What if I had wanted to break away from all of this pain as an empath, would you believe it to be true? If I had given my all and had fallen to the floor and had begged you for the guidance to gracefully break. Would you help me in my search? Would you catch me as I had fallen to the floor along with those whom had not understood me and my need to break down the pieces in my world that are confusing and restless. And If I had wanted to fight for the rest of my life to be what I had felt I should be would you wait for me? Can’t you see that Im not running from you? Im simply being broken down and now I am finished following you and can’t you see that I wish to be finished? I so desperately wish to be finished and I cannot seem to type my true emotions and this is what they all had asked of me. To write my emotions down since they are too strong for me to control and since I will never be able to tackle all that I see wrong in this world due to lack of time. But come dear and break down all that I see wrong in this world. Won’t you marry me as I walk along the hedges of what could’ve been and swing where your strong arms once held me? And would it be wrong of me to remember the words you said to me in the vulnerability of your love? What if I had wanted you to wait for me? What if I could tell you that your bringing me down? I am a poster girl with no poster, but soon I will be all that I had wanted to be in due time.

Do Not Stand At My Grave by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
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(no subject)

 Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

(no subject)


The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rate and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Roald Dahl

Ars Poetica

A poem should be palpable and mute
As globed fruit,

As old medallions to the thumb,

Slient as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds


A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind--

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.


A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--

A poem should not mean
But be.

-Achibald MacLeish (1892-1982)

Something that moved me the other day in poetry class... I admit to not fully understanding it. The title means "Art of Poetry" or something related since Latin is so odd...

10 min rambles

the air tasted so sweet.
you almost forgot to breathe it in.
your last words have not yet been heard.
speak your wisdom,
oh great one.
your lips are moving as vocal cords stay still.

hop in the car.
you'll drive fast.
what are you getting away from?
are you afraid?
stop the motion.
take in the beauty.

she whispers something in your ear.
and you stop.
then turn to me.
what is it you're looking for, i ask?
i can't apologize for her.
there's so much beauty it could make you cry.

(no subject)

She rested her head on the pillow near her. Her head was tired. She had been thinking all day. Thought about the days that past filled the dark void. They all linked with each other and she couldn't escape anything. It was as if there was no way to avoid it either. Her health was staggering. And her eyes were way to heavy to keep open. She sank into a deep, restless slumber.
It was as if she was still awake. Scenes were being played like a memory scrapbook. She was scared. The scenes were familiar, but there was nothing the same about it.
The sky was hazy and gloom hung all around. There was a smell lingering that was like that of an abandoned hospital. Life seemed to just drag minute to minute, hour to hour. It was like someone broke the slow motion button. It looks like life was scarce. And she was frightened. She felt like her life was out of place. She stuck out and she was worried that she wouldn't make it long.
She felt her breathing grow shallow. Her heart beat, rapid. There was nowhere for her to turn. She felt like she was in a downward spiral. She didn't want anyone else to know that. She turned to smile. She found what looked like her friends. She smiled and let out a sigh of relief. She just wanted someone that she could feel. She wanted to know that this world was tangible. She wanted to know that she wasn't just going crazy in this world alone. She couldn't imagine what would really happen if she was fooled.