Together, Apart (Edit One)

[fuzzyllama1]

Together, Apart
 
Together
He saw oversized scrubs, a body trying its very hardest
to fill every last stitch and pocket, endearingly,
honestly fit, she fashioned it and flowed freely,
through halls, two workers, perfect unison in hand and mind
chained to a soul duty, a personal creed
backgrounded by a full set of stars and stripes,
uniform, ammunition toted in a 50-pound camo backpack.
It made her back arch, ache, and upon a 95-pound frame,
still bore the mass of he and his whole world.
 
Her nervous ball of energy collided with his calm introversion,
fusion of two became ironically bonded
coincidentally, positives and negatives interlacing
with dancing beauty, apparent imperfection, and silent pain.
papers flew by, whipped up in the frenzy,
marked by cohort, professor, and friend alike
no restraint was held by any
except for the two involved. They knew
the importance of patients over self.
 
Demons drag deeply, not even the most delicate
dancer can spin away from such capricious claws.
Steps once in unison, a common music shared,
show signs of delineation eventually. Rhythm rules man, but
woman need not waltz away from her own path
just to match his heartened attempts at keeping tempo.
Life is more than that dance, no matter how
interesting the back and forth makes it.
She will sway to her own symphony,
he will watch and listen.
 
Apart
Sometimes silence is peace, nothing
to worry of but breath and blood,
nothing fills the lungs, expands and seeps slowly
into vessels, carrying weightless cargo on the backs of billions
calming countless masses
Sometimes silence is war, chaos
orders the air all around, vibrations rattle bones and tear skin
chaos scrambles jets and unleashes rivers,
tears stream and hearts push salinated gallons
 
She will stumble forward, blind of her future
tripping on her past, but the steps she takes are hers,
no bigger than a size 3, the impressions she leaves
sink foundations and shatters frames, but she will never pass
without first picking up the pieces and perhaps stopping
to build him an easel. Her journey is art, splatter painting
over Las Meninas, finding La Guernica amidst the technicolor streaks.
There is no shame in her following the brush’s stroke
instead of pushing the paint where it does not want to go.
 
He does not have a woman, but he has his morals,
a compass bouncing around like flubber,
hoping to find a sturdy surface that attracts him
rather than the one-legged wooden stools
he finds himself so often stuck under,
old chewed gum, long void of flavor.
Perhaps his gray putty will, one day, dissolve into beautiful 
palates of paint that will splash and streak on her canvas,
but a caterpillar does not try to figure out how to become a butterfly,
he just becomes one.
Until then, he has a friend.

[Richard]

Hey fuzzyllama1,
I found that the second part of this poem was stronger than the first. I'll go into more detail below:

Together, Apart
 
Together
He saw oversized scrubs, a body trying its very hardest
to fill every last stitch and pocket, endearingly,
honestly fit, she fashioned it and flowed freely,
through halls, two workers, perfect unison in hand and mind -I would suggest dropping the word "perfect". It seems a bit redundant to me.
chained to a soul duty, a personal creed -I see what you did with the word "soul". Personally, I would change it to the correct spelling, but others might disagree.
backgrounded by a full set of stars and stripes,
uniform, ammunition toted in a 50-pound camo backpack.
It made her back arch, ache, and upon a 95-pound frame,
still bore the mass of he and his whole world. -I like the idea in this line. It just needs to be expanded upon.
 
Her nervous ball of energy collided with his calm introversion,
fusion of two became ironically bonded -Rather than telling the reader that something is ironic, I would suggest just showing it some how.
coincidentally, positives and negatives interlacing
with dancing beauty, apparent imperfection, and silent pain.
papers flew by, whipped up in the frenzy, -Need a capital on "papers".
marked by cohort, professor, and friend alike -I thought this poem was about two soldiers, but now it sounds like it's about school.
no restraint was held by any
except for the two involved. They knew
the importance of patients over self. -patience?
 
Demons drag deeply, not even the most delicate -What demons? This is an image that needs to explained more.
dancer can spin away from such capricious claws.
Steps once in unison, a common music shared,
show signs of delineation eventually. Rhythm rules man, but -This idea of rhythm and the next line about the waltz should be expanded on. These could be interesting images to explore further.
woman need not waltz away from her own path
just to match his heartened attempts at keeping tempo.
Life is more than that dance, no matter how
interesting the back and forth makes it.
She will sway to her own symphony,
he will watch and listen. -The fact that "he" is just watching and listening seems to contradict the "interesting" back and forth mentioned a few lines earlier.
 
Apart
Sometimes silence is peace, nothing
to worry of but breath and blood,
nothing fills the lungs, expands and seeps slowly -I would end the image of silence as peace here. I find the next two lines take away from the first three lines.
into vessels, carrying weightless cargo on the backs of billions
calming countless masses
Sometimes silence is war, chaos
orders the air all around, vibrations rattle bones and tear skin
chaos scrambles jets and unleashes rivers, -War is chaotic. I just think you don't need to repeat the word "chaos". May be use a different word that would relate to war (i.e. hate, suffering, etc.).
tears stream and hearts push salinated gallons
 
She will stumble forward, blind of her future
tripping on her past, but the steps she takes are hers, -I like the image of "tripping on her past". My question is how does this relate to the silence in the last stanza?
no bigger than a size 3, the impressions she leaves
sink foundations and shatters frames, but she will never pass
without first picking up the pieces and perhaps stopping
to build him an easel. Her journey is art, splatter painting
over Las Meninas, finding La Guernica amidst the technicolor streaks.
There is no shame in her following the brush’s stroke
instead of pushing the paint where it does not want to go. -I like the last two lines here. I would suggest writing a whole poem about an artist painting a picture by expanding upon these two lines.
 
He does not have a woman, but he has his morals,
a compass bouncing around like flubber, -Comparing morals to a compass is a bit cliched.
hoping to find a sturdy surface that attracts him -Is the woman or his morals hoping here?
rather than the one-legged wooden stools
he finds himself so often stuck under,
old chewed gum, long void of flavor.
Perhaps his gray putty will, one day, dissolve into beautiful 
palates of paint that will splash and streak on her canvas,
but a caterpillar does not try to figure out how to become a butterfly,
he just becomes one. -I like this image of the butterfly, but it could clearer on how this relates to the man and woman.
Until then, he has a friend. -I think you need to explore more of why they are just friends. Just saying something about morals isn't enough detail for me.

Overall, I think you got a workable poem here. It just needs some editing/revising. I look forward to seeing where you take this from here.

Cheers,
Richard

[Mopkins]

Together, apart

Together

He saw oversized scrubs, a body trying its very hardest  (neato oversized shrubs)
to fill every last stitch and pocket, endearingly,
honestly fit, she fashioned it and flowed freely,  (nice free fitting fabric)
through halls of his mind, two workers, perfect unison in hand and mind
chained to a soul duty, a personal creed backgrounded by a full set
of stars and stripes, uniform, with ammunition toted in a 50-pound camo backpack.
It made her back arch, ache, and upon a 95-pound frame, still bore the mass
of he and his whole world.  (hmmm "he"? i auto spoke 'him')

It was confirmed then and there. Schooling was a selfish venture
He knew his motivations incomplete, time ticked away irreverently to the real truth.
Right then and there, amidst her maze of messes,
he re-evaluated, over-analyzed his whole, picked at every fiber
getting lost and confused amidst her tachy heart rates.
If he could study the art of her mind it would lead him to
wander endlessly, analyze and adore it all  (maybe too many analyzes?  maybe assess  for a bit of variety?)
symphonies of JoJo would reverberate, rattle bones, shiver spines (huh? wtf is jojo?  the supermarket in stardew valley?  no idea!)

He silently screamed, have patience!
Her life, it’s soul independence was worth all and any treasure.
Soft, molded living gold right before his eyes, ( may be a u in moulded?)
there is so safety deposit box worthy,
no sense hoarding it, hiding this pure beauty from the world.

He did not curate, no museum tour guide classes  ( hmmm?  'curate her"?)
no ownership, nor want to make transparent glass boxes
to keep belongings in. No wall, story, or post was part of the plan;
his want for her to see the indescribable infinite beauty he saw.
What mirror could fit a pedestal so high?
Even if the subject only stood near five feet tall

Apart
He could have had her in three steps.
He made a choice that took him three steps further away (ummm maybe 'turn/path/fork/tributary/etc? over 'choice' )
from becoming the man he wanted so desperately to be.

Step one,
that man used his heart more than his brain.
He was smart enough to know how stupid smart people can be.
He let go of his metal and electric brain, sacrificed his philosophy  (hmm metal brain? mental?)
for hers, because there is no truth in Nietzsche, only truth in her.

Step two,
that man embraced worship. Made it his priority
to sit with her every weekend and feel the connection together.
He said “I want to go.”
Not “I’ll go with her.”  ( don't discern much difference between these two statements - perhaps something more to do with hesitation/reluctance to make the pilgrimage and a desire to do so?)

Step three,
that man saw all the goodness within her
proclaimed it true every day, ( true? bit blah.... verity/omnipresent/unutterable/indescribable/etc?)
told the world she was beautiful in every way.
Not just because of what she could become,
because of who she already was.
The man that looked at her('looked' bit blah 'gazed/beheld/worshipped/adored/etc'?)
saw everything he ever wanted
Because all he ever wanted was what he saw.

The choice he made instead.
His most important choice.  (yawn snore zzz too many choices!)
One he will hold with him as his only regret.
He chose not to try when it mattered most,
when she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He chose not to seize the opportunity to become
The man he so desperately wanted to be.

He would have become that man.
If only he would have danced with her at that wedding. ('that"? not 'their'?)
If only he would have held her in that pink dress.
If only he would have told her “I miss you too” instead of telling himself “I’ll see her on Tuesday.”  ( mmm, maybe 'i'll miss you too"?)
Monday was when he lost her forever.  ( neato conclusion)


liked lots cheers for the read


edit duh just realised thats an earlier version apologies for stupidity and such