Sepulchre of Plastic Roses (english poetry)

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A tick clinging to the bristles of a purple boar.

31 thoughts on “Sepulchre of Plastic Roses (english poetry)”

    1. I was reading it now, and I don’t really like it. I think I over-condensated. I’m still very appreciative of your support, but I could have executed this better… oh well, there’s always the next poem!

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you Tara! It sure makes me wish you’d arrive sooner, my earlier poems were a lot more lyrical (like this one). I think I lost some of the touch, but it shall return, in time.
      Again, I’m very grateful, your readership is effusing.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much Lona, it brings me much joy to hear your praises, as I hold you to high regard in our little community. You’ve done a lot, and still do, to help little amateurs like me feel a bit better about writing with heart-in-hands. You’re truly sweet, and an angel.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, Rachel! This one is definitely more “drawn out” than most of my recent work, I’m usually less tense with my verses.
      But I’m very glad — and elated — that you enjoy it.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. It is very intense. I read it multiple times. Is it dark hope? is it an attempt to sing while the flood sweeps through civilization?
    Johnny it impacted me, I mean I can smile while I burn, but just a facial expression is that smile ? How can I feel to smile while burning? Through a Hope that a phoenix feels as he burns, that its ashes are more fertile than it is?
    I wanted to say something more but I have made it too long already.
    Beautiful poem.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. The execution of this poem is awful, inasmuch as its content becomes a bit blurred.
      When we immortalise our anguish through Art, we often forsake the toll that takes. The struggle of distinguishing truthful anguish and manufactured one (hence the name of the comp.), is one that becomes blurrier the further we encapsulate that sorrow.
      The poetic subject (if we can call it that), does not want Death, but rather, crafts his own imagetic Death out of a desire to be forsaken.

      I know, super “meh” concept, but I’m been so overcharged, I cannot properly spend time on small narrative poems. I think I’m gonna stick to confessionals for a while.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Hmm Makes sense. Its not meh. Its the best that we can do. Death is too absolute even for art, at times.
        Its the best I have read in months. Do go on.
        I was not gonna say this in open reply but what the hell, its one life lets say it.
        I can’t get one decent true emotion out of me strong enough to live through and reach paper without making a psychological mess out of me. Yeah its the anguish, the madness that crawls behind you in shadows, promising riches in craft only if you let it in your soul. Feed it with your own senses – it will let you drown and see the great pleasures of dark oceanic trenches, it will let you glide over burning suns, only if you let it in.
        I fear the madness. My social life that people call normal can not withstand that madness. So I fear. I fear and let only the dreams of that creature into any work tat I try to create.
        Its not meh. It calls. And it seems so impossible to resist, it comes in dreams as such an addictive addiction. It may be meh to war famine death. But my brain hesitates to call your overcharging meh.
        Sorry for this nonsense. But again what the hell, its life not a chessgame that I have to follow all rules everywhere.

        Liked by 1 person

      2. I understand you fully, it’s a fastidious task.
        I have no true wisdom to share. At twenty-two, I know barely enough to distinguish red from green, and everything else is an exercise of motion. I don’t usually draw myself away from “normals”, we are all a unified mass in that sense, we all experience similar reproductions of sentiment but with different velocities.
        The desire to hug the world so firmly it seeps into us, is a noble one, but one whose harvest cannot be reaped in youth.
        I hope that, as I grow older, I will achieve greater serenity of thought, at least enough to process things at a uniformed pace.
        Your exhaustion is justified, but if I may recommend, try creating works based on more levity between your emotional compositions. A couple of years ago, I was struggling hard to write in Portuguese, so I made some Chinese-Type-Parables, it gave me a lot of serenity to just act like I could explain complex things simply, even if just for a couple of hours.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Wicked poetry. When you invest your self to it you can think you over did it, I guess but go by other reaction. I read it to the end, don’t usually do that, I got it, I could see where you think you went off but it is just right. Perect. I love it and might even read it again some time. PEACE

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Just read the comments. They scare me as if I had them I would then feel compelled to maybe not write this or maybe write that, if that makes sense but it is a liked poem. Stop being down on your stuff and take what comes out for what it is. Abeautiful moment captured with words. You can also do some thing about any doubt in your next piece. I think I am going to follow you from now. stay up

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Hahah dude, so did I. I smoke at least 1 sativa every morning and 2 indicas at night. I’m Portuguese; we smoke a lot here. I actually composed this (and many other) poems while high as a kite.
      Thanks man, I appreciate this a ton, seriously.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much, Harrison! My heart waves and warms with the knowledge that you enjoyed it.
      And wow, I’m dumb. In Portuguese, it is “ondulado”, and I think mostly in Portuguese, hence why words with heavy Latin origins get a bit mixed up in my head. Thank you so much bringing it to my attention!

      Liked by 1 person

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