Polyglottic Poetry
One thing I love is using multiple languages in a single poem. While I’m yet limited by my lack of polyglottism (I’m certain that’s not really a word, but then it should be), I do have one attempt at such a poem that’s dear to my heart, it was the poem with which I realised I could write meaningful, interesting poems and that I enjoyed it a lot. Presenting,
Sometimes you just like the sting
Hear me out, I'm not a masochist,
I'm not out here advertising eating fists,
Nor hurting yourself for the fun of it,
But the sting, it reminds you you exist.
Doesn't it?
Hasn't it,
Ever woken your head and senses?
Snapped, right cracked, stupor you out of,
Wind rushes past, ridding the pillow soft,
Open wide eyes, disappear lies,
like foggy skies with bright sunrise?
Il a pour me, mon ami.
Il a pour me, loving it, je suis.
Sometimes you just like the sting.
Because this we know, you and I,
Without the thorns, the petals die;
Alchemy's fundamental law holds true,
As you give to me, I must lose for you,
So when it stings, I know for sure,
That what I'm getting is true, and
My bruises keep wanting more.
So, mon ami, do you see?
Pourquoi c'est comme ça avec me?
But before I go, I'll leave you with this,
The sting may be nice, but not memory miss,
A little bruise heals easy, not so the cracks and pains,
Of bones, hearts broken - sometimes never heal again.
Hear me out, I'm not a masochist,
I'm not out here advertising eating fists,
Nor hurting yourself for the fun of it,
But the sting, it reminds you you exist.
Doesn't it?
Hasn't it,
Ever woken your head and senses?
Snapped, right cracked, stupor you out of,
Wind rushes past, ridding the pillow soft,
Open wide eyes, disappear lies,
like foggy skies with bright sunrise?
Il a pour me, mon ami.
Il a pour me, loving it, je suis.
Sometimes you just like the sting.
Because this we know, you and I,
Without the thorns, the petals die;
Alchemy's fundamental law holds true,
As you give to me, I must lose for you,
So when it stings, I know for sure,
That what I'm getting is true, and
My bruises keep wanting more.
So, mon ami, do you see?
Pourquoi c'est comme ça avec me?
But before I go, I'll leave you with this,
The sting may be nice, but not memory miss,
A little bruise heals easy, not so the cracks and pains,
Of bones, hearts broken - sometimes never heal again.
Translations:
“il a pour me” = “it has for me”
“mon ami” = “my friend”
“je suis” = “I am”
“pourquoi c’est comme ça avec me?” = “why it is like this with me?”
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