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Taylor Nov 2018
"If I killed myself today, the sun would still come out, the stars would still shine, so why not?"

Why is that a comfort? A warm, firm hand on my cold heart
The soft touch of a delicate embrace

But, it's supposed to be bad right?

I shouldn't but I want to
I know I can't yet I yearn still
What is wrong with me?
I find solace in strange places
The screaming of thunder storms and harsh blows of the wind
The chaos and pushing of hundreds of bodies against my own
I've learned to like the dark, the ugly, the bad

And it feels good
Why is that so bad?

But if it is so right, why does my heart scream "guilty" ?
  Nov 2018 Taylor
John White
I don't believe in the devil
but I hear his voice every night
whispering in my ear,
"Do it,
win or lose,
just do it."

My grip on the bed sheets
is all that keeps me safe.
  Nov 2018 Taylor
T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
        A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
        Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
        Ma perciocchè giammai di questo fondo
        Non tornò vivo alcun, s’i'odo il vero,
        Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?
  And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?

     . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

     . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
     upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
     along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  ‘That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.’

     . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Taylor Nov 2018
I'm on Cloud 9 and rising
Its like a race but I'm the only one running
From who? Where to?
An internal sort of marathon that only my heart and mind participate in
They lap one another again and again and again and again--
Focusing is hard and I feel out of breath
Dizzy but acutely aware of my surroundings
My senses heightened and my mood lightened
Is this panic? Am I manic? Or just plain crazy? If you look at my eyes you'd probably think I'm just sleep deprived
Oh! Maybe euphoria? I think they all call it joy-- I wouldn't know, maybe this is how everyone feels when they truly love life which must be nice being in a constant state of high--
Well i want to smile and laugh and take a walk
Maybe go out and explore, the night is young, even though it's 1:30am
I have so much energy I'm even writing this poem and I love the inspiration I'm getting
But I can feel my heart dragging, something is lagging in my chest
The chains tighten and they're only getting heavier
The fog starts to roll back in and my vision turns fuzzy
My head stops spinning and I'm starting to sink back down to earth
Down down down down down
Until I hit the ground
And I sigh, because i really liked being a bird in the sky
Farwell, my anxiety high
Taylor Nov 2018
Why do we taint such a beautiful color with our sinful emotions?
Sadness, overwhelming feelings of despair all of which this color has to bear
"The most human color"
Humans are creatures of red
The harsh words of anger or fiery fits of passion
It would be more fitting to **** such a brutal color to this fate
Blue is nothing more than an innocent child, caught in the clashing crosshairs of the human mind
As we desparately try to identify
Define ourselves
How can you describe you?
Why blue?
What of black?
The emptiness fits. The dark scribbles in circles of rage that could go on for days
It would be a perfect human color
Then again black isn't really a color
But lackthereof
Sort of like the true definition of us
Void of anything concrete, eluding us to yet more questions
No answer
So I guess blue it is, for the simple reason of just because
Blue lips
Blue veins
The colors of our planet from far far away

— The End —