PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"I might have forgotten: "I might have forgotten you But you won't let me Until you take every part of me for yourself"   There is pain so unspeakable that it's almost a sacrilege to attempt to define it, or approach it without sounding melodramatic, but you pulled off a nearly superhuman feat by making us feel every shred of it with elegant, organic sincerity.   The metaphors leading up to the trickle of hope were astonishing in their intensity. You took bold strokes of imagery that paid off when they first shattered us and later added to the feeling of relief when you wrote, with striking beauty: "despair will forget my name".   A remarkable expression, forged in great sorrow and great strength.   I too owe a debt to Stella for her pep talks.  

Makes one wonder whatever: Makes one wonder whatever happens to the 'cool kids' once the kids part becomes a thing of the past. Perhaps the delusion and the made up bliss continues in some 'grown-up' form or do they ever come down to earth. The folder is spot on - really felt that looking up to them is the epitome of squandered serendipity. Thanks for sharing, George. /Rik.

I distinct moment of: I distinct moment of existence; one that cannot be altered... the slipping away and the longing are almost unbearable. Very relatable. Thanks for sharing. 

The surface illusions are dissolving :    Everywhere you look at the world now, it just seems like the paint is peeling off the wall.

Enjoyed the morphemic sense: Enjoyed the morphemic sense generation, as if a symphonic personification is orchestrated to the thought of chronic pain and physical debility. And the despair that it brings along with it, that 'will forget the poetic persona's name' in the newness of the morrow. Thank you so much for sharing. /Rik.  

I love your "paper pursuit": I love your "paper pursuit" collection that ponders, deconstructs and reconstructs the craft itself: meta poetry.    A love/hate relationship seems to be going on in this stunning and ambivalent reflection on a poem's lifespan and its quest for immortality. Will it scale the walls of time or die with the poet? Is it worthy?    The brilliance of this introspection is its conclusion. The poem knows it may be a mere mortal, but it doesn't care. It doesn't take itself so seriously. Its gifted, delightfully sassy creator, although very capable of timeless work, quits asking questions and decides "instead to sit back and laugh".    A pleasure to read and connect with.