inspiration at last
i have at last found some inspiration. i have found it in several forms which i will now list: Anne Frank (her astounding diary); Sylvia Plath (her beautiful poems and remarkable books); Mark Ryden (his disturbingly beautiful artwork); and finally, Anberlin (Their sensational new album). After all this, here is the first thing i've written in, well, months i suppose, but who's counting. hope you enjoy (i literally just finished writing, so it may not be fully complete, but don't let that take away from the fact that i've made sure every single word, including seemingly minute words such as "the" or "as", is exactly where and what i want for now)
The Carpenter's Daughter (Ischial Tuberosity)
She sat in a broken, red chair
(She thought her much too short for comfort.)
Her tattered little legs, worn and abused,
Like a thousand years' ruled over their use.
No thought for notice;
A life's worth of stories ingrained to silence,
But she never complained (by the looks of things)
For their was solace in the sound of nothing at all.
A hundred passers-by must've muttered reproach,
(They thought her much too sad for sitting.)
Her red dress donning her miserable appearance,
Like a smile to suppress her weakness.
No beauty to speak of;
Her surface cracked and faded in patches,
But she never complained (by the looks of things)
For their was peace in the knowledge of beauty within.
The Carpenter's Daughter (Ischial Tuberosity)
She sat in a broken, red chair
(She thought her much too short for comfort.)
Her tattered little legs, worn and abused,
Like a thousand years' ruled over their use.
No thought for notice;
A life's worth of stories ingrained to silence,
But she never complained (by the looks of things)
For their was solace in the sound of nothing at all.
A hundred passers-by must've muttered reproach,
(They thought her much too sad for sitting.)
Her red dress donning her miserable appearance,
Like a smile to suppress her weakness.
No beauty to speak of;
Her surface cracked and faded in patches,
But she never complained (by the looks of things)
For their was peace in the knowledge of beauty within.