“Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.”
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
I don’t believe in them, but somewhere there are gods hiding inside of their own heads using all their might trying to stop their own eardrums from pounding out the sound of your name.
You are lightning trying to tame thunder, leaving split second scars against the sky as if you were breaking the skin of something that won’t die. My first instinct is the same as my second, strongly reinforced as if by a diamond sheeting that donated its glimmer to charity so that it could look dull and tough. A shine now scuffed, as if the world left a bruise on light.
I fight my instinct long enough to realize that I won’t win. I give in, surrendering to an impulse, somewhat believing that my imprisonment will not involve torture if I confess everything I know.
I know nothing. I bring an emptiness to your need, like a dog laying a skeleton at your feet, bone by bone. I lay stone all around you in a circle, as if at any moment you will burst into flame and warm us long enough so that I can tell you my ghost story, that a part of me still haunts my memory. It throws chairs against my mirrored mind, cracking the reflections in which I once thought I would find answers. If I reflect long enough, there will be answers, but like mail on Sunday none came.
So I sit before flowers, hoping they will train me in the art of opening up. I stand on mountain tops believing that avalanches will teach me to let go. I know nothing, but I am here to learn.
“you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
they have moments of
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
you may not believe
but such people do
but I am not one of
oh no, I am not one
I am not even near
but they are
and I am
want to fix you
or fuck you
I can’t be fixed
and I don’t care to be saved
– Jeanann Verlee
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Posted in Poet, Quote, words