This week's feature I thought was kind of neat... one thing that always draws me in to something is the word choice. You can write something that only has a specific meaning to you, but its vague enough that others can take something else out of it -- something that is personal or close to them. And i think its all about word choice. It not only gives the reader something to ponder, but it makes the overall flow of the poem much more unique than just a bunch of random words slapped together. And if you can combine it with a literary style like alliteration or assonance, you add that much more to a piece.
Opus has excellent word choice in this week's feature: "Crisply Cringing."
Crisply Cringing
Opus
curved, crumpled, cramped is the will
too sick to breathe and too sick to kill
settled so subtle a slug in man's shell
till his hollowed out skulls lined with whispers of hell
a man, a martyr, a matron, a whore
another false shroud some flase idol bore
to torment the masses by uplifting souls
while all the dirty fingers drop dirty tolls
i won't try to stop them or step aside
all chalked full of secrets with nothing to hide
they'll just topple on over with power in mind
power that thickens till by power yer blind
so stick up your "wisdom" and stick it up tall
stick it so high that the world's sky may fall
and when it comes down in thick blankets like rain
then you can question if yer prophet was sane
he sure doesn't ponder about things like that
as he eats bloodstained morsels in a silver tipped hat
but i guess hes still got that old human curse
the one that kills beauty and puts himself first
curved, crumpled, cramped is my will
im too sick to breathe and too sick to kill
Opus has excellent word choice in this week's feature: "Crisply Cringing."
Crisply Cringing
Opus
curved, crumpled, cramped is the will
too sick to breathe and too sick to kill
settled so subtle a slug in man's shell
till his hollowed out skulls lined with whispers of hell
a man, a martyr, a matron, a whore
another false shroud some flase idol bore
to torment the masses by uplifting souls
while all the dirty fingers drop dirty tolls
i won't try to stop them or step aside
all chalked full of secrets with nothing to hide
they'll just topple on over with power in mind
power that thickens till by power yer blind
so stick up your "wisdom" and stick it up tall
stick it so high that the world's sky may fall
and when it comes down in thick blankets like rain
then you can question if yer prophet was sane
he sure doesn't ponder about things like that
as he eats bloodstained morsels in a silver tipped hat
but i guess hes still got that old human curse
the one that kills beauty and puts himself first
curved, crumpled, cramped is my will
im too sick to breathe and too sick to kill
