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Predictable
Waking to the cold I’ve created
The cold that turns me to stone
Brittle and breaking
In motion I’m frozen
In a crowd I’m as good as alone.
This emptiness is so predictable
I always knew it would swallow me whole
In my darkness I wait
Reminded of days
When dreams were for keeping
Though I’ve really been sleeping
When all along I thought I was awake.
I used to dream among the flowers
Now I lay in fields of withered grass
For countless lonely hours
Reminiscent of the past.
Aspirations have turned to dust
Beneath the starless skies
This night of eternal dusk
Brings icy winds and convincing lies.
The thorns that pricked and poked me
Made sure my soul had died
My dreams fade into nightmares
The effects of which reflect in my clouded eyes.
High were my expectations
And long was the return to reality
The fall was the bitterest of all
But in the end it was the landing that killed me.
I like it overall... though I agree with Stephanie that it's a little morbid. I feel like there should be a part two, but that could just be me...
Anyway, good job!
I enjoyed this as well :).
"In motion I’m frozen
In a crowd I’m as good as alone."
I love these reverse analogies (I just made that term up, is there a literary term for them?)
Nice job, Tamerah! Keep writing. Though, your sister is right, it is a bit morbid.
~gNat~
I like it. :) It has a nice flow to it and it has punch. You sound like you're writing from the heart while still maintaining control.
Not really morbid, I'd say just more...um...well, OK. Dark, yes. I guess you really can't be dark without being morbid. I loved the poem, though, especially the part about dreaming fields of flowers and finding it's withered grass...strong points there. Sadly beautiful all at once.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God wove a loveliness
Of clouds and stars and birds
But made not anything at all
So beautiful as words
~Anna Hempstead Branch
I like this poem, Tamerah. The images were very real, and I like how it moves along. Well done.
I really like the line about laying in fields of withered grass.
Very nice. Though I hate it when people die in the end of poems.