You raise an interesting topic here and interestingly for me there are some twists. If what you say is true then it is therefore untrue. i.e. you are only trying to get me to feel something in what your writing by your own admition therefore what you are telling me about writing to 'get to me' could be untrue and just another way of you writing to get to me. How am I supposed to recieve the "In God I trust"? Is that part of the "getting to me" or is that you? When do the lines become clear if we decide a facade is required to get the response we want? IN order to connect with the reader you must give something of yourself to the task but if the only desired outcome is for the reader to simply be moved in some way then what have you given yourself for?
The means do not justify the ends, but worse still the means should not become the ends
I must take it that this is what you are trying to show, by pulling in the sacred reference at the end to show how badly the lines blur. If so it wasn't lost on me. Well done.
:)
I was moved quickly and drawn in to this piece. It is full of insight. You eloquently put across the dichotomy of love desired and intimacy feared powerfully and quickly. Your analogy of walls then carries the reader beautifully out of that introduction and into a vivid collision, as though falling in love happens 'on impact' which is thought provoking and resonates with the truth of romance often consuming us and being a force greater than our defences can resist. I am then opened further by the insight into innocence and its connection with your 'walls' . Unfortunately I then become lost and the poem seems to lose its grip on me. I can't find "the one word to say" and find the "except for me" an anticlimax because I cannot see how it is built towards. (This could be because the last four lines of the first verse have lost me)
This is a lovely story and an ambassador for childlikeness. The "zoo", the "emcee" and the "mess" take me on a bountiful journey. A magical idea presented through beautifully crafted childlike eyes. My favourite part is how it leaves me with the question: Is the child's play something so natural that in the child's mind it can be attributed outside herself? This moves me to consider what a powerful comment this story makes on how unnatural our adult relationship with play really is.
I am greatly moved by this piece. Eloquently succinct, and powerfully visionary. It is hard not to feel your hopelessness, and be moved by the closing verse's audacity.
I am quite astonished at the empathy I feel when I read this. Your language and the absurdest style provoke powerful impressions of something that should be foreign to me and yet it isn't. I am reminded of a churning loop of thoughts within a dream during a restless sleep. If your intention here is to open up philosophical dialogue about the nature of sentience it is a job well done. But to me it also speaks of the mechanical and inhuman place that insanity rather than death might occupy.
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