Just a game for YOU
Just a game for YOU
Witless Little Toy
A landscape slowly rose; harsh with ups and downs.
Ominous-looking mountains, was built high
Above the sky.
So rubber-gloved hands of pity, gently filled up the holes.
All for their chance to see this;
The sight of a used up Toy.
Stitched up. Sterilized. Suddenly, paralyzed.
Foolish little toy, how could you not see?
They are salaried souls; they just take
What they need.
So now open your eyes, O you Witless Little Toy.
Don’t ever let them drain you,
Do not give them that joy!
There. Hands slowly grab,
Pleasure our pain, then
stroke your used up youth.
Where the key is kept, a box
Two crowbars; not enough.
It’s me- my riddle
Words without perspective, no need.
Grinding tool, what did you see?
Important words of nothingness
We both stopped laugh when the iron fell
And as the concrete took my fall
The last thought, I showed you all
I feel totally worn out after been spending the whole weekend doing homework for Swedish class. I’ve been writing about Sylvia Plath and I also did an analysis of her poem called “Lorelei”.
I’m not sure why I chosed this poem, but it was something with the way she turn death to something beautiful, and the human world to something based on lies. Memorable words for sure.
This is my Lorelei.
It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,
The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,
The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float
Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous
With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear
Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear’s listening
Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony
Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,
Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge
Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source
Of your ice-hearted calling —
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting
Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
– Sylvia Plath