Posted by Anna Laura on July 2, 2001, at 0:54:05
In reply to Depressing Poetry , posted by Mr. Scott on July 1, 2001, at 21:23:18
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> Most of my depressive poetry is about myself as I am deeply narcisistic.. This one however is not.. it's about a friend of mine who developed Bi-polar disorder several years ago. It's brutal, so don't read it if your not fully anesthetized on pills like I mostly am.
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> There aint a doctor in the city that can help this princey pretty.
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> His face abound with bloat, mind drowning in the moat.
> Hatred of the things we used to love, and lost in a sea of twisted shadowy facts, his protective barrier lost or cracked.
> He may one day ride that train, to a place that’s free of pain, at least in theory.
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> But on this grand summer day when the world cheered for hot dogs and plastic cups of beer he stayed within himself..Alone on a brown couch.
> Half dulled and partially awake with shards of a broken life strewn like leaves in fall around him as he sat, contemplating the same old things the same old way one more time.
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> Tense about those meaningless things, stuck in a place that hates…All alone.
> Unable to appreciate for any length of time a fine slated table or even a success.
> Only visions narrow and sorrowful where control is bought and sold like a commodity.
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> Couldn’t you see beneath his skin and the layers of water and fat? Didn’t you see who he wanted to be…if only.
> And of course there was the screaming and flailing of a small fury animal being slowly electrocuted in a bramble of hot wires. But nobody was there to hear it.
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> Scott
Unfortunately, i'm not so good at translating my poems in to english language (i'm afraid they would sound sort of funny).
That's why i decided to send this poem instead: it's from Dylan Thomas: it's called Twenty-four years and i think it fits perfectly my emotional state when i was 24.Twenty-four years
Twenty-four years remind me the tears of my eyes.
(bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.)
In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor
Sewing a shroud for a journey
By the light of the meat-eating sun.
Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun,
With my red veins full of money,
In the final direction of the elementary town
I advance for as long as forever is.Dylan Thomas
poster:Anna Laura
thread:6980
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/social/20010628/msgs/6984.html