Poems...come share your work.

Kast · 09-12-2012, 05:22 AM

Wow, Mac! wow, wow... Don't get me started on this topic... that's about the time I left America. But, when you're far away for a long period of time - you'll miss her right down to the center of your soul like no other lover, boogers and all. She is messed up not like her old self, but I love her unconditionally like a mother loves her child because I know she holds hope and promise... and so much more.

Just out of curosity, I plugged your poem into the analyzer, it says you write like Margaret Atwood. America could be a euphemism for her "A Sad Child":

"A Sad Child
by Margaret Atwood

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are."

09-12-2012, 05:22 AM	#12
Kast Member How Do You Identify?: butch Preferred Pronoun?: hye Relationship Status: in love with her Join Date: Nov 2009 Location: europe Posts: 185 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 391 Thanked 511 Times in 125 Posts Rep Power: 2413940	Wow, Mac! wow, wow... Don't get me started on this topic... that's about the time I left America. But, when you're far away for a long period of time - you'll miss her right down to the center of your soul like no other lover, boogers and all. She is messed up not like her old self, but I love her unconditionally like a mother loves her child because I know she holds hope and promise... and so much more. Just out of curosity, I plugged your poem into the analyzer, it says you write like Margaret Atwood. America could be a euphemism for her "A Sad Child": "A Sad Child by Margaret Atwood You're sad because you're sad. It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep. Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget. Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child. My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you're trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car, and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside you head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are."