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About Me Member Pseudo-Intellectual PlasterDollFemale/United States

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CathySlowly like a dream beneath the black tree Rising like an omen from the ground Overlooked and ignored, singularly normal Hug these branches and they break Thorns tie my hands and I burn fake
The part of me I so abhor Dies before his midnight altar The blackened blood spread on the floor The demon that I live for
Kiss me Heathcliff kill my soul Make me empty make me whole Make me cry oh make me hurt In this pain measure my worth
I have never been anything I watch my life on pink clouds Falling to the floor I love you Rising from Cathy
by ~PlasterDoll

Through the Field at Dawn Her burning red hair shone like a second sun in the candlelight; crimson, gold, white. It fell down her back in waves of tiny curls. My eyes followed her graceful movements across the dark wooden planks of the floor, her small slippered feet making no sound as they touched. Her tasks were mindless, and her eyes were unfocused and dreaming with the blushing air of new and startling wakefulness.
The first rays of blue morning light slanted through the thick window in the kitchen, and she scanned my form beneath her lash Through the Field at Dawn
by ~PlasterDoll

PlasterDoll
by ~PlasterDoll

A Feminist ReligionThese fragmented pieces of a bitterly broken self; they seem to rise eerily from the space before me, somehow alive for all their emptiness. They die, my fingers open and close forming a tiny pink fist which I hide beneath my voluminous skirt.
The frailty of being myself is something rather elusive; I touch it, break open, fall down. The path splits and I falter. Which is the Will you speak of? You hypocrite with magic fingers, you and your unseen god! Here lies reality and you and he are lost somewhere.
How great is my scorn, and yet how m A Feminist Religion
by ~PlasterDoll

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by ~pinkmaggot

Mistaken intentionHe tipped his wrist to start the cycle, but perhaps it was dormant misogyny that made him act the way he did.
& as she waited in the dark, for his return,
on the wall, hung ticking, an exhibit of persuasion. Mistaken intention
by =Barnaby

104I, I must confess, has sent many generations to the gutters. I, has crept through the rice fields, and its path scarred the harvests like a bullet. I, could feel his boots cleave to the bottom of the pit as the cicadae sang, and breathing the heavy pellets of rain, I, turned right at the trodden path, smelled the spices, and warily, walked past the rickshaw and the peddler.
I, had climbed riverbanks no Frosts or Eliots had dared to paint, villages no Whitmans dared to praise. I, had set foot on a foreign land, carrying the heat of the sun and the weight of the Pacific; the waves spoke savagely to I, 104
by ~pavillion

Eight KissesEight Kisses

One

You can call
it emptiness, breath, epithet, or oblivion
or love, or the thing we can't

touch, while in motion.          The rush
of your mouth in me like icemelt water,

innocent, surging   like a creek, touching,

   stopped.

                                    Eight Kisses
by ~boundlessgravity

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~the-anonymous-puff

The Importance of Being Ernest

Wed Feb 1, 2006, 6:41 PM

The surest way to develop our writing styles is by understanding how other people construct theirs. Think of a writer whose work you enjoy and imitate their style. If you can't think of anyone, I recommend Ernest Hemingway or Charles Bukowski. Their sentences alternate between brutally short and stream-of-consciousness, lengthy lines. These allow for easy reading and emphasize the seeming apathy of the narrators.

A short passage from Hemingway, which displays his use of shorter sentences:
"The beans and spaghetti warmed. Nick stirred them and mixed them together. They began to bubble, making little bubbles that rose with difficulty to the surface. There was a good smell. Nick got out a bottle of tomato catchup and cut four slices of bread. The little bubbles were coming faster now. Nick sat down beside the fire and lifted the frying pan off. He poured about half the contents out into the tin plate. It spread slowly on the plate. Nick knew it was too hot."

Charles Bukowski admits in his extremely autobiographical novel, "Ham on Rye," that he was heavily influenced by Hemingway. The book follows this form. Though Bukowski's poetry is written in a slightly different style than his prose, he still has a unique tone. If you are interested in imitating his poetry, visit: [link]
There are other poems available on that site, as well.

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