Thanks,

(EOM) Harry

 

 

The tiresome lover

 

The breath of my love rests on my neck.

 I can remember the way it felt, to be ripped apart by a sentence or two

To have the soul, dismantled, dissected and displayed, like a necklace made of trinkets and copper.

 

The whimsical way you took my words and turned them

Into a rainbow of pain and suffering

Each colour of doubt you had in me

Has never been proven

But still rests on your lips

Ready to use

To manipulate

To kill

My unsuspecting dreams of a happy life

 

I realise now

I am wrong

We can never be,

When you are here,

     

 

 

 

Only as a procaution because TD said it was a good idea but

 

 

Consider making this part of your forum signature if you intend to post many of these.

 

(c) is recognized in the USA.  "All rights reserved by author." helps.  The absence of your legal name presents another problem, tho.

 

Frankly, from a legal perspective, this is a bad idea for this forum.  :(

 

I strongly advise that you consider requesting comments via mail only to avoid the publication issues.  But you should ALWAYS mark your original works with the copyright claims.  This is the first, easiest method for laying claim to your intellectual property.

 

EOM, I strongly recommend that you consult with an intellectual property attorney.  At a minimum, attend a writer's conference that offers a seminar on this topic.

 

Disclaimer: No attorney/client relationship has been established between myself and EOM.

 

On chat, EOM said he intended to publish his work.  I did not know he was a "just a kid" but that doesn't alter any legal claims he or others might claim.  But, hey, it's not my stuff so 'nuf said.  :)

 

My advice (not that I'm any sort of expert on poetry) is to always in poetry try to take the verbally straightest path to what you mean. And try to make the descriptions accurate to the point of raw. So if your lovers' words hurt, for example... how? like a case of pancreatitis, as if you lopped off the end of your finger, the way the pain felt when you had a root canal, cracking your forehead on the corner of a table?... I'm exaggerating, but seriously, use your real life experience as a barometer to create analogies that can give you clarity on what you are trying to express...  Odds are other people have had similar experiences and will relate to what you are writing... You don't have to say "your words made me feel like I was having an appendectomy"... (although that has a certain kitsch). But if the pain you felt is similar, then thinking about that relative experience while you choose your description may help you find a clarity that will convey to the reader...

 

Just my 2 cents...

 

K.

 

 

Comment reading descrtetion is advised :

 

heheh if his name was richard he could be dick bush.

Lovely poem though, you should keep it up, experiment with different styles etc, have some fun with it.

I agree with Strategos- keep it up and experiment with different styles- limericks, I don't know anything about poetry but oh well, etc.

Fires in the deep

There is a fire in the deep

Children scream and flee

Women stand and weep.

 

The fire rages strong

Hate stands around

Life is just wrong.

 

Where is Joy?

Hope is gone like a light

Thrown away like a toy.

 

The people are held with chains

Nothing can stop their pain

Despair reigns.

 

But the light still burns.

Nothing can stop humanity

That’s what I’ve learnt.

 

The spark of rebellion lights

Plans are made in the dark

We’ve won the will to fight

 

The people charge and rebel

The enemy are thrown down

And then gone, like a spell

 

 

So no matter what they say,

Let this be a lesson to you

The Brits are here to stay!

 

 

 

 

The Overbearing Darkness

      Sam walked through the rustic archway, Stepping softly as if to not wake a slumbering beast. His eyes moved sharply from the direction of the main doors to the side window at the end of the long driveway. Doors that were once used as gateways into another world of pristine and shinning décor, mixing with the allure of handsome young men with Omega watches and beautiful women draped over their arms. Only Sam was left in the splintered wooden doorframe now, the small window that Sam had considered against entering through barely held the remains of the once polished pane of glass with a splintered frame.

His ash black hair waved through the darkness as Sam picked up pace through the dilapidated grand hall, almost racing up the grand staircase, tripping on fallen roof tiles and large banister trimmings, yelping in pain as he clattered against the marble statue that loomed over the double staircase splitting the moonlight across the twin staircase, halving the nightlight and gloomy dark, straight down the double set of slightly curving staircase. Sprinting now, putting the searing pain in his left leg from smashing into the goliath looking man-statue on the landing out of his mind. Slowing in pace, the seventeen year old listened into the midnight sky, pressing his ear into the chill June breeze as if talking to a old loved one that was a little hard to understand. The sounds that bustled and squirmed around the tired and old Hengrove mansion, welcoming the darkness that was pushing through the cracks and creaks, slithering through old door frames and moss covered brickwork, all the sounds that should be in the house were there, all but the one sound he wanted to hear, although the darkness petrified him. The silence that stood around him, beat back his nerves and spurred him on, faster than he had ever ran. Running past the deathly picture of the mansions past owner, its eyes followed him down the long corridor as he passed two of the three locked closets and the main bathroom. Spinning on his heels, Sam approached the closed door to the final closet, this one was also locked but Sam had the key, pulling out his rusty set of master keys, Sam fondled the set with his sweaty fingers, searching for the right key, to end the living nightmare that was facing him just beyond this door.

“Please God Please” He shouted in a hoarse whisper, turning the lock, opening the door slowly wishing that there was in fact nothing in the closet but more empty bleak darkness.

But there wasn’t. She was there. In her dirty and deformed cot. Annabel led motionless  on top of  her sodden and wet bed. Quiet.

 

Sam stared at her dirty palms, tears streaking down his face, falling atop his collar and merging with the mud that laid across the rips in his shirt; he laid out his palm on top of hers. Having to grasp tightly in case his hand slipped from his daughters, as to stop the overbearing darkness taking away the last thing he held dear. Sam led beside the motionless baby and held her tight to his chest, still combing the short hair that had sprouted from her head not hours before. Sam went numb, stared at Annabel’s eyes, wishing, Hoping and Praying that Annabel would open her eyes.

 Annabel opened her eyes.

Sam snapped out of his cold trance and finally felt the warmth of his baby’s body, he had been so scared, so tired, so out of his depth;that he did not bother to look for signs of life, he immediately feared the worst but it wasn’t the worst, it was what he wished. Annabel was fine; they were cold, tired, hungry and without a home but Annabel was fine. Tomorrow Sam would find a job, give Annabel bought food and earn enough money to bring her out of the cold.

However until dawn broke through the splintered window, Sam would lie there with his child, because Annabel was all that he had left, but it was Annabel that he had ever needed.