Home General so heres my poem. its called Red Berries.
Report Post

so heres my poem. its called Red Berries.

by oktobresnoe

Red Berries

 

The red juice runs down

her face

her arms

her legs

and her facearmslegs are stained

red

from the poisonous

berry juice

the berries no one can

see

no one besides

her

those

poisonous

forbidden

red berries.

4 comments
0

Related posts

4 comments

marine105 11/28/2010 - 2:52 am

I like this, particularly because I think it conveys a deeper message.
This is how I interpret it:
the berries aren’t meant to be interpreted directly as a physical object. The red berries stand for something else. This ‘poisonous’ attribute to the red berries suggests a degenerative nature to the berries; and the fact that no one can see the berries but ‘her’ suggests not only that the berries are not of physical matter, but also, being labeled ‘forbidden,’ suggests that the berries are thoughts that even the girl in the poem views as outlandish.
These thoughts may be released by physical actions or possibly the red berries may represent insecurities. if her face, arms, and legs were stained with the berries, the poem may represent her insecurities with those particular parts with her body, or possibly (if viewed with physical releases) the harm of these particular parts of her body because of these thoughts she has

oktobresnoe 11/28/2010 - 4:44 am

thank you! that is exactly what it means. nobody else who saw that before i posted it on here understood that.

blood doll suicide hand 11/28/2010 - 5:00 am

the blood stains the new shirt givin to her by her recently departed father.
the cuts still ache the blood still spills.
when will the time of pain end?
how will the curse of pain subside?
how can they see the blood past the tears.
how would the crowd shock her soul any less?
till her death takes her from my mind and eyes sight.
take her body leave me the blood and scars.
till her last blood drop falls entertainment to them all.

blood doll suicide hand 11/28/2010 - 5:17 am

what you wrote is nice but fuck! being right there next to a cutter the pierce of there words into my soul the shock of seeing someone like me. the time of togetherness and comrodery. thats whats truely inspirering. not the thought that she is amazed by that taboo and the sight of the impending suffering. the time you spend alive is apart from your sleep. our physical closness to sleep and death, our mental hold on peace of rest and away. thats what brings down the heart of the somber not a bunch of berries passed down in time from those of suicidal upright. like the blade “they take thier rest on the shelves of our stores a tool to those leaving thier trade for the masses. a blade she withdrawls. the pain is instant the blood poring down as the cut deepens, wider till sufficient peace of mind. he wonders about the world of thought that ran through his head as he takes his final stroke. there on his favorite chair lies his cold lifeless body. how could he have faced his fears without the strenght to fight a self murderous moment. take my blade to death with me.” thats easy shit but it only misses the times that guy held his head infront of others to see if any to care for his pain. the times in the mental hospital chasing the idea of help for the weak in mind. now he is dead is all they know did they know that the dead had a daily life that would have brought fear to the minds of the strong. brought to his knees his nights his mornings the times he learned he is worthless to everyone. or to the moments someone shows intrest but has no effect on the cold heart the heart he carries. i dont think its enough if you could capture the life of the downed in your words i would tell you to seek publication, with stories like this one to small storie time books.

Leave a Comment