poetry critical : poem

Dream

I remember expectation as if it were nothing,	1
nothing to recall except regret	2
and meaningless despair	3
loud music, stage dances, the tyranny of	4
Kings and Queens that barely know each other	5
underneath the starry night.	6
I can hear them sing as I write, loud	7
music that’s penetrating my soul, dripping	8
single hatred, smiling faces that conceal	9
irony and tragedy, frenetic beat and motion	10
sweat pouring down my collar, too tight,	11
too tight to let me say the words:	12
Would you share this dance with me tonight?	13
so now I cry as I slowdance with	14
skeletons named Sarah;	15
wishing that I wasn’t anything more than	16
the next beat in the rhythm, or a star	17
against the night sky.	18
Have you ever heard the sounds that stars make?	19
always knowing silence.	20
It’s a quiet that’s profound, making meaning	21
from interpretation, instead of the other way around	22

Lines vanish rapidly like eyesight from	23
barrages of flash photography	24
Don’t drink and drive? No.	25
we’re all already intoxicated on the drug	26
called life.	27
“We’re all too young to know misery.”	28
but doesn’t misery love company?	29
I wish I had another year, or that,	30
maybe I was older – wait, too old	31
or is it too young? I forget how old	32
that you’re supposed to be. I wonder	33
why couldn’t I figure this out sooner?	34
Because now I’m counting time together	35
in days, minutes, hours of seconds that I’m	36
paralyzed, struck blind deaf and dumb	37
by wellsprings of social inequity that	38
surround me or you. Time was never right;	39
the clock was always wrong. Why is it	40
that you always realize too late	41
what really means the most to you?	42
Excuse the tearstains on the paper;	43
they’re long since dry. That’s why I sit here and	44
lie to me, myself, and I. Because you were	45
right: things aren’t better, and I’m afraid	46
they’re about to get much worse. It’s just	47
like you said: I’m not alone now. But	48
soon I’m going to be. You’re going, going	49
Gone.	50

Was it all real, or just a dream? My nightmares	51
suggest the latter, but the cold hollows of a	52
tombstone are the definition of the former –	53
utter certainty in death, without certainty	54
that this was even real. I can’t remember	55
now – this music’s too loud. And I can’t	56
seem to stop dancing distractedly, lovingly,	57
pretending that I’m something that I’m not:	58
Alive.	59
Police reports state that it was a double	60
homicide that night, or maybe a double	61
suicide. The autopsy was uncertain.	62
Brown eyes, dipped in regret – somehow	63
never knowing what was inside.	64
So now the guts are spilled, hopefully,	65
skeletons in the closet reassembled for	66
inspection and public scrutiny – but	67
not too closely, or too close, because	68
the truth always hurts more than the	69
words we use to describe it.	70
But, somehow, it always means more to	71
me – I’d go anywhere to find you, even	72
if it meant I’d die again. Because,	73
after all, I guess I’m still alive.	74
I solemnly swear to never walk away.	75
But what happens when there’s closure?	76
A coin-toss for the fate of the galaxy –	77
heads: I’m here	78
tails: I’m here	79
I’m using a weighted coin. Cheating is	80
appropriate when nothing makes any sense.	81
Chaos is prevalent – Father Time has a	82
case of chronic arthritis and narcolepsy	83
because he’s always inflamed and sleeping.	84
Sort of like this pain I’m keeping –	85
always there, always there, always there.	86

Dreams? No. No dreams, no	87
dreams no more. Bad dreams? Supposedly	88
nightmares. But I always feel better when	89
I talk to you, so –	90
Dream more dreams. Or, at least, dream some	91
good dreams for me, because I don’t dream	92
anymore, or even ever again. Should sleep,	93
but who actually watches time? It’s too	94
predictable to be trustworthy, and that’s the	95
irony of it, because once we start watching	96
we realize that we don’t have enough. So	97
time more time, and now I regret that I	98
didn’t stay – too bad, I guess – the	99
car’s already away. Too late, the story of my	100
Life.	101

I just wanted to say thanks, I guess, maybe	102
Thanks for everything when you’re gone.	103
I promised I wouldn’t cry, but now I	104
struggle to laugh – bitter melancholy	105
is slowly becoming the whole of me,	106
like an unstoppable cancerous mutation	107
of delusion and suffering, no longer prescribing	108
to doubts of self-hypnosis and dialogue,	109
ranting too long to make any sense –	110
but isn’t this just its own kind of sense?	111
I hope you understand why I have to do	112
this, take this walk on my own.	113
I hope that you’ll understand why I want	114
you to be there when I’m finished.	115
But time never has any time	116
For those who could and could never	117
say goodbye.	118

4 Jun 05

Rated 7.5 (8.8) by 2 users.

Active (2): 5, 9, 10, 10
Inactive (13): 1, 5, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10

(define the words in this poem)
(78 more poems by this author)

(5 users consider this poem a favorite)

bob
Dheroan
Rhein
Riverwriter2
schotsy

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Comments:

Nothing? :0
— midare

Man.. never any comments.
— midare

It's just too long to read.
— unknown

*thumbs up*
— unknown

wow.
— ducktape

Thanks, ducktape and unknown(2).  I'll take that as a compliment. :0
— midare

Was this written as a stream-of-thought?  It seems kinda.. disjointed.
— unknown

There is some great writing in here. I think you might try a little breaking into strophes here. perhaps numbered sections. this is the first, reworked just a tad. I love from 'slowdance' down. very evocative of images for me of barren nightlife and after-hoursing in lower manhattan.

I remember expectation
as if it were nothing:
nothing to recall except
loud music, stage dances,
the tyranny of Kings and Queens
who barely know each other
underneath the starry night.

Regret.  Despair.

I can hear them sing as I write
Loud music penetrating my soul, dripping
single hatred, smiling faces that conceal
irony and tragedy, frenetic beat and motion
sweat pouring down my collar, too tight,
too tight too tight too tight
to let me say the words:
Would you share this dance
with me tonight?

so now I cry as I slowdance with a
skeleton named Sarah; wishing
that I wasn’t anything more than
the next beat in the rhythm, or a star
against the night sky.
Have you ever heard the sounds that stars make?
always knowing silence.

It’s a quiet that’s profound:
meaning from interpretation,
instead of the other
way around
— noodleman

yeah.. this is going to need
a major rewrite to really
make sense. it's pretty much
summer break, now, so
i'll take a look at revising and
rebreaking it.
(that is, as soon as i
learn how to put italics and bold
font into my poems.) : P
— midare

I don't care what anyone says, or doesn't say about this poem.  I fucking love it!
At the beginnning it is like the background is overpowering you and your fellings are suddenly unleashed inn words more and more... the stream of consciousness just becomes this tap.. and what you say is not meaningless.  You talk life, as you feel it, this is poetry for me.  it's not just about the form and games with words and trite little sayings , It's like you are talking to someone and really that person is also you and your higher being and the world all at once.  I do have some things that I will critique, but for the moment I want to tell you... I am a big fan! And I really don't say that easily. It really begins to be good for me at : "smiling faces that conceal  9
irony and tragedy, frenetic beat and motion  10
sweat pouring down my collar, too tight,  11
too tight to let me say the words:  12
Would you share this dance with me tonight?  13
so now I cry as I slowdance with  14
skeletons named Sarah;  15
wishing that I wasn’t anything more than  16
the next beat in the rhythm, or a star  17
against the night sky.
and then.."
"we are all too young to know misery"- and this is good: " Excuse the tearstains on the paper;  43
they’re long since dry.  That’s why I sit here and  44
lie to me, myself, and I."
and tha part about the coin..that you are here no matter what and then bringing that point back " Sort of like this pain I’m keeping –  85
always there, always there, always there.  86 "  and then how you say:
"But I always feel better when  89
I talk to you, so –  90
Dream more dreams.  Or, at least, dream some  91
good dreams for me, because I don’t dream  92
anymore, " very beautiful ..
Yes to me this is it's own kind of sense. Dramatic...but fully beautiful.
and yes I agree time never has anytime, but I am glad I found the time to read your poetry, because I really love it.

— Riverwriter2

Would you share this dance with me tonight?
so now I cry as I slowdance with
skeletons named Sarah

Excellent, why are your skeletons all called Sarah?
— Kauf

:0  <---I like that expression
— ducktape

I decided to look at your profile. "Dreams" caught my eye. I'm in love with this poem. Favourites + 10.

:E
— Rhein

This is so deep and amazing. I wish I could come up with something this solid. It is flawless and excecuted so well
— madderhatter

Nice Midare...there is lots of good stuff in here, but it gets a little lost...I really like noodleman's suggestions...you should have a go re-writing like you said you were going to and re-post cos I think it would be beautiful...strip it back a bit. :)
Kitkat
— unknown

i love it
— bloodytearsx

amazing.
— pull_my_hair

Midare, it is hard to comment when one is frozen by the obstinacy of one's own heart.
I am at a loss for words.
Take my silence as a sign of being moved deeply by your words.
I am still digesting.
I indeed,
love your poem.
— schotsy

It is not too long of a read.
It is astounding.
— schotsy

Rewrite this overly wordy prose immediatly.
— unknown

what a cute lil pome.
— noodleman

thanks schotsy and noodles.

ps. please learn how to spell 'immediately' and then i'll take you seriously, unknown.

smile.
midare
— unknown

i, finally, had the courage to read a 'long poem' on PC. but that's only after i wrote one myself... that's pretty petty and cheap, yes... but that's how it went.
loved how you used the cliches without making them too...erm... tacky? old school?
well, except for the 'misery loves company'... not a big fan of that line, but that's me.
L82-101 are my favourites. although, the cadence in 100-101 is broken by keeping
'my' in L100.
this is first read though...
— lyom

thanks for the five and the one, guys.
— midare

People think this is good, don't know what good is.
— unknown

This made me cry. Its so horribly sad, but horribly too touching to look past.
Welldone

-madderhatter
— unknown

noodleman has got the right idea
— aurelius

Midare - it's great fantastic
it's quite special
it's remarkably not actually a poem
but still quite something nonetheless.

I feel quite bad making this comment because, I could do no better, certainly any time I do get a poem pinned down on paper it's comprised of a few such non-poems.
Poems are such fragile things. I imagine them surrounded by this matchstick scaffolding - the lexicon (iambic, trochaic, strophes, dactyls, saphhic odes etc).
When squeezing your collected perceptions into the shape of a 'poem' you must be aware of the scaffold, it is there so others can get up to those high places and better divine some meaning.

You see, this is why you should not build a metaphor out of matchsticks. Doesn't survvive extension.

MrFox.
— unknown

I like it alot but should try to sumarise!
— unknown

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