Snippet Sunday

Who’s ready for round two!?!

It’s Sunday once again, and you know that that means, don’t you? IT’S SNIPPET SUNDAY TIME!!!!

Snippet SundayFirst of all, I just wanted to thank everyone for being so enthusiastic about this last week. I was nervous about starting this up, but after the response I now can’t wait to see what everyone does!

Let’s get down to business, shall we?

The idea is simple: 

  • You share a snippet of your current work in progress or whatever else you are working on. A scene, dialogue, a whole chapter, a poem – anything goes. 
  • Link your Snippet Sunday back here, and we can watch the world burn in our amazingness together
  • Ta da! Snippet Sunday complete

This week I bring to you yet another poem, and this one has sort of a funny story to it. For class, my professor has basically been nagging at us to get away from simple realism – which is what most writing and poetry is. He’s “opened our eyes” to various other ways of writing things: Cubism, Vorticism, Overhearing, and all sorts of other shenanigan-capabe ideas. So, for this poem – I was listening to music and all of a sudden an idea smacked me upside the head. What if I did Vorticisim with song lyrics? Vorticism, by the way, is like “The Wasteland” by T.S Elliot. You take things from various different sources and compose them in such a way that makes a poem. So, without further ado, I give you, “The Winner Takes it All” by moi. Also, if you can guess which songs are where – gold star for you.

 

I can’t love you in the dark.

Dreaming in silver and gold,

every broken heart knows

you take a piece of me and want it all.

I had a dream I was dying,

I can’t do it with you watching me.

Sleep with one eye open,

my hands are searching for you

burning, fire racing through my being.

Soft, dark, and dreamless

they hate me for breathing without you.

Tied to a horse that will never tire,

shape of a man’s desire.

One last time, as much as it hurts

follow your heart till it bleeds

to a place where all the demons go.

I survive.

Be my friend, hold me

I will not die, I’ll wait here for you.

I run too fast, I hear voices

singing songs in the streets.

Smeared black ink,

I’m barely listening

staring at the asphalt

wondering where you stand.

It heals and it haunts me,

now its history. I’ve played all my cards,

the winner takes it all.

So… what do you think? Horrible? Worthy of the internet? Let me know down in the comments below. Oh! Don’t forget to tag yours in the comments as well if you decide to do it. This will become a weekly thing on my part, so stay tuned for more.

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4 thoughts on “Snippet Sunday

    • I hope so too! If you want some ideas, Google writing prompts and stuff – or different ways to write besides realism. It’s really fun.

      Thank you so much 💞 I was really nervous about posting it, so seeing your reaction makes me so happy. I can’t wait to see what you do 😘

      Liked by 2 people

  1. Okay, I finally made it back here, Sam. I wanted to thank you for making it possible for many creative to share pieces of their work. I hope you all enjoy it. I’m kind of nervous.

    “A Reimagined Self”

    Like snapshots of old, I am in
    clouds of white, yet I cannot see
    past the black and crimson.

    There is little gray.

    They envelope me as you once did; as
    your love would cover me, not unlike a
    child with its favorite blanket.

    “But I am no longer a child,” I admonish myself
    as our memories abound.

    Am I still sound?
    Your timorous voice resounds, spilling me around, my life unraveled.
    I’m reminded-often– of how you gutted me, whole.
    Was it systematic, or did its magic possess you over time?

    “We were granted enough of it.”
    Am I still not around? For I cannot be found.
    These clouds enhance me, filling me with their rage and grief; longing
    and regret, fluctuating fore and aft. They consume this
    existence that I’d like to call life.
    Black, white, gray hovers– what can I discover?
    You’re like my soul, yours and ours entwined; my one desire.
    You left me in this cruel world, on this cold tile, bleeding.
    You won’t return.

    A light knock breaks the monotony.
    It’s the day nurse, come to take
    vitals.
    Ms. Jackie says they’re fine.

    “But I’m not fine.” The jagged re-realization throws
    this consciousness back, further and further. An
    invisible blur descending these empty, pristine walkways, resting
    at a sign identifying the place
    I’ve called home
    for eight long years: Pilgrim Psychiatric Center.

    Our memories stay there..

    Like

  2. I really like your poem, as well. Keep those words spilling on the page and you’ll got far.
    I hadn’t heard of the various methods of writing, but I’d definitely have fun with them. 🙂 I’ll check them out!

    Like

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