In a room filled with a solitary red hue The bourgeois spins a wheel With no destination, nor need She will spin until her brittle Hands bleed Just to satisfy her ennui and artifice But she does not see - the rien I see The monster approaching her empty dreams Spinning still - she does not know The insomniac rose will begin to grow The thorn of clandestine and ebony Ostracized for he began to realize What lies in nonsense is decadence Which sparks interest Who's lover is a dadaist But his story is over now As Seth lead the way A poet dies in dismay The thorn as she spun penetrated A distraction and a lack of action She knew the temptation for she so loved the sensation Of crass, rebellious - ways The thought laid it's seed In her Gaulish mind it breeds She has no other need and no regrets So she proceeds and the smile lets With full intention and desire Caring none of her fate that will transpire She presses her finger on the thorn So now she bleeds knowingly she did not recede
This is a really cool, really deep poem. It's a very different style than mine, but is beautiful all the same. I'm assuming that this is a metaphor for something I can't begin to understand. Keep up the great poetry!
Its pretty good. I love the creativity! I always feel horrible offering critique to people's work. But if I'm going to be completely honest, I would say that to be careful of your vocabulary. One of the most daunting obstacles of writing is being aware of the very thin line between using vocabulary beautifully rather than strenuously. There were just a few words in the poem that I felt were a bit of stretch gramatically. I remember struggling with the same thing when I first began writing. But its all about balance in the end. Thats not to say it is bad, as I said in the begining. I'm just speaking on your writing style, because, as I can see, you are an individual who loves to use a variety of words.(Much like me). We just have to be wary of how far we take it.
