Apologetic Nostalgia
 

Have you ever had to sacrifice for something you cared for?
Or was it someone?
Either way you know exactly what it's like to be airborne
One second you're in heaven, breathing skies as you breeze through
The next one you're stressing about the sidewalks beneath you
Reminiscing - every step of your modest turf
The cracks in the concrete meandering to blooming plots of dirt
Trodden worth, worn with footprints the past devoured
But from up here, it's easy to confuse the cracks for flowers...

After hours spent in her bedroom as dawn broke
My cue to exit: ghoulish echoes upstairs when her mom spoke
I'm ghost - the only traces were dust clouds unsettled by her window
Some moisture on her sleepy cheek and an impression on her pillow
remembering the still glow of the yawning sun above the palm trees
Crisp country air free falling from the mountains to a calm breeze
By sunrise, clouds winked "don't worry, her parents aren't on to us"
But looking back, perhaps those clouds were much more ominous

Fast forward 6 months - frantic phone calls across the pacific
thinking of what to tell her while I'm pawing off lipstick
she picked up the phone, silent…paused for a minute
and cried "you said you would wait for my call and you missed it-
we were perfect till you left for college, admit it"
But our problems always existed...
Just modestly hidden, a collage of unconscious incisions
recalled them to be - obviously - chalked up to distance

one of us stayed quiet, the other didn't bother to listen
but looking back, who did what becomes a foggy admission
cause and elision: the economic description of the heart's wrong definition
that nobody longs for it's fission -
so silence is stubborn for us to amend the eulogy sunk in;
the "truth" is debunked when we admit love is just an independent utility function
she paid rent to the crudest assumption that left her reeling in disgrace
when I revealed it to her face that she had been replaced - by a bunch of meaningless mistakes...

people can be changed by paying homage to the firmaments
nostalgia - what discouragement!
ignoring what's in front of me as solace from the permanence
call it what you're burdened with, the fractures wandering below you/
behind you. whatever they may be, just call it what they show you
all those cracks in the sidewalk, holes to make whole again
how many apologies does it take to pave over them?
though I wonder - if those cracks exist as regrets that I forgot her
will new ones emerge if I forget that I forgot her?

Lessons I've been taught from every hour consumed -
Perhaps the cracks are just room for roots so the flowers can bloom

It took me a second to fall into this. Really, it took me a stanza. The first stanza's abstract images just didn't connect with me, mostly because I didn't think your metaphor was ideal in reflecting the pain of sacrifice.

Then your second stanza started, and I was pulled in the entire way. You had a few really gorgeous descriptions, full of all the images of frustrated youth romance that resonate so deeply in me, that you dragged out:

Those are such strong passages of writing that it's easy to miss how deft your mechanics were. The rhymes were deep, unique and rarely forced. (OK, I noticed that "calls across the pacific" line and wondered if you really went to Asia.)

So then you returned to your intro for the close. The writing was a bit stronger and more direct and tied in with the verse I just read, which was good. Inherently, I'm a minimalist. I like reading the story without too much comment, and I think I might have preferred this piece had it just been the second, third and fourth stanzas alone. But I did love, "How many apologies does it take to pave over them?" I guess to me the emotion rode higher in the storytelling than the surveyal. But there's definitely a worthwhile removal from the situation that you gain, a detatched understanding of what happened that couldn't be as smoothly told if blended into the storytelling.

Appreciate the feed, serpent. For record, I'm from Hawaii re: across the pacific line.

Wow!!! ... nice piece ... was confused about the cypher content at the first. 3bars but as I kept on reading,I had to skim back to the top to really appreciate it.
Moreover, the diction and expression used was just top notch, a quotable line every 2bars



all those cracks in the sidewalk, holes to
make whole again
how many apologies does it take to pave
over them?
though I wonder - if those cracks exist as
regrets that I forgot her
will new ones emerge if I forget that I
forgot her?
Lessons I've been taught from every hour
consumed -
Perhaps the cracks are just room for roots
so the flowers can bloom is present



^^
This stanza impressed me a great deal ... dope verse Mr oats
Just a noob casting his two cents

appreciate the feed, men

my feels, oats.


remembering the still glow of the yawning sun above the palm trees
Crisp country air free falling from the mountains to a calm breeze
By sunrise, clouds winked "don't worry, her parents aren't on to us"
But looking back, perhaps those clouds were much more ominous


the heart of the verse.



Trodden worth, worn with footprints the past devoured
But from up here, it's easy to confuse the cracks for flowers...

but that's the soul

impressive allusion all around. really meshed with the imagery. i felt kinda shitty after reading this. so good job lol. was digging how you linked at all together.


favorite line:

so silence is stubborn for us to amend the eulogy sunk in;

good stuff dude. not sure if this is old or new, but keep writing and posting. liked

Yey, this was sick. A must read for new textees and rhyme writers alike to take this in and watch what you do here. At first, you set the conceptual tone, get warmed up and then jump into a solid set of circumstantial evidence to support your claims for the characters and their many spiritual vibrations. Your style is very easy to read, fluid, and you can attack a topic accurately without becoming overtaken by miscellaneous abstractions, or getting off the path. I like that you take a literal oatmeal approach: its brown sugar contents are consistent with what it promises on the granola cereal box: thoughtfully woven man-tales with a respectable vernacular that finds its way to numerous audiences.

Good work, oatsy.

After hours spent in her bedroom as dawn broke
My cue to exit: ghoulish echoes upstairs when her mom spoke
I'm ghost - the only traces were dust clouds unsettled by her window
Some moisture on her sleepy cheek and an impression on her pillow
remembering the still glow of the yawning sun above the palm trees
Crisp country air free falling from the mountains to a calm breeze
^This part was serene.

Keep doing you

Another breath