#1

I’ve been having a dialogue
with a dead guy, lately.
He’s been showing me
exactly how I am wrong
about everything.
We got so comfortable one night,
that I took him on a tour
of my death memorabilia;
all the pictures of dead relatives,
on walls or in wallets, never-lasting
feelings in ever fading images,
forgotten names in familiar faces –
they are my freeze framed friends.
Just like my scars.
My close calls with my own
impending,
never yielding, demise.
I told the story of each one, I painted
lines to each imperfect skin graft
and I didn’t flinch
this time.
They were all an open book
to my dead nerve endings.
I laid it all for him, all my loves –
the folded mugs from my pocket,
the glass covered smiles from my home,
the cuts and bruises from my skin,
the locked memories
from my unwilling mind, and he –
he took them all.
Mockingly, he dubbed me
the photographer.
Untouchable behind the lens,
unreachable, as zoom allows
and forever separate from events,
I chose to be the photographer
of my own life,
but I never thought
I’d be ashamed
of that.
He took this tour in my
house of death,
and put it into words,
the most beautiful, painful words
that were ever written
in my blood,
in my love, my lust, in hurt
and anger. He robbed me
of my right to feel
alone,
and I’ll never forgive him for that.
In fact,
I’ll return him to the book store
tomorrow.



This is not a pipe
#2
Loved it. Maybe it's just because that's what I feel today. Very emotional and interesting peice.

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"Some even claim that I'm a terror, a dictator and they're right." - Lou Reed


AK-ROWDY
#4
Quote by Carmel

I’ve been having a dialogue
with a dead guy, lately. I have trouble with this line. If it was later on in the piece, it might work better, but its far too casual a tone to start off with. I'm not engaged. i think it's the word "dialogue" and the word "guy" especially.
He’s been showing me
exactly how I am wrong
about everything. I'm finding myself not caring, which is a problem. You're writing about something that's made you question all you hold dear, but it's not engage. I feel detatched, like i'm watching a brechtian play. There's no emotional connection, you're just telling me.
We got so comfortable one night,
that I took him on a tour
of my death memorabilia;
all the pictures of dead relatives,
on walls or in wallets, never-lasting
feelings in ever fading images,
forgotten names in familiar faces –
they are my freeze framed friends. These two lines, they're the first in this piece to grab me. I loved the image, there was a bit of colour to the tone, a bit of sorrow, a bit of life. I think the word "Dead" "death" etc has been overused. We get it, death, i almost felt like you were beating it into me by the end.
Just like my scars.
My close calls with my own
impending,
never yielding, demise. Lost me again. You could easily lose these three lines, they're uneccesary. The fact that they're scars already tells us they were close calls with death.
I told the story of each one, I painted
lines to each imperfect skin graft
and I didn’t flinch
this time. One hundred times better. Now we see some character and life and story and connection.
They were all an open book
to my dead nerve endings.
I laid it all for him, all my loves –
the folded mugs from my pocket,
the glass covered smiles from my home,
the cuts and bruises from my skin, we've had scars twice already, perhaps leave out the line.
the locked memories
from my unwilling mind, and he –
he took them all.
Mockingly, he dubbed me
the photographer. Now we're getting emotion. This is where you show though, the subtleties.
Untouchable behind the lens,
unreachable, as zoom allows
and forever separate from events,
I chose to be the photographer
of my own life,
but I never thought
I’d be ashamed
of that. Gorgeous, just gorgeous. There's a despair creeping in now, something that this piece desperately needs.
He took this tour in my
house of death,
and put it into words,
the most beautiful, painful words
that were ever written
in my blood,
in my love, my lust, in hurt
and anger. He robbed me
of my right to feel
alone,
and I’ll never forgive him for that. Yes, yes, yes YES! This intensity, this power of emotion, this is what's been missing.
In fact,
I’ll return him to the book store
tomorrow.





I think where this piece suffers is it's length. You take too long to build, too many words saying too little. I think this piece could be half the size and twice as effective, there's so many uneeded lines here. If this was shorter, punchier, more intense and desperate, more like the ending, it would work perfectly. As it is though, I'm left feeling sad because the ending was so good, but the rest of the piece let it down.

Hope that helps, Carmel