poetry

I want to have a romance so grand,it would have made Shakespeare fumble for words.

Without the wetness of your love,The fragrance of your water,Or the trickling sounds ofYour voice,I shall always feelthirsty.

It is not given to each of usTo be desired.

When my desiregrows too fierceI wear my bed clothesinside out,dark as the night__ rough husk.

Love is a game of tic-tac-toe,constantly waitingfor the next x or o.

Okay, we didn__ work, and allmemories to tell you the truth aren__ good.But sometimes there were good times.Love was good. I loved your crooked sleepbeside me and never dreamed afraid.There should be stars for great warslike ours.

Here the children have a custom. After the celebration of evil they take those vacant heads that shone once with such anguish and glee and throw them over the bridge, watching the smash, orange, as they hit below, We were standing underneath when you told it. People do that with themselves when they are finished, light scooped out. He landed here, you said, marking it with your foot.You wouldn't do it that way, empty, you wouldn't wait, you would jump with the light still in you.

JASON: 'Intended wings.' How depressing.MICHAEL: Yes. Makes them into suicides, really, the pigeons.JASON: No - no, it doesn't. It could mean the wings were 'intended' to carry them upwards, out of the darkness, but they were defective in some way, these wings, so the pigeons aren't suicidal, not at all, just badly equipped for flying. Like the rest of us.

to live asubstance-freelife under thepressures ofthe daily grindis state-sponsoredsuicide

I hate forcing myself to go to bed to avoid committing suicide.

THE DAY I ALMOST KILLED MYSELFIt was afternoon and the razorreflected the sky like like a mirror. The bath towelswere white like the bathtub and my wristswere white like the towels.The bathwater got lukewarm.The afternoon turned into lateafternoon and I was still pulling ropes of airinto my lungs like a sailor. The razor reflectedthe sunset. The bathwater got cold.The bath towels were white like the bathtub and my wrists were white like the towels.

All of my insecuritiesshine in the dark.

After all these years, all I know is, I need not to do anything as a part of remorse.All I need is to write.Because,'Poetry forgives.

SOUL SHINEYou know that thingYou do so well,That little sparkYou hideIn the dark,That you thinkNobodyKnowsAboutButYou?Well,Did you knowThatThere'sA sheenThat you beam,When you talkOr doAnything,That everyoneKnowsAboutButYou?

...but beautiful mosaics are made of broken pieces.

it is being honest about my painthat makes me invincible.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,And has the nature of infinity.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,__s such my future fate?The morn was dreary, must the eveBe also desolate?