weirdelf

Feb 23, 2012

no longer singing the blues

It slides in easily.

I slice my knife into your guts so so soft
you were the cause of it's blame
it was determined, you should know
my love is cause enough
So die, fuck,
you know why
you are a jazz musician
and took my girl.

About This Poem

Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back

Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft

About the Author

Region, Country: Sydney, Australia, AUS

Favorite Poets: The Romantics

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Comments

What r u trying to write "rap

What r u trying to write "rap" now. This sucks. The only good line :

"you were the cause of it's blame"

You are becoming repetitive. Need to tone down the violece. Smacks of melo-drama.

You can do better than this

J.G.

good response

I was trying to write with passion, you know my poetry is blocked by my bi-polar medication.

Clearly a dismal failure.

I will try again with the mechanics of poetry and a passionate content.

By the way, the story is true, but I didn't kill him, just wanted to.

Look, let your "condition"

Look, let your "condition" work for you-- there is a lot going on in the mind that makes good surreal poetry..
"Passion" comes in various forms. But you hhave not let go yet of y our inner self--that is where YOUR poeotry is. To forced passion loses truth. You need to become "vulnerable."

I came here after the

I came here after the following poem "When I killed you" and see what you meant y your remarks about it.
This one isn't a patch on the other.

Ann.

Dear Jess,

I think your words are atemplate for opening up and writing a poem. Like a list of points you want to make. I would love to see you extrapolate and expand this.

always, eddy (& cat)

I will

I am working hard at combining passion with mechanics.

If I may:

I love the makings (or markings?) of this poem. If I may:

It slides in so easily.
My knife
in your guts.
So so soft.
You were the cause, the curse and the blame,
I was determined and you should know
my love could have been enough.
So die, fuck(er).
Mr. Jazz Man,
you took my girl
and now you're dead
to me.

Call the poem: "no longer singing the blues".

Take what you will, if you will, kill the rest. ;-) ~Anna