The Terrible Ghostly abundance
Alone and palely loitering, bound in the fear of mere acceptance. It was the moving songs, of a birds tune, the wicked hour of my youth lavished like the masks of the moon. I was sincere with depth in the world of the forgotten. Crimson's eyes and devour of the truth in the rhythm of my so-called heart. It didn’t matter, it never did, my world, my place, I unconquered. The world, omitted the other hand, a broken, burning, bridge! A destroyer of my innovation, so I ignored them. All them! Ever single part of them! You see I considered, them inhuman, they bare touched a soul. Dying poetry from rhythm, I was simply over emotional. I didn’t exist as they were out of place, I was there insignificant, deteriorated,
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I was hungry and overtaken with so much defeat. Breathing hard sobs lying on the ground, like an injured infant. But all I felt was a weakness, a shadow than immersed, and a big and dark shadow. A man looked into my small and weak eyes, he opened his hands, and I opened mine. Walking with a strange man, but a choice, but a hope, but a family I considered. I decided, to hold the hand, hard and rough hands. “why cry child, I will feed you, I will care for you" he spoke so dearly and devotional. Upright his eyes where sympathy, and I trusted them. I watched them move me, I began forming tears, dropping on the way, as I walked to a journey. I never knew, all but a family, for the love, yes I am crazy to you, and you could have a family. I couldn't bare not kissed good night, to sleep in me in the sleep of warm and cosy dreams. I didn’t know a bed, I never knew, I could have known. I walked into the man’s house, and there I was in terrible horrifying …show more content…
I slept so peaceful in the fresh and painted walls of a girl’s room. I sat down observed. It felt so similar, I felt nausea, but I slept so sound. I walk up in a hard, big dark surrounding, I couldn’t breathe, shut what I believed was a coffin. I started to cry so sad, love had no cost, I was abundant. I buried, alive for what crime, I was angry, in defeat, I hated life. I screamed, but no human heard, only my spirits was awake. I was no more an idea or didn’t exist I known the unspoken past. Days passed a watched the man, every day in hopes I am accepted. I was going to fear, to found, the abundant so ghost. I was in pain, I don’t know why, I pushed my spirit looking searching for a family, no one
The night was tempestuous and my emotions were subtle, like the flame upon a torch. They blew out at the same time that my sense of tranquility dispersed, as if the winds had simply come and gone. The shrill scream of a young girl ricocheted off the walls and for a few brief seconds, it was the only sound that I could hear. It was then that the waves of turmoil commenced to crash upon me. It seemed as though every last one of my senses were succumbed to disperse from my reach completely. As everything blurred, I could just barely make out the slam of a door from somewhere alongside me and soon, the only thing that was left in its place was an ominous silence.
I rushed out of the bedroom confused. I began to realize what was going on. I ran to where I last saw her and she was not there. Never before I felt my heart sank. My eyes filled with tears. I dropped to my knees and felt the cold white tile she last swept and mopped for my family. I look up and around seeing picture frames of of her kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren smiling. I turn my head to the right and see the that little statue of the Virgin Mary, the last gift we gave her. I began to cry and walked to my mother hugging her. My father walked dreadfully inside the house. He had rushed my great grandmother to the hospital but time has not on his side. She had a bad heart and was not taking her medication. Later that morning, many people I have never seen before came by to pray. I wandered why this had to happen to her. So much grief and sadness came upon
Poetry stands beyond agreement or disagreement and reinforce all ideas of mysteriousness (671). In “Lady Lazarus”, the story of Plath’s life with her tendency of self-destruction sheds light the meaning of the poem. A poem can be a reflection of the writer’s life; to understand the particular poem better, a study about the writer background helps to construct the subliminal meaning within the lines. Plath reconstructs the meaning of being a survivor from destruction, as she sustains the trauma of life that causes her to be suicidal. “Although “Lady Lazarus” draws on Plath’s won suicide attempt, the poem tells us little of the actual event. It is not a personal confession, but it does reveal Plath’s understanding of the way the suicidal person thinks.” (Dickie). The courageous endeavor to survive proves that the death is no longer terrifying. “Peel off the napkin/O my enemy./D I terrify?---“. On the contrary, the character in the poem, Lady Lazarus comes out to the light and challenges to whoever the enemy is, by saying, “I am you opus,/I am your valuable,/The pure gold baby”. She addresses how worthy she is as a human being, and she is revived and stronger than
In the poems, Suicide Note by Janice Mirikitani and Dreams of Suicide by William Meredith, the element of suicide is unmistakably the theme. Although both poems are tragic and melancholic, each poet focuses their attention on different aspects of suicide. Mirikitani dissects the inner thoughts of the speaker and focuses on suicidal ideation, while Meredith’s version brings attention to the suicides of three writers by dedicating and honoring them individually. In Dreams, “the speaker conveys his own empathy for those writers who could not survive the struggle to reconcile art and life” (Kirszner & Mandell).
...ir wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling. (156)
I would shut my eyes because I knew what was coming. And before I shut my eyes, I held my breath, like a swimmer ready to dive into a deep ocean. I could never watch when his hands came toward me; I only patiently waited for the harsh sound of the strike. I would always remember his eyes right before I closed my own: pupils wide with rage, cold, and dark eyebrows clenched with hate. When it finally came, I never knew which fist hit me first, or which blow sent me to my knees because I could not bring myself to open my eyes. They were closed because I didn’t want to see what he had promised he would never do again. In the darkness of my mind, I could escape to a paradise where he would never reach me. I would find again the haven where I kept my hopes, dreams, and childhood memories. His words could not devour me there, and his violence could not poison my soul because I was in my own world, away from this reality. When it was all over, and the only thing left were bruises, tears, and bleeding flesh, I felt a relief run through my body. It was so predictable. For there was no more need to recede, only to recover. There was no more reason to be afraid; it was over. He would feel sorry for me, promise that it would never happen again, hold me, and say how much he loved me. This was the end of the pain, not the beginning, and I believed that everything would be all right.
Crying, I recall when I said to myself, “I will die!” I couldn’t think of anything else. I was locked in a small and dark room for two consecutive days, I was starving, and there was no one there to help me. Simply, I was frightened and worried about how I am going to get out of this room alive, although there was a war going around the whole city.
"Deedee get up it 's time for school," my mom always said. Up until fifth grade that was all I could remember hearing. Every morning before school, I can remember being so anxious and excited about going to school, school is where I shined. I was not like everyone else, I did not play sports and I could not sing or dance. However, for a long time school is where I showed off my talents.
This is crazy. Why am I afraid? I’m acting as if this is my first funeral. Funerals have become a given, especially with a life like mine, the deaths of my father, my uncle and not my biological mother, you would think I could be somewhat used to them by now. Now I know what you’re thinking, death is all a part of life. But the amount of death that I’ve experienced in my life would make anyone cower away from the thought. This funeral is nothing compared to those unhappy events.
“Its deserted streets are a potent symbol of man and nature 's indifference to the individual. The insistence of the narrator on his own self-identity is in part an act of defiance against a constructed, industrial world that has no place for him in its order” (Bolton). As the poem continues on, the narrator becomes aware of his own consciousness as he comes faces nature and society during his walk. He embraces nature with the rain, dark and moon but he also reinforces his alienation from society as he ignores the watchman and receives no hope of cries for him. The societal ignorance enforces our belief that he is lonely on this gloomy night. “When he passes a night watchman, another walker in the city with whom the speaker might presumably have some bond, he confesses, ‘I… dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.’ Likewise, when he hears a voice in the distance, he stops in his tracks--only to realize that the voice is not meant "to call me back or say goodbye" (Bolton). The two times he had a chance to interact with the community, either he showed no interest in speaking or the cry wasn’t meant for him. These two interactions emphasize his loneliness with the
Many people find it hard to imagine their death as there are so many questions to be answered-how will it happen, when, where and what comes next. The fact that our last days on Earth is unknown makes the topic of death a popular one for most poets who looks to seek out their own emotions. By them doing that it helps the reader make sense of their own emotions as well. In the two poems “Because I Could Not Stop for Death” by Emily Dickenson and “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas, the poets are both capturing their emotion about death and the way that they accepted it. In Dickenson’s poem her feelings towards death are more passionate whereas in Dylan’s poem the feelings
My father passed away in 1991, two weeks before Christmas. I was 25 at the time but until then I had not grown up. I was still an ignorant youth that only cared about finding the next party. My role model was now gone, forcing me to reevaluate the direction my life was heading. I needed to reexamine some of the lessons he taught me through the years.
My stomach weakens with a thought that something is wrong, what would be the answer I could have never been ready for. I call my best friend late one night, for some reason she is the only person’s voice I wanted to hear, the only person who I wanted to tell me that everything will be okay. She answer’s the phone and tells me she loves me, as I hear the tears leak through, I ask her what is wrong. The flood gates open with only the horrid words “I can’t do this anymore”. My heart races as I tell her that I am on my way, what I was about to see will never leave my thoughts.
The Theme of Death in Poetry Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson are two Modern American Poets who consistently wrote about the theme of death. While there are some comparisons between the two poets, when it comes to death as a theme, their writing styles were quite different. Robert Frost’s poem, “Home Burial,” and Emily Dickinson’s poems, “I felt a Funeral in my Brain,” and “I died for Beauty,” are three poems concerning death. While the theme is constant there are differences as well as similarities between the poets and their poems. The obvious comparison between the three poems is the theme of death.