Tag: poetry

  • Pathetic prose and paltry poetry

    ‘tis all that escapes the cage within me

    Noisy numbers, withered flowers 

    ‘tis all that remains of the hopes that plagued me

    Being is burdened, 

    ‘til death embraceth me

  • Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her

    If questioning would make us wise
    No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;
    If all our tale were told in speech
    No mouths would wander each to each.

    Were spirits free from mortal mesh
    And love not bound in hearts of flesh
    No aching breasts would yearn to meet
    And find their ecstasy complete.

    For who is there that lives and knows
    The secret powers by which he grows?
    Were knowledge all, what were our need
    To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

    Then seek not, sweet, the “If” and “Why”
    I love you now until I die.
    For I must love because I live
    And life in me is what you give.

    ~ Christopher Brennan (1870-1932)

  • Look To This Day!

    Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
    Look to this Day!
    For it is Life, the very Life of Life.
    In its brief course lie all the
    Verities and Realities of your Existence.
    The Bliss of Growth,
    The Glory of Action,
    The Splendor of Beauty;
    For Yesterday is but a Dream,
    And To-morrow is only a Vision;
    But To-day well lived makes
    Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
    And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.
    Look well therefore to this Day!
    Such is the Salutation of the Dawn!

    ~ Kalidas

  • curiositywillkill:

    If I walk on broken roots, and you on two feet, am I not to be walking because I do not walk like men do?

    If I stand with my roots in the ground, and you with your two feet above soil, am I not to be standing because I do not stand like men do?

    Why are my gems stolen, my fruits eaten, my flesh torn? Why are my children crying, why are yours? Why do you weep when the sky weeps for me, why do you laugh when the sky laughs at you?

    O, tell me, why are my bones exploited for heat, and then my whole family pitied from the very thing? Why do you throw me in fire, but grow helpful when the fire is thrown into me?

    Why do you trifle with scrawny, strewn limbs and use them as tools? Why do you steal babes from the nesters to please your own follies?

    O, man, tell me so, why is that we are not let to stand? If you will destroy me, leave not even my roots. Burn me, light me all, let my ashes bring life.

    Let us not be stood without will and planted by paved roads and lit lamps. Burn us down, burn us up, do not let me leave my bounds.

    Let us be, let us move. Let us stand and walk, breathe and beat, wake and slumber. Let us be everything, let us free. Let us free like your men.

  • On the Occasion of My Death

    tylerknott:

    On the occasion of my death
    how will I be remembered?
    Will it be sobs and soaked handkerchiefs
    or will it be laughter and heads
    shaking in collective acknowledgment
    to the silly and completely ridiculous
    stories that will be told?
    On the occasion of my death
    how will I meet the one that will
    usher me through the crossroads
    of this life and the next?
    Will it be with a bang, with a
    silent whimper, or with my forehead
    to the clouds a grin upon my fading
    mouth and my hand reaching out first
    to take her hand before she asks
    for mine?
    Will it be painful, will it hurt, will
    I scream for it to be over or will
    I, pushing through frozen bits of frozen
    moments, understand the reason for the pain
    and the explanation behind the hurt
    and instead turn and bask in it, the final
    sensation this skin and these bones will
    ever feel this beautiful lap through
    a breathtaking life.
    On the occasion of my death
    what will be the weather on the instant
    and dizzying transition into
    the occasion of my rebirth?
    Will I enter through a storm
    or through the gentle breeze of a sunny
    day? Will the rain drops be my baptism
    and will my first scream be only the echo
    of my last scream in the flesh I used
    to wear, and wear proudly?
    On the occasion of my death
    will the explosion be felt across
    the planet or will it be the
    single falling star spied by a single
    lonely soul sitting on the roof of
    some creaking house in the cool early
    Autumn night? Will they feel me flicker
    and fade and burst back into glowing
    life or will I just fall into line
    as the next star in a line of many
    that make up some constellation?
    Will sailors guide themselves by me,
    will two young souls freshly in love
    wish upon me when I come out while
    the blue still hangs in the sky
    and will I feel those wishes?
    On the occasion of my death
    what will become of all
    that was?  What will become
    of all I was to be
    on the occasion of my death?

    -Tyler Knott Gregson-

  • howfreeitis:

    I often think of the boys who were attracted to me simply out of the virtue that I was introspective and elusive. They didn’t want to be with me because of my questionable beauty, my wavering intellect, or my neutral morality. It was primarily because I was dramatic in my constant reflections. Everyone, regardless of their good or bad humour, has a place deep down in which they question their existence and their inherent value. The size of this place differs from person to person, but it is nearly always there, to even a minuscule degree. And here is me, who is nearly totally filled with this place, whose quotidian inner monologues consist almost solely of “Why am I alive?” and “Why won’t I die?” I suppose many people find refuge in someone whose very existence is defined in this questioning, and in a sense someone like me can reflect that loneliness and pain that is so common in everyone. Perhaps I am a temporary relief, a bandage for your loneliness. I am a form of comfort, of release, in your infrequent quests for appropriation. And yet, one can only be introspective for so long, and that is why people grow tired of me. Initially, I give an air of quiet desperation. Since with me, every moment seems to carry the gravity of eons of absolution. This adds virtue and magnitude to your being. But in the end, we all become exhausted with purpose. In the end, we all want the complacency of boredom. And that is why most people forget me after a while.

  • mermaids-and-earthquakes:

    No I’m not a beautiful person, I’m sorry. 
    I’m not special, or full of light and laughter,
    with a smile delicate as fine Venetian lace. 

    I’m not the soul who lights up a room
    whenever she walks in.
    I carry a little darkness, a little storm cloud.
    I’m rather plain, and that’s ok.
    but my eyes are large,
    they have seen beautiful things
    and my ears are like a fox’s
    they catch the whispers you drop

    I collect beautiful things
    like a magpie, I’m lining myself
    with lovely
    to make up for the lack of my own. 

  • Come Here and Get to Know Me

    j-r-morgan:

    You don’t know me. 

    To know me

    you have to love me.

    You can love me.

    Come here and love me.

    Allow this introduction start

    to be our blank canvas of love art.

    Let me share paint love beauty

    within across the gentle rising of your chest

    with the gentle rhythms strokes of my heart tongue.

    And if you like you can unravel the stitching,

    poking holes where you see fit,

    desired effect of love paint seeping through.

    We can share this adoration art

    as we trickle it across the floors,

    splashing it around with our hearts fingers.

    We can fill the days with it,

    blissful as it soaks into all the trees,

    enchanted as the flowers turn an aquamarine,

    inspired as the raccoons turn a vivid blue.

    We can recolor the dirt and granular rocks

    with a more desirable and inviting hue

    so that both children and grown ups alike

    will dream play in sand boxes, enlivened fascinated once again.

    If you’d like it swim in indigo oceans

    and witness chrome red passions laughter

    we can decorate every facet of this world

    with our display of uninhibited amour shades.

    Or if you’d prefer to create a more introspective

    romance art we can keep the tints within,

    as we discover the bronze and sapphire dyes of our limbs.

    This is love art and this is an expression of art love.

    If you’d like to explore create all you’ve ever dreamt to see

    come here and love get to know me.

    by: me.

    9.22.11

    * This was the most enjoyable piece I’ve yet to write.  I feel happy 🙂