I am a lot of things.
But not everything I'd like to be.
And in this I find myself
To be worthless. Boring.

I am not the crashing waves
I'm not the burning fire
Or the rumbling, sturdy ground.
Or the breeze or wind.

Why, oh why, can I not be
Everything that seems so exciting.
Why am I stuck,
In this flesh and blood?
Far away from my dream.

To life and love
To heart at stake
To any who will patterns break
     My heart is open

To grief and joy
To sun and rain
To all who trudge through earthen pain
     My heart is open

To ash and flame
To bruise and burn
To those whose hearts refuse to turn
     My heart is open

Through all triumph
Through all regret
αδελφοίς μου, I'm with you yet
     My heart is open

One puts all nature into mourning,
One lights her like a flaring sun —
What whispers ‘Burial’ to the one
Cries to the other, ‘Life and Morning.’

The unknown Hermes who assists
The role of Midas to reverse,
And makes me by a subtle curse
The saddest of all alchemists —

By him, my paradise to hell,
And gold to ****, is changed too well.
The clouds are winding-sheets, and I,


uncover corpses loved of old;
and where the shores celestial die
I carve vast tombs against the sky.

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking… ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.

At my side the Demon writhes forever,
Swimming around me like impalpable air;
As I breathe, he burns my lungs like fever
And fills me with an eternal guilty desire.


Knowing my love of Art, he snares my senses,
Appearing in woman's most seductive forms,
And, under the sneak's plausible pretenses,
Lips grow accustomed to his lewd love-charms.


He leads me thus, far from the sight of God,
Panting and broken with fatigue into
The wilderness of Ennui, deserted and broad,


And into my bewildered eyes he throws
Visions of festering wounds and filthy clothes,
And all Destruction's ****** retinue.

Flowers die off so soon
They are beautiful at the
moment they were born
but when they
wither away into the ground
no one cares, no one cries
because flowers are so easily
replaced by another bouquet of plants
the petals will fall and that is their demise
I am a flower

I am the dust in your bedroom
the kind that falls from the sky and
tumbles through the light
streaming through your windows
I am only visible to you with the
light of the Earth
I will stay on your floor and
you will walk all over me and
never know anything of it
You will kick me up and
I will leave you

I am not the blanket that covers
you up at night and keeps you warm
I do not deserve such a title
I am not the roof that keeps you safe
from the ongoing snow and rain
that happens in this town
I am not your lover, your friend
I am nothing

I am a ghost, an apparition
a wisp of non-existence

Three strikes and you're out.
Be careful where you step.
This heart was carved from thin ice.
Don't gamble on me,
I'm worth more than your dice.