DetailsThe poem, its numbers, and the conversation.

Labor.

Member since 2002 · Posted 10 Jun 2005 · 4 comments

I bleed for attention. wear my heart on my sleeve. sweat through my scars till the minute you leave. desperate for affection with no prudent remorse. head on for the crash with no shift from the course. beaten laid flat spread open for entry. divided by minutes that feel like a century. deep in denial. permanent bliss. the wounds in-between a fist from a kiss stay like regrets where nothing is lost. repeat without conscience no matter the cost.

Rate it

0 is the worst, 10 the best. Pick a number, add a comment if you like, then send it. Keys: 0–9 pick, Enter sends.

mean 4.00 weighted 4.95 rank 8789 views 180 View voting details →

2 votes so far. Yours would make 3.2 votes so far

4 comments

[8] Bankrupt_Word_Clerk 10-Jun-05/11:44 PM Reply

I like this. At first I wished you had changed the format so that I could see the rhyme...but nah.. I just like it. almost makes me think of a hard core Dr. Suess book in meter.

[n/a] darby pyn › Bankrupt_Word_Clerk 11-Jun-05/6:50 PM Reply

Thank you. I wrote this without pause. when reading it back â Laborâ
seemed the proper title. it was not conceived with any obvious topic
but the pain and resolution of pregnancy seemed to manifest at the
conclusion as the interpretation of this Dr Suess nightmare.

[n/a] deleted user 11-Jun-05/5:15 AM Reply

Another poem (written like a kitchenblender's manual) with shades of sadism, or rather auto-mutilatism. Why do people in luv feel the need to ram their heads through stone walls or want to fall on top of an upturned billiard cue or want to smother a kiss with a fist? This is about lovepain, yes, but I read too many lovepoems that lack sensitivity. The problem here is probably it's bloody seriousness.

[n/a] fevriere 11-Jun-05/10:31 AM Reply

I am sorry to be such a blatant hanger-on but doubleU's right. I was waiting for you to pick your head up and give a wry verbal retort. I'll bet you can do it and in my opinion it would give this poem the arsekick it deserves. No vote 'til it gets better.