IsaiahX
Ape That Loves
Sorry if I put this thread in the wrong place, but I thought you all wouldn't really mind prose going alongside poetry. Anyway, thanks to anybody who gives their opinion of this. Both praise and critique are encouraged!
"The butchered dog painted onto the paper reminds me of myself. Each of the pieces of its body, displayed on a different part of the folded material, remind me of a piece of myself. I see its brown, ragged head first, its bloody teeth snarling at me through the painting.
When I see the head, I think of my depraved consciousness, an oxygen-starved victim of both my cell and malnutrition. The blood on its teeth remind me of my struggle to find sustenance for my mind in the empty cell. But, as the dogs head is separated from its digestive track, my mind is cut off from my ability to feed it. No matter how much we bite and swallow, neither of us shall be filled.
I flip the paper over, and I see the dog's maimed rear. The gouges that fill the rear remind me of the wounds in my own body, a result of everything from nails to whips to chairs, all used forcefully and remorselessly. When I notice that the rear is hopelessly emaciated, it remind me of the skin pulled tight over my own bones, pale and colorless, excepting the red wounds and brown scabs.
I unfold the paper. Pictures of a bloody ear, leg, tail, and an eye decorate the inside. The ear and eye are beside each other. Blood leaks from the severed ear and reaches the pearl surface of the eye, covering it from the back to the milky pupil. The ear and eye remind me of two things: my own ear and eye, and the images and sounds that litter my weakened memory.
My left ear was ripped in a recent beating, the torn, bloody flesh hanging loosely to my head. My left eye was blinded long ago, stabbed by a guard's rusty pocket knife. The blood from one never got to mingle with the blood of the other as the dog's did, however.
As for the memories, they are only fragments. If I close my eye and focus, I can perceive faint images. The image of a field, littered with hazy pictures of some sort of animal, come to me first. Soon, I can hear the wind rustling the grass, and the calls of some creature in the distance. Eventually, I start to hear the voice of a man behind me.
I turn and look at the man. He is tall and his clothes are plain, but his face is inconsistent. Sometimes he is bearded, old, and scarred. Other times, he has the face of a boy with milky skin and pale, blue eyes. Sometimes he has the face of a dog.
The man leads me across the field. I notice that my feet are bear, and his are too. As I follow him, the image of a house forms in the distance. It is wooden and as plain as the man's clothes. As I near the house, it blocks out the sun, and I can clearly see a porch.
On the porch sits a woman. Her face is not only consistent, but beautiful. Her long brown hair flows past her shoulders, and her brown eyes focus on me. She calls for me, and her voice soothes me. When me and the man approach, she leads us to the door.
I can hear the door of my cell open. I open my eye and the memory ceases. In the door stands a man, taller than the man in my memory. He is in uniform, and in his hands is a steel rod. He grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me from my cell. I have neither the will nor the strength to resist. As he leads me through the door, I try to remember the face of the woman from my memory, but I can picture nothing."
"The butchered dog painted onto the paper reminds me of myself. Each of the pieces of its body, displayed on a different part of the folded material, remind me of a piece of myself. I see its brown, ragged head first, its bloody teeth snarling at me through the painting.
When I see the head, I think of my depraved consciousness, an oxygen-starved victim of both my cell and malnutrition. The blood on its teeth remind me of my struggle to find sustenance for my mind in the empty cell. But, as the dogs head is separated from its digestive track, my mind is cut off from my ability to feed it. No matter how much we bite and swallow, neither of us shall be filled.
I flip the paper over, and I see the dog's maimed rear. The gouges that fill the rear remind me of the wounds in my own body, a result of everything from nails to whips to chairs, all used forcefully and remorselessly. When I notice that the rear is hopelessly emaciated, it remind me of the skin pulled tight over my own bones, pale and colorless, excepting the red wounds and brown scabs.
I unfold the paper. Pictures of a bloody ear, leg, tail, and an eye decorate the inside. The ear and eye are beside each other. Blood leaks from the severed ear and reaches the pearl surface of the eye, covering it from the back to the milky pupil. The ear and eye remind me of two things: my own ear and eye, and the images and sounds that litter my weakened memory.
My left ear was ripped in a recent beating, the torn, bloody flesh hanging loosely to my head. My left eye was blinded long ago, stabbed by a guard's rusty pocket knife. The blood from one never got to mingle with the blood of the other as the dog's did, however.
As for the memories, they are only fragments. If I close my eye and focus, I can perceive faint images. The image of a field, littered with hazy pictures of some sort of animal, come to me first. Soon, I can hear the wind rustling the grass, and the calls of some creature in the distance. Eventually, I start to hear the voice of a man behind me.
I turn and look at the man. He is tall and his clothes are plain, but his face is inconsistent. Sometimes he is bearded, old, and scarred. Other times, he has the face of a boy with milky skin and pale, blue eyes. Sometimes he has the face of a dog.
The man leads me across the field. I notice that my feet are bear, and his are too. As I follow him, the image of a house forms in the distance. It is wooden and as plain as the man's clothes. As I near the house, it blocks out the sun, and I can clearly see a porch.
On the porch sits a woman. Her face is not only consistent, but beautiful. Her long brown hair flows past her shoulders, and her brown eyes focus on me. She calls for me, and her voice soothes me. When me and the man approach, she leads us to the door.
I can hear the door of my cell open. I open my eye and the memory ceases. In the door stands a man, taller than the man in my memory. He is in uniform, and in his hands is a steel rod. He grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me from my cell. I have neither the will nor the strength to resist. As he leads me through the door, I try to remember the face of the woman from my memory, but I can picture nothing."
