Free Verse Lineation

I Make Ragnarok Look Like a Tea Party.

And the cataclysm nears,
Catalyzed by fears and stress,
And oh yes, you my dear.
Internal pressure reaches levels so
High my skin bevels out to
Compensate for you pressing in.
I am a caricature of caring,
Wearing that tired smile you tried to
Disprove, remove with your assault.
Decipher this, you'll open the door,
But what was inside won't be there anymore
(Weapons of mass self-destruction are hard to uncover).
Sooner or later I'll go down in flames--
Cliche', I know, and a little lame--but
Being consumed like a wick has always been my thing.
Is picking at scabs your hobby? I'd lobby
For you to stop if I thought you'd listen--
Hell, maybe I'd talk if I thought you'd listen.
Even now, in my medium of choice, the words evade me
And my voice; all the while they pervade me, pervert me
Into what I was back when I purpled my own skin.
It's something in me, been there as long as I can remember
(Dormant sometimes, but when it's conscious I feel
Like a doormat at times).
I wouldn't expect you to understand, and if you say you do,
I know you don't, and that's OK, I'm OK with that--
Did you hear me? I'M OK.
Really.
But I'd be more OK
If I could stop thinking.
Because the blast--it's defused for now
But the bomb will blow
When it's catalyzed again.

I Make Ragnarok Look Like a Tea Party.

And the cataclysm nears, catalyzed by fears and stress, and oh yes, you my dear.
Internal pressure reaches levels so high my skin bevels out to compensate for you pressing in.
I am a caricature of caring, wearing that tired smile you tried to disprove, remove with your assault.
Decipher this, you'll open the door, but what was inside won't be there anymore
(weapons of mass self-destruction are hard to uncover).
Sooner or later I'll go down in flames--cliche', I know, and a little lame--
but being consumed like a wick has always been my thing.
Is picking at scabs your hobby?
I'd lobby for you to stop if I thought you'd listen--
Hell, maybe I'd talk if I thought you'd listen.
Even now, in my medium of choice, the words evade me and my voice;
all the while they pervade me, pervert me into what I was back when I purpled my own skin.
It's something in me, been there as long as I can remember
(dormant sometimes, but when it's conscious I feel like a doormat at times).
I wouldn't expect you to understand, and if you say you do, I know you don't, and that's OK,
I'm OK with that--did you hear me? I'M OK. Really.
But I'd be more OK if I could stop thinking.
Because the blast--it's defused for now but the bomb will blow when it's catalyzed again.



The different lineations of the poem feel so different that they are actually two very different poems. The first feels disjointed, chaotic, and urgent. The line breaks are harsh and discordant and juxtapose words and rhymes in ways that I find interesting. The second version is a much smoother read, with more predictable line breaks. It emphasizes the wordplay and internalizes the rhyme. I prefer the first poem as a whole because the short lines create a sharp, violent tone that mirrors the concept my anger makes the end of the world seem comparatively tame.