Tuesday, December 21, 2010

one of my scribblings...

First of all, I must say that my writings are very personal to me.  Especially when I write what I like to call poems.  This is the least poetry-like "poem" I've ever written, but there is a meaning behind it that is quite...meaningful.  =]  I would love your thoughts about it.


The Rage


Ice.

Bitter.  Solid.  Unyielding.
Its existence is not acknowledged.
Its presence is often ignored.

But it remains.

Cold—burning in its coldness.
It shifts temporarily, but only to grow ever stronger.
To trap and to hold.
To freeze and to strangle.

One can feel its tension pressing on the soul,
Following, seeking to destroy from the inside out.
It bitterly bruises.
It causes harm, wreaks havoc because of its lack of substance.
It is nothing.
And yet it consumes.

Suddenly—a crack in the ice that is so rarely disturbed.
It is jagged at best
As it yawns open to reveal a chasm.
A silent flame flickers upward.
The ice does not melt; it merely separates.
Soon the single flame is joined by another.
Soon the fire is no longer silent.
Soon the blaze roars with a rage beyond comprehension.
Rages, and rages, and rages.

The fire moves in a dizzying circular motion,
Brushing the ice that still remains solid.
And suddenly, something even more surprising arises.

Drops of rain.

Rain—gentle yet fierce.
Hopeless but unforgiving.
 Relentless and bitter.
It pours in grey sheets, yet it is barely more than a sprinkle.
It cascades on the never-melting ice.
It empties onto the furious flames,
But the flames, too, do not alter or die.

One tear in the driving rain.
It falls, slowly, purposefully
And yet without meaning or hope.
It splatters onto the flames.
A sputter.  A gasp.  A cry.
And then the fire is gone.

Left in its place is smoke.
Curling, choking.  Swirling, suffocating.
Smoke drifts up above the ice.
That feeling of pleasantness when the blaze has been extinguished
Until one realizes the damage it caused.

The smoke fades.
Gradually, so that one hardly notices it has taken place,
The cold sheets of hurt close over the chasm.
Those rough edges once again fit together,
To hide the scar that ripped them apart.
Shadowing the hole.
Hiding it so no one may see.
Enclosing the rage in a wall of firm isolation.
Of painful denial.

That chill barrier surrounds, threatens.
But it remains.

Ice.

3 comments:

  1. Woah! Nice! I like all the descriptiveness. Kinda seemed like you were in a bad mood when you wrote it. Bitter about your concussion? Lol JK.

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  2. I'm your first double digit follower!
    Hope you're happy now. ;)

    It's funny, this morning I woke up and was like "...there's SOMETHING I have to do online..." but i couldn't think of it for the longest time. Then, I came home and saw that you had commented on my blog, and I was like "OH YES! FOLLOW JENN!!!".

    It was totally on my mental to-do list that I forgot. ;) But hey, at least it was on the list and I remembered it eventually.

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  3. Philip--yes, you guessed correctly...ish. I actually wasn't in a bad mood when I wrote this, but it was inspired by something that I was rather bitter about (not the concussion haha). So I was getting my feelings out on paper.

    Ruuuufie!!!!!!--YAY. Yes, I am happy now. Quite satisfied indeed. <3

    ReplyDelete

Sweet comments are the best thing since sliced bread. Unkind comments are the worst thing since hamsters.

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