My body is made of information,
I see in infrared and j-peg,
PNG formats I can't
Their eyes see mere mortal things,
and nothing supernatural in technology.
No ghosts in the machines,
no flesh in the software.
No hope in the problem,
nothing thick in the water,
don't call me at home,
remember I can't be bothered.
My skin is a spreadsheet and
my hair is string theory in action
My brain is afloat in liquid caffeine
so it's no wonder I over react.
Where do people go when
Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see
him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And think you that I should be dumb,
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
There are many types of pain:
the sharp, hot stabbing,
the constant sensory flooding,
the pressure ache,
The slapping fizz
the hard hit
the slam it.
But the worst is the dull,
when you feel nothing at all.
I am not afraid of love.
I am afraid of being hurt beyond repair.
I am afraid of giving my all to one who may not always be there.
I am afraid of losing myself
And never finding my way back.
I am afraid of falling in love--
If you aren't falling back.
I feel pretty small living on planet earth
like this planet was a doll house that belonged
to a gigantic girl,
ken and barbies everywhere & babies too
cars planes and army men....
looks like a giant boy lives with her too
that song came on again today
i thought of you
like i always do.
i thought time equaled love
and memories meant joy
but i was wrong about both.
how could i be so attached after two short months?
i don't have the right to be broken
over someone who was never even mine
and i can't blame you for going
when i was the person who chased you away.
part of me wants to change what happened
to run after you
to scream come back.
but the rest of me knows
all stories have an ending
and all songs have one last note
ours just ended sooner than i wanted.
As soon as you get used
to the lights on,
and his face adorns
my empty walls
you will cut off the hand
that undresses the oak
and the endless touch
and the sever conditions.
Will he know this?
Will he know?
Will he know?
Will he know that in the end
you didn't hunt out of hunger?
That in this eternal field
of lilies and wire
the night forgot the moon
and walked until late,
to find you chewing
muscle and fur?
Only one mark on your skin,
but on your soul, perhaps, thousands
although I wouldn't dare to say
that any of those was inflicted by me.
And if it never rains again,
When will you have the courage to choose
if you sleep without his eyes, or without me,
If you live without a scar or without roots?
And if on these streets
where you dragged me,
where so many winters
for springs you traded
I should have the misfortune
to stumble upon him,
I would apologize
just by seeing him
Would he know this?
Would he know?
Would he know?
Would he know that you are just
a burning bush?
And I am a dark water spring
wanting to caress you?
That, maybe, I did him a favor,
that, modesty aside,
it takes more water
than what he has to turn you off?
And the glass of his eyes
would be broken in suspense
and then, he would want to see
And he would recognize the cancer
that he has carried on his bones,
and then, he would want to believe
That, out of the seed he spat
I did grow a watermelon.
Then I would know
if I'm allowed to be born,
if one day, the day will come
where you will be mine