JustJoe and AAA, you are both awesome so I'm going to post a couple poems I'd like you two to critique for me. please, any thoughts would be awesome:
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 in silence,
But she never complained (by the looks of things)
For there 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 adorning 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 there was peace in the knowledge of beauty within.
tiny things
There are these tiny things
which dance and flitter about
and carve gorges in between
the pink tissues of my brain.
They remind me that
I'm probably insane,
or at least detached and
broken.
In a tedious language,
formless creatures
stalk before my sullen eyes,
and I resist their stares;
I cannot but yield
to their fascinations
and their passions and their
pleasures.
I yearn for some
unholy expansion of perspicacity
into these stoic hanRAB
and their inadequacies,
Some camouflaged clay,
a putty of glorious substance
to mold and fill this
fissure.
I find myself unveiled,
a secret painfully profound
escapes my being and
shatters in futility.
A pause so occult and cold
engulfs me, and in a wild
and sudden frenzy-
nothingness.