer

With eyes aflame and a heart of ice, she held that cold and thirsty knife,
Turned its handle on her palm, cruel grimace on a mask of calm.
A cold look hardened her stone face, long fingers moved with bitter grace.
Remorse flew free, as down she thrust, into the source of her disgust.

Blood trickled free and pooled below, and she admired her vicious blow.
The flesh was red with stolen life, mortal ichor on her ornate knife,
The wound a void, a hole of pain, oozing liquid screams and flames,
As out and down the blood did pour, a sea of crimson on the floor.

Her victim’s lips opened in pain, chin now dark with the dribbling stain,
Gasping breaths and coughs and yelps, their twisted body beyond all help.
Eyes pouring over the blood-soaked skin, life rushing out from deep within,
The killer sat smug and serene, as she watched the death of what had been.

She watched the end of her one threat, the terrible secret she had kept,
Watched the macabre scene unfold, watched with delight as the blood ran cold,
Her eyes glazed over in sheer delight, her goal was completed that morbid night.
Her mission was done; she sat in peace, as she waited for that sweet release.

With heart aflame and skin of ice, she dropped that quenched and blood-stained knife,
Felt no loss, no shame, nor grief, just sighed a breath of her relief.
Her heart fell still, she sighed no more, as she left this life through the next’s hidden door.
No one wept, and no one cried, for the girl who lived her dreams and died.

 

Yo. As someone who doesn't know anything about poetry and art, I think people assign value to work to whim, and the most meticulous and detailed painting can be trumped by 'post-modern art' of vague scribbles or some such. I think the same applies to poetry, really, and this is much more the former than the latter. Congrats.

Although, since I won't blindly say something is perfect, here:


Her victim’s lips opened in pain, chin now dark with the dribbling stain,
I think the 'the' can be removed, reads easier.

Felt no loss, no shame, nor grief, just sighed a breath of her relief.
Reminds me of Dr. Seuss.
"She sighed a breath of her relief; no loss, no shame, no grief."
This may imply more? That life involved loss, shame, and grief, and symbolized the relief from removing it.

No one wept, and no one cried, for the girl who lived her dreams and died.
"Lived her dreams"? I see her reaching her dream, and promptly realizing she has no more goals of life, no more reason. - But I don't think that's what the message of the story was intended to be. Nor that death was the dream she lived.
"girl who left her dreams and died".
Would this be a more poignant end? Was the message supposed to be about mortality in general, how we all accept, as a society, that everyone will die sooner or hopefully later? The ambiguity is a negative, I think.


Of course, there are limitless things one can nit-pick. For all I know you're a professional writer asking for the criticisms of amateurs for sheer laughs.

 

Thankyou for all your lovely comments, I will definitely consider the first two. The last one about the dreams and stuff is obviously a little confusing, I didn't even think about that perspective til I read your idea. It was intended as a nod to her motive, her dream, to kill herself, which she did achieve in the end. As for the "message", there honestly was none, it just reflected my feelings at the time of writing, since I use poetry as a way to vent and handle my emotions. Wow that sounds sappy, but the alternatives are not good. Thankyou again for your contributions, I shall update it now.

And no, I am definitely not a professional writer, only a guy with a craving for approval.
</br>--- merged: Apr 6, 2013 10:26 PM ---</br>
Yay a new rambling, completely different in style and as happy as ever. Also, it is untitled.

Spoiler: Untitled

A thirst like no other, cloying with melancholy and despair,
Unrequited longing, incurable, unending, thrilling.
It sits in the stomach, in the mind, whispering gently,
Curling fingers in agitation, concentration torn to ribbons,
The blade flickers, a comforting flame, a release.
Cold to the touch and draining of consciousness, it sings,
Sings lullabies and screams and cuts and lies,
The blood pours, the blade grins, the mind collapses,
Realisation floods through the eyes, a sudden gasp,
The storm of emotions resting under the loathsome blanket of shock.
Vows, prayers, sobs, silence. The blood clots and the cheeks dry.
The scar snarls, it beams its gnarled grin of malicious triumph,
Crooked teeth fall away to leave pallid gums and eternal regret.
Pervasive dread gleans the good and light and soils it,
Turns it grey and black and acidic, pumps it through you.
The sadness intensifies, tearing up the fragmented heart,
Casting aside happiness, leaving only the thirst,
That intent to ruin, destroy, to scar and defile,
And hope is lost.