Description: I'm trying to rekindle my playful imagination's passion for the english language before I fully commit myself to french and german. We paramours are nothing more than dirty rags.
A flower creased the dirt on my fingers
Alighting them of their sullied fate
Each petal a mate to a nail, each nail
Assailing the endless mass of trash around
This planet upon which we lay -
It may be that like a philanderer I lay
From left to right upon these soils
a new flower for each grave
wherein lie fragments of hearts
whose union defined the existence of my kind.
Every cloth has been used, and so using
One to clean this mess is no more than
Rubbing disease and malaise onto more
And I ask of my state how it is that in this
State we’ve become unable, incapable of helping
And most direly, how it is we are so indifferent?
How it is that I am no different.
none of us are clean, no matter how many times we wash our hands. and indifference is a bitch, in my opinion.
i sometimes will it. when i don't want to have a feeling one way or another about things. it's hard to come up with though, for me at least. i think it scares me when it actually happens. really scares me. it seems so final.
but i try to see the beautiful-ugly in things.
like how your petals could crease dirt. and how that dirt seemed so fragile all of a sudden.
the world we live in is in a clusterfuck. but i'm not ready to leave it yet. nope. i'm just not ready.
the disease of lost passion, spreading...not just love passion but passion for causes, for things in general...such an apathetic world we are living in..
i like how you wound the phrasing with the repetition...very much
although in the one part the two "lays" should be "lie" and using the correct form in those spots won't hurt the sound or flow at all...sometimes poetic license is needed for that...but here i think "lie" works well and sounds better.
Submission Name: immaculate
