Chisel Your strength, as I try to chip away those bits of you, breaks my hammer. My hands bleed from the effort, trying to make the dust at your feet into new pieces of a new you. It is late and it is dark, and I burn the stars onto my soul, fabricating moments. Your pedestal is high, and it strains my voice to talk up to you, so I am quiet now.
Lisa Pasquin's Questions:
1) I am worried that the second stanza doens't fit well with the rest of
the poem. Comments? Ways to improve it, or should I take it out competely?
2) The wording of the third stanza is also concerning me. I think there are too many words in there. Comments? Suggestions?