Devestate Me
Devastate me baby
I was built out of these maybes
They concrete all the whispers
That have hung between us
You’ve had so many shiverings
And I cant except the murder rates
That lie between your eyebrows
Every Sunday afternoon
Pick up the rag dolls
That you ate for breakfast
There is nothing underneath your skin
That excuses how your heart fell in
I need to understand this suffering
That acupunctures New York city
And my mother always warned me
That ugly, is just another kind of pretty
Devastate me baby
I was built out of these maybes
Like the answer to the question
That still hangs between us.
* I don’t know if this is art or garbage, Poetry or poo.
But I wrote it. You read it.
Please tell me what it means.
4 Responses to “Devestate Me”
Art!
I want to print it and put it to muuuuusic :]
Wow, this poem actually really spoke to me! :S
So maybe we’re both cra-ZAY-zee! Teehee!
Ugly really is just another kind of pretty. And vice-versa.
Are you back at uni yet?
How come you don’t comment on my blogzies?
I’ll be at uni tomoz for like an hour (urrr, annoying!) but I might see you there.
Have an extra purpley day!
God Bless,
Beks.
It makes me happy that you bother to venture beyond my Blog homepage into the IMPORTANT bits.
Thankyou. I was feeling pretty discouraged about writing on 3 pages when people only seemed to read one… and then they never commented anyway…
I thought it was a little bit garbage - but I could tell that it was definitely coming from the right place; that is, not from the front of your conscious mind.
You weren’t analysing what you wrote or really thinking about it, you were just letting it come out - and it shows. And that’s a good thing.
You have these words in your poetry that always seem to come out of your sub-conscious. I think it’s really interesting. Whispers, maybes, hung, lie, Sunday, skin. I guess that’s why I didn’t enjoy this one as much, because as a fan and a reader of your other poems, I found it to be a little cliche.
Of course, I mean all this in the nicest possible way - when I show you a song I wrote, I expect you to be honest about it, too.
That said, it’s rare for me to not like one of your poems.
Leave a Reply