Here is a little background on this poem, just in case it’s been so long you’ve forgotten me talking about it! Which would not really surprise me considering its been quite a while since I wrote it.
It is a poem that I had to write for Mr. Hoven’s Introduction to Literature class as my final. The way the poem is set up, you start by chosing 6 words. Those 6 words are then repeated as the last word in each line of the four stanzas, but in different order. It sounds really complicated now, but when you read my example you’ll catch on. It was pretty difficult for me, considering we had some really dumb words that were hard to use in poetry such as milk and oven… but the other three made it easy to construct the poem while using milk and oven as a metaphor or simile.
But anyways! Enjoy.. Read into it all you want… It has meaning to me, but I am sure it will mean something completely different to anyone that reads it.
Oh, and I’m pulling an Emily Dickinson for the Title… I know I know! I just can’t get too creative today, so you’ll just have to deal with it! O.o
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“There is no way home”
By Rebecca Tincher
“There is no way home,”
It says as I walk in the rain.
The world is full of vice,
We fill ourselves with it like heat fills an oven,
Always praying to the light
That pours out like milk.
My blood runs thick like milk,
My body is its home.
Sometimes there is no light
When my soul pours out like rain.
My thoughts bake in the oven,
Leaving no reason for my vice.
Time to become the vice.
It causes my blood to curdle like milk
And my temper becomes as hot as an oven.
Now I do not know my way home
To protect me from the violence of the rain.
So I wait for the light.
No, now I pray for the light,
Begging for its shelter from the vice.
But I’m still standing in the rain,
Bones chilled like cool milk.
I am waiting for my home.
For warmth, like that beside an oven.
How I wish for the warmth of an oven
Now in the chilled absence of light.
Why have I not yet found my way home?
I instead have found myself in the city of vice,
Its people bland and tasteless like milk.
All of them alone in the rain.
But they never even notice the rain
Nor wish for the warmth from an oven
For they have become the chill of the milk:
Never hoping for the light,
Just taking in the vice,
But they know the truth about home.
There is no light,
There is only vice,
And there will never be a way home.
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