The Write Frame - Poetry by Nab.
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SicTransitGloria Bleeding on the Floor Age: 32 Gender: Female Posts: 1150 | Wow, Nab. Sick is beautiful. Keep writing, I only come on this sote to see your poetry! xxx |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thankyouthankyouthankyou. (: For reading, for commenting, hell, even for clicking on my little link. : D I miss your own poetry by the way. |
kings of leon. Always Born a Crime Age: 32 Gender: Female Posts: 6213 | "Sick" was inspiring, really. Dark, and as eloquent as always Nab : ) x |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | I wrote most of this on the train on the way back from work and I honestly don't know how it sounds. Jack had the determination of a sleepy mule. There are more than few who would consider such gold-crusted static as a quirk frowned upon - like most quirks - it is, in all manners of speech, and expression, both silenced and bellowing, adamant and noxious. It grates on your thin films of nerve; as though spiced, as though raw and tender as it should be. It’s like paperweight for all the evidence you would rather want lost, not held still and stuck by the hefty weight of imagination and all difficult essences. Jack was that iron statue, and the veined, ageing rock on your desk. He kills submission, creates risk, and chivalry. He holds the minions of conformity hostage in the cellar upstate, across two roads and down another. He has them tied up, and their dire tedium has a knife to its neck. The air permeates of anticipation. Jack tells a parable about stoic firmness. He often says things like that. ‘Hang in there’ (when you’re holding by the fibers of non-existence). It would be far easier for much of the world to let go, carry on with the weight- lessness of falling, void of pressure, than killing your hands and knuckles and flesh, on a fragile grip that might kill. Jack would tell you all this on his own, and galvanize the situation with his reality. But this quirk, like most of them, should perhaps just stay quiet, heavy, old, and stubborn like the sleepy mule that Jack is. |
misa misa. Shotgun Sinner Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 8241 | hey I liked it. It seemed very contemporary and experimental, but i liked that lack of firm structure. You had some very nice descriptions. This was my favourite It grates on your thin films of nerve; as though spiced, as though raw and tender as it should be very nice. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thank you very much. (: <3 Yeah I tend to be a fan of contemporary poetry these days, but I haven't written much in a while so it's one of those ~things. Thanks for commenting. (: |
ros. Salute You in Your Grave Age: 36 Gender: - Posts: 2442 | I really like your most recent one. I think your style has changed quite a bit since the last time i was on here. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thanks so much Ros. (: The Virus. On the outside, we’re just throwing dices. It’s all silly, a gamble; there’s not even real money involved. I shoulder what you say is just a galvanizing feat bereft of tangible formation, or intelligence quota’d the universally accepted way. On the outside, this can be trashed and likened easily to luck, phases, something-or-the- other. “You can start to grow up.” The counter dime sizzles with your spitting acid. But, you see, I. ten years from now, the words will turn to maggots, bone-white, squirming and fleshy with the meat of notions I swallowed. Taken apart interiorly, perhaps, unbeknownst to those it (should) matter to, and easily uncommitted by my memory. Decomposition is a double-edged sword. “You wouldn’t want that, honey, would you?” Wheedle. Smile a little. I can easily change the world, I just need a little more time. At most, (I clear my throat), I am told it acts as a paradigm of verbal decay, and literature that rots and moulds and putrefies in your skull; I’ve been feeling the symptoms, see. It’s how I know. No, it should be nipped in the metaphorical bud, not until stage two begins. II. It starts off with the lightest, slightest hint of discomfort that festers over time, from – or so it feels as such – the vicinity of your ribcage (or gut, depending on starvation habits). It can rip at you, and puncture pinpricks the color of air, you wouldn’t even think that the tantalizing throbbing is something dying inside you, something else living and growing at parasitical speed. The dull thud-thud-thud just feels like deadened rhythm, lost words waiting to be found. I can stop this from happening. “You can stop living in your head. It’s safe out here. It is.” It’s not, though, I’ve tried – that’s the oldest trick in the book. Also, it is stage III. when the victim falls under the bubbling duvets, cinched to be a safety net, and asphyxiates. It isn’t pretty. The weight of the world is there, really, the whole universe. Everyone who fell off, let go, stopped thinking, stopped wanting, died not trying, forgot to believe, lives in reality, lives in fear of distance, the unknown, the known, everyone’s there. Everyone. They lie there under illusions that it is safe, and well, and neutral, but the web is spittle-like, fragile and it’s breaking (and has been for centuries, only Cummings, and Wilde, and Eliot, and good man Orwell, all the others: only they found out. So they kept on climbing and they didn’t fall, so, why should I?). You don’t want to be there, honey, trust me. It isn’t pretty. A sigh. “We built birdhouses together, backyard hammocks, a life in two years, hopes, dreams, and things, and your sodding pen, and your godforsaken notebook, are what you keep from it all. Irrational thoughts. Adults don’t do this.” But I’m still building. Mental worlds and muse and it isn’t luck or a phase, something-or-the-other, what it is, is exertion, though perhaps not under the conventional category, where it falls in your face, like sappy banter of which time doesn’t quite rid. And it’s fine if this is filed under Ridiculous Notions, but we’re not throwing dices. We extricate our- selves from the beatific deceptions; practicality is just a short-handed criminal, trying to find his other half. Though if the dices are polished, and the stones are carved, thrown and read, well, at least I’m trying to win, love. You just stopped trying completely. |
misa misa. Shotgun Sinner Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 8241 | wow i really liked this. It was very powerful, and such an interesting idea. You have such a distinctive style, and a wonderfully unique way of describing things. I really admire that. I can easily change the world, I just need a little more time. genius. I can't wait to see what you do next. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thanks so much Nadiya. (: Your comments mean a lot. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | I really hate trying to write these past 2 weeks because all I come up with is imo shit, so this was a half-hearted attempt. There was more in my head but it got stuck somewhere and I couldn't write it properly. xD Feedback's always appreciated. (: ----- Ten. The new year bellowed in moss-green for Antoinette, clocks and capers and provincial ruins on her feet. Her fist full of butterflies, staunch lines dig at her skin. She says, everything is a debacle in cold, thin bottles of liquid quests that we lug down in hopes of slaying our fears. So swing in the crevasse of tomorrow and yesterday, and do not fall on either. Let’s not believe in time until we see it for ourselves. This was her magnum opus, And it is yours, in many or so ways: the color of leaf, alive but shackled; single in its lonely passage from twig to twig to field. She picks up each shard and builds her kingdom. From twig, to twig, to field. |
misa misa. Shotgun Sinner Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 8241 | if this is what half-hearted attempts are for you, then i am truly jealous. i liked it. She says, everything is a debacle in cold, thin bottles of liquid quests that we lug down in hopes of slaying our fears. i loved these lines. Kinda fitting being New Year. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thanks so much. (: Your comments are always appreciated. ______________ A Woman and the Twenty-Sixth Army. INFANCY Six years ago, I crafted you by knocking my fingers, and stretching the tautness of fawn smiles. You were tall, and thin. Or, you were meek, and I could color your insides with molten gold and odd grammar. Sometimes you started as a number, and ended in ways that surprised me. Back then, it played out without effort. Coal black fishes were just coal black fishes, and the terrain of dreams that resulted burgeoned and died in my sleep, They never came back, and I never went searching. We both took little from the idea of scrutiny; having no tools to investigate failure, I stood with ignorance. VOLUMES We reached the labyrinth of both existences. I took the path often taken, knowing little of its inclinations and hooks. I acknowledge the beaten down grass blades, grown submissive, after generations of bad journals and dead ethics. I acknowledge the sickly mustard color of parched fields, bones both broken and whole, even the weeds that tickle the lines of my ankles. I acknowledge that more doesn’t always liken to a panacea, and less doesn’t always lack. But for a while, I plodded straight through while forgetting the soft paws of your ditty. And for a while, it was fine. There were blinding epiphanic bursts that halted the streams, and eroded some youth, but mostly, really, it was fine. CRYSTALLINE Six months ago, I looked back. Now, they talk about turning points, pivotal excuses to drop what we already started, and turn on our heels, into history, into transcending worlds, into the psychedelic abstract. I’ve grown wary of reason, logic, linear methods of thought; your bereavement only brought me to a guttered venture. I’ve tired myself with each hard fact, stoic and aching, less than a modicum of heroic style or undulation. So I craft you again, this time with willing fingers; this time with the knowledge that dexterity isn’t the best solution, and sense is hardly the road to take. (Tall, or thin, I take you apart, or stout while I color your insides.) |
misa misa. Shotgun Sinner Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 8241 | I always look forward to reading your work. You have such interesting concepts for poems and i really love the contemporary structure. well done again. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thanks very much! (: (: |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Eggs/Basket. My form of counselling is self- driven, and the state of the dashboard speaks for itself. Because articulation is not the strongest of virtues - when what is written dilutes in wood and ink - the sovereign has his throne cerebrally. We can, I suppose, talk. Consonants and vowels and vocal inter- jections slipping stupidly from our mouths; our secrets undermined by lack of vocabulary; our depressions in a pretence, modicum of carelessness. Sounding only as gargantuan as the most obscure synonym we know. We’re now ‘disconsolate, and tuckered out’. Victims of our own creativity. We try and end up like stories we’d want to read, but keep it small. Neat. Some things are ineffable and often, best left that way. |
MyChemicalBlack Salute You in Your Grave Age: - Gender: - Posts: 2351 | Victims of our own creativity. We try and end up like stories we’d want to read Unfortunately this is so very, very true. Loved this poem, it's relatable in a way. Awesome work on it. ^_^ |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thank you so much! (: |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Bottomless Bottles. Your chorus of flirts dictate my weekends, my quirks complement the Italian suit you’re in. Your rhymes have no reason, only redundancy, but I speak in tongues only you can decipher. You’ve sifted through bodies to find my fingers, I’m taking peeks of monochrome lives in what-if. What-if all trains arrived at impeccable timing, or the night gone by too fast, or mistakes had been eradicated. You would be flirting with marriage to the heavy-hearted; I would learn to live with (only) myself, and we’d both still be dreaming. ___________ Unrequited. He’s not a friend, he’s not a lover, only marshalling for an army of nostalgia in the nutshell of three years. ____________ Kill The Mazes. I’m not where we lead to, The road forks and twines in visions blurred where timing has everything to do with fate, but nothing to do with love. I’m where the stasis meets the flurry, caught in a relentless percussion of rivalry. I polish every ragged emotion whenever given the chance, every rusty tin-shade, the broken arrowheads in blackened algae that have burrowed and established a nest internally. Picking a bone with the ones in charge is no longer an option. I’m told answers aren’t given, only teased with. Even the answers themselves aren’t quite sure of their initial state of matter. Why wait, we ask. Why bother. I’ve long given into the valid notion of using legs to guide me forth, rather than the muscular fist in chests far too tangled with sentiment. Why wait, I ask. Why bother. |
kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 34 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Canisters. Keep the pills, they're ordered to slice off the portentous errors. You swallow them, you let them lick at your flaws, tongues silk-like, all pink flesh and acid spittle, woven romance and chemistry to dissolve your system’s mistakes into slivers and ribbons. You make-believe disintegration. Neophyte fingers bind around yellow canisters, sliding down innards that only pretend to fill, but functions with little disparity from the questions we throw out at sea: Dear cosmic void, would thoughts taper with digits piling on these years? The answers don’t boomerang. They aren’t illustrated, just yet. So you write your own ending - a clean demise, the one you have exercised foresight upon, holding true to modern legends – by accident, in the hands of another; in the hands of your own. Mother earth plays only a supporting role, and it cloys you. It goes well with a platter of smiles. And then you’re safe in the rut of seduction of your own imagination, an avid quasi-reality that you set out to densify. The next capsule would seal the deal, a clockwork of death in the catapulting emergency of extending life. |
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