Description: im not quite sure where this came from, but for some reason when i lay on my bed at night and can't fall asleep, i think and little rhymes come to me... it's weird. iono. ^_^. it makes me happy, and tell me what you think!
History in My Toy Box -------------------------------------------
My childhood hides
Boxed up under my bed
Broken toys and shattered dreams
With nothing left ahead
Open the chest
I’m afraid to look inside
What will I find?
Everything I’ve denied
Out comes my teddy
Soaked still with tears
I cried away my age
Cried away my fears
Next come my crayons
That marked out the pain
Blacks, reds and blues
Lodged inside my brain
Now here are my pets
All left for dead
No friend to hold
As I hide inside my head
Here’s a tape in my hand
And now I click play
Screaming fills the room
And I remember every fucking day . . .
Next comes my book,
Whose pages tend to bleed
Careful, don't spill
Blood; the only thing I really need
A knife falls from the pages
Comfort hitting ground
You can't cuddle up to a blade
But a different world has been found
Needle and thread dangles
I pull it up; but afraid to see
If this is how im repaired
I’d rather stay me
Now handcuffs emerge
Confining me to my bed
Killing the child
And leaving her for dead
I think you're being a little bit melodramatic. Teddy bears soaked with tears, etc. Cutting yourself. It seems like evry other poem I read on this site is about the comfort found in pain. (and then it's the teddy bear's fault..!) This is almost as depressing as my still life (broken bottle, scattered pills, a dilapidated Cinderella shoe... my professor thinks I'm demented.) But overall, I think that the utter negativity of the poem leaves it in that cliché depressed genre of poems. Instead of trying to shock people, try to give a real image. Nothing is iredeemably bad (except perhaps the classic movie MANOS: The Hands of Fate). Try to be a little fairer, and it will give your poem another dimension.
It's so...depressing. Such a depressing way to remember your childhood. Interesting, the [censored]ization of child's toys. Especially the handcuffs...lol you wrote it makes you happy. It doesn't exactly make me happy. When I find stuff from my childhood I remember my [censored]ty drawings that I made my parents post on the fridge and stuff and barbies' whose hair I cut way too short so you could see the holes in the scalp and somehow the legs are broken off and probably the stupid shirts I used to wear with random stuff on them like, "New England Child Gear..."
Anyway, I definitely got sidetracked from critiquing..."shattered dreams" and "left for dead" seem a bit cliché in this context. These lines stuck with me: "Careful, don't spill Blood; the only thing I really need." But I just like talk of blood in poetry, I don't know why. Don't think it's your best stuff...but not bad, not bad...
I think the verses of this poem could be refined to create that deeper meaning youre searching to give it. It starts out rather easy and as a shocking suprise becomes something else. The question i wonder at the end is who is this, how old is this person, it truly captured something there. Its a bit rough at times and I just ponder whether it could have been more smooth and subtle. that is what i think you were trying to go for here. Good luck! ~DejFruit
Submission Name: History in My Toy Box
