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    dots Submission Name: Lethargic, somewhatdots

    Author: meoww
    Elite Ratio:    6.75 - 262/258/143
    Words: 120
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 1174
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 711

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    dotsLethargic, somewhatdots

    Since you've gone, my clothes have held
    the floor in sullen splendour. Empty coffee
    cups, a greasy bowl, and raggedy paper

    with poems scrawled in half-light corners.
    My home is books and silence, and the stains
    of smoke curling to the ceiling. A statue

    of Kuan Yin holds this motley world to
    attention. I sigh often, breathe in notes and
    hope that not all will be forgotten. Not here,

    or there, or ever, if I could find the twins
    to my vanished socks, and the reason behind
    reflection. A mirror! A grumbling stomach.

    A painting
    I'll never finish.

    Submitted on 2009-05-03 06:13:35     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Why is a messy room one of the most depressing things that can happen to a person?

    This poem feels so resigned to aloneness and that sinking misery that goes hand in hand with it. You capture the mood of an empty house perfectly, I started to feel all miserable and hopeless, and then you mention Kuan Yin, god of compassion right?, and I'm thinking, huh, it aint working. She feels detatched- 'holding the room to attention'- and frankly not compassionate at all. I imagined the room holding its breath under her gaze.

    It sort of starts to feel more hopeful, but then I realised that the twins to vanished socks are never found, that's one of life's bigger mysteries, so does that mean it will all be forgotten? The reason behind reflection, that's a big question, too, and probably also unsolvable. My immediate answer was (if you hadn't mentioned a mirror, then I wouldn't have thought it but you did, so I did) vanity. And then I spiralled into feeling seriously hopeless again.

    I imagined you up in the ceiling of your home, surveying your world and what it has become with a peculiar detatchment, this resigned feeling. Oh, emptiness.

    'A painting/I'll never finish'- and then I was plummeting into despair. That line just finshes off your poem so well, I can't work out why.

    God I feel miserable now.

    Written beautifully, as ever. Not a word out of place.

    | Posted on 2009-07-15 00:00:00 | by AlyRose | [ Reply to This ]
      in the morning, in the mirror where the poem appears.. sad write, but beautiful

    | Posted on 2009-05-25 00:00:00 | by blackbird | [ Reply to This ]
      Hoooooooo boy. Melancholy at its worst. Hate that stooopid feeling.

    Somehow I picture the setting to this at dusk.

    Good ending. Good writing, a fine wine of bottled sorrow.
    | Posted on 2009-05-05 00:00:00 | by Maverique | [ Reply to This ]
      yeah to the sprees... weeeeeeeeeeeee.

    where do those missing socks go to? that's what i want to know.

    there is nothing more sad then your own crumpled up clothes along the one side of bed that you sleep on. i think they get all lonely crumpled up by themselves.

    there is nothing more sad, then sighs spilling out like smoke towards the ceiling all by their lonesome.

    there is nothing sad about memories that should be held and kept, because at one point in life, they held importance, and still do.


    useless, unspecified comment...

    but yea, i know this feeling.
    | Posted on 2009-05-03 00:00:00 | by isabella | [ Reply to This ]

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