The crevices in the carpet seeped into my
flesh when a man pounded me
for the first time. He fracked into me
like a drill, leaving behind a grimy
crude residue. We kept it quiet, if

only to avoid the interruption of the
security guard, who roams around the
halls of that abandoned dorm in late June,
walking around like a member of Village
People, not patrolling so much as acting. It

was Room 306 that housed my fall
into a protruding sacred realm. My room
that summer: Room 206. (My roommate:
probably sound asleep, not knowing.) This
was my education, more poignant than the
books I hid beneath the pillow when my mom
would walk by and question and stay on guard,
when I was a boy.

Then a man, I bit one pillow to hold on
against the force of an ugly man untamed.
I used anotheras a cushion for my bony
body against the nailing into the ground. The
smell of ruptured flesh would not depart
before the morning. In fact, I liked it

even more visiting Starbuck's the next morning
smelling like a rotting faucet. Something killed
it soon enough; something dragged me from
the pole I had clutched onto with a firmer grip
than anything I had everything clutched onto. I
float around clutching whatever lovely pole comes
my way, like something unwatched, unsound.

No, nothing to do with Edgar AP, though that is a good guess.

Long ago, a person whose English was a second language, though
they were earnestly trying to speak, write, and pronounce words
correctly, were with some friends in the park, but do to the extreme
heat the prior summer, much of it's wildlife has sojourned to a better
life, and afterlife. That was the case for a once beautiful oak tree
which died, but was so big and tall, its once majestic frame still stood
tall.

The young lady was having a hard time saying her "r's" (r), and made
a comment that was meant to mean "Poor tree"

but said "Poe tree"

She got the r correct in tree, but not in poor. Because
of that day with her friends, and being corrected and lovingly
admonished, she became a famous writer, and that is the
origin of: Poetry. (Poe try, or Poor tree)

I'm stuck on this, can someone help or explan?

Below is the last stanza of a poem, "Dover Beach," written in 1876 by Matthew Arnold.

   Ah, love, let us be true
   To one another! for the world, which seems
   To lie before us like a land of dreams,
   So various, so beautiful, so new,
   Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
   Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
   And we are here as on a darkling plain
   Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
   Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Which one of the following statements best characterizes Arnold's view of the world?
A. The world is just a dream.
B. The world is not a beautiful place.
C. The world is a confusing and hostile place.
D. The world is made for lovers.

No, but even that man was derivative. It's hard to be original anymore, with every thirteen year old out there writing books.

Asker's rating & comment

It uses more devices than what's on your list, but from your list they're onomatopoeia and imagery.

I like your avatar, a balance of disturbing and calming, black and white and color.