This is so not me
*** Crossposted from My Wordpress***
To fail is futile, but not to attempt even once is worse. So here’s my first attempt at poetry since I entered college.
Hmm, this post will be continuously edited with the help of my CW friends. Here’s to hoping that I can finally have my own freeverse.
___
DRAFT 1: A Morning Greeting
To own what is seen is something
That brings back the red in the meat
Of passion. Just how lead injures a crust of paper
More than it engraves.
It’s nothing
But a mark.
Blocks rising from what was plain earth
Of unequal sizes; each site distorts a view of the sea,
the shadows of the past, the different layers of skin.
A slice of light conquers with the swift of pace
Even just a slit of how a window pane’s inclined
Despite the time, the place, and what’s concealed
In between is gone; nothing left to see
but a morning greeting.
_______
DRAFT 2: Thanks to April for helping me out with this poem.
To own what is seen is something
That brings back the red in the meat
Of passion. Just how lead injures a crust of paper
More than it engraves.
It’s nothing but a mark.
Blocks rising from what was plain earth
Of unequal sizes; each site distorts a view of the sea,
the shadows of the past, the different layers of skin.
A slice of light conquers a slit of a window pane’s inclined
Hairline crawling to a forceful touch
And just-dried eyes could only take as much.
Despite the time, the place, and what’s concealed
In between is gone, not even in the dark,
Not even in a final respite.
** Edit: Anyone who can help me, pretty please? I've never really loved poetry, so I really need help. :)
To fail is futile, but not to attempt even once is worse. So here’s my first attempt at poetry since I entered college.
Hmm, this post will be continuously edited with the help of my CW friends. Here’s to hoping that I can finally have my own freeverse.
___
DRAFT 1: A Morning Greeting
To own what is seen is something
That brings back the red in the meat
Of passion. Just how lead injures a crust of paper
More than it engraves.
It’s nothing
But a mark.
Blocks rising from what was plain earth
Of unequal sizes; each site distorts a view of the sea,
the shadows of the past, the different layers of skin.
A slice of light conquers with the swift of pace
Even just a slit of how a window pane’s inclined
Despite the time, the place, and what’s concealed
In between is gone; nothing left to see
but a morning greeting.
_______
DRAFT 2: Thanks to April for helping me out with this poem.
To own what is seen is something
That brings back the red in the meat
Of passion. Just how lead injures a crust of paper
More than it engraves.
It’s nothing but a mark.
Blocks rising from what was plain earth
Of unequal sizes; each site distorts a view of the sea,
the shadows of the past, the different layers of skin.
A slice of light conquers a slit of a window pane’s inclined
Hairline crawling to a forceful touch
And just-dried eyes could only take as much.
Despite the time, the place, and what’s concealed
In between is gone, not even in the dark,
Not even in a final respite.
** Edit: Anyone who can help me, pretty please? I've never really loved poetry, so I really need help. :)