Burning Beneath the Surface.
The chipped red molecules
Upon my finger tips.
My cuticles bleed from all of the biting.
They sting from all the free running tears.
It burns.
I take the polis,
& Stroke.
The fumes waft through the room.
Through my head.
Unsteadily.
Drifting.
- Shanana
The Punisher said,
October 30, 2005 @ 11:07 pm
alright poetry nice details
Administrator said,
November 13, 2005 @ 4:30 pm
I’m looking for focus, details, and a personal voice in poems.
It took me a second to figure out what you poem was about because I didn’t know what a “polis” was… I think you mean polish right?
Your poem has details.
Your poem has emotion and voice, but it leaves me hanging. Are you unsteadily and drifting? Or is it the polish, or did you intend to leave me guessing?