“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
This Tragic Lovelife
Because I love my life,
all my secret dreams are shadowed in my reality Now
and I see This-a secret I keep,
I feel its loss and know This solidifies This sentiment.
I cherish the fragility
manifest in created destinies, like these
small acts greater than one's capacity,
to acknowledge
-This is Happy-
and Then
there is little me in big denial
smiling from year to year
at the missed opportunity
of being present-ly and ceremoniously
single.
Because I hate myself,
all my good intentions rot and fester in Dis-regard,
and I see that I am not alone in this,
that makes me yearn for more silence
and To Be Better
than I am
to me
We should agree to disagree
like both sides of me
in equality.
Image By Currier & Ives [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
And then...
Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign, at first...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
No comments:
Post a Comment