If I Believe

I wonder how angry the employees hired to draft up Terms and Conditions are. I mean all of that tireless spellchecking and making sure everything flows conclusively … And no one ever actually reads them. ever.

I think when we allow ourselves to really be broken to heal. We find nasty, nasty things. The things that kept quiet under the bed and locked tightly in a closet for so many years finally comes crashing foward at once and you use every ounce of self preservation tactics learned and born to face them.
No battle or war is so cleverly and horribly fought than the one within us. Trust me, I’ve had to learn the hard way.
Actions truly do have consequences. No matter how impulsive or rational they are. You still have to face the demons of your head and your heart.

Personally I’ve always given myself a little pat on the back. My emotional and mental tolerance for bullshit is impeccable. Physically speaking is another whirlwind I’d rather not jump into at the current moment.

Days are tough and long. So long, it’s starting to turn into one big memory. I can’t distinguish actual events from one run on emotional strain.

My life always happens in circumlocution. And you’d think if history repeats itself, you learn not to make the same mistake once. But no one ever learns from their past. Because no one ever completely lets go. They drag old scars and hurts and memories with them. And it becomes poison for a possible healthy and functional future.

I whip dead horses constantly

My mind jumps from too many things. I process fast and move on to something else. Maybe it’s just a short attention span thing. But the moon is making this red orange glow and it’s really something.

Edward Estlin Cummings.
Very not so entertaining fun fact. Every Wednesday I’d sit by my window and read poetry. It was something I did for me. The wonderful night, beautiful words and this strange sensation.

Always EE Cummings. He’s been my favorite since as long as I can remember. I miss the days of ballads and long love letters with actual feeling. Not text messages. Maybe I’m just too much of a romanticist. I was really born in the wrong Era. Everything about this time and me is just one big miscommunication.

So tonight I’m going to forget about. What’s around me and on my shoulders and just slip away. Im going to ignore life for a while and my fears and my anger and my disappointment. No it isn’t Wednesday yet. But I deserve to be a little naughty. Tuesday it is!
Beautiful words, no feeling but what I’m reading. Something to make me cry and wonder and feel like a child pretending to be in the Secret Garden again. Here are a few of my favorites. Maybe it’ll wake something in you, too.

If I Believe

if i believe
in death be sure
of this
it is

because you have loved me,
moon and sunset
stars and flowers
gold crescendo and silver muting

of seatides
i trusted not,
one night
when in my fingers

drooped your shining body
when my heart
sang between your perfect

darkness and beauty of stars
was on my mouth petals danced
against my eyes
and down

the singing reaches of
my soul
the green-

greeting pale-
departing irrevocable
i knew thee death.

and when
i have offered up each fragrant
night,when all my days
shall have before a certain

face become
from the ashes
thou wilt rise and thou
wilt come to her and brush

the mischief from her eyes and fold
mouth the new
flower with

thy unimaginable
wings,where dwells the breath
of all persisting stars

I Have Found What You Are Like

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

—in the woods

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
your kiss

If I Should Sleep With A Lady Called Death
if I should sleep with a lady called death
get another man with firmer lips
to take your new mouth in his teeth
(hips pumping pleasure into hips).

Seeing how the limp huddling string
of your smile over his body squirms
kissingly, I will bring you every spring
handfuls of little normal worms.

Dress deftly your flesh in stupid stuffs,
phrase the immense weapon of your hair.
Understanding why his eye laughs,
I will bring you every year

something which is worth the whole,
an inch of nothing for your soul.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands


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