She Didn't Mean to Do It by EMILY MEDINA

Figurative Language

emedina10 — 2018-02-23 15:42:25 UTC

Daisy Fried uses figurative language in her famed poem 'She Didn't Mean to Do It' by personifying something as intangible as certain thrills in order to describe their consequences and the feeling they produce adding a layer to the overall theme of the poem

Diction

emedina10 — 2018-02-23 15:43:07 UTC

Daisy uses a colloquial tone in her poem in an almost desperate manner as if she is begging for, not forgiveness, but an understanding penning the words, 'Oh, she was sad, oh, she was sad. She didn't mean to do it (lines 1-2).' at the beginning and end of the poem.

Imagery

emedina10 — 2018-02-23 15:45:20 UTC

The poem creates an image of a sad women who has given in to some toxic indulgence one that has ripped her apart in exchange for a cheap thrill that doesn't last very long. You can hear her sadness falling off her lips, the regret clogging her mind and see how her past decisions had taken a toll on her and knocked her off her feet. You can hear the gonging of the bells as if it is the sound of her regret and of the temptations she can't push away banging repetitively over and over in her head.

Tone

emedina10 — 2018-02-23 15:46:13 UTC

The tone plays into the poems theme of regret and realization of wrong doing. It shows the desperation to rewind and erase all mistakes, the pain of giving into to something and the regret that follows. This is all reflected in the tone of the poem.

Theme

emedina10 — 2018-02-23 15:46:32 UTC

The poem has themes of regret as a plea for an understanding. The women the poem illustrates is on her last limb of hope completely knocked down by her own indulgences and pleasures, a perfect tale of self-destruction.

emedina10 — 2018-02-25 23:15:29 UTC

emedina10 — 2018-02-27 15:32:56 UTC

She Didn't Mean to Do It

Oh, she was sad, oh, she was sad.
She didn't mean to do it.

Certain thrills stay tucked in your limbs,
go no further than your fingers, move your legs through their paces,
but no more. Certain thrills knock you flat
on your sheets on your bed in your room and you fade
and they fade. You falter and they're gone, gone, gone.
Certain thrills puff off you like smoke rings,
some like bell rings growing out, out, turning
brass, steel, gold, till the whole world's filled
with the gonging of your thrills.

But oh, she was sad, she was just sad, sad,
and she didn't mean to do it.

—Daisy Fried