Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
  And stood in the sun and looked his fill
  At wooded valley and wooded hill.

He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
  He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
  That was well! and he stamped a hoof.

His heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
  Or homespun children with clicking pails
  Who see so little they tell no tales.

He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
  And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
  Were music enough for him, for one.

Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
  And the fragile bluets clustered there
  Than the merest aimless breath of air.

They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
  And raveled a flower and looked away—
  Play? Play?—What should he play?

I beg him to listen
and consider anyone but himself
for once in his ****** life,

or perhaps speak truth, rather than lie.

I beg him to deep deeper,
there is a conscience within him
but he has not met with it in quite some time.

We plead with him to hold out hope,
but can we say the same for ourselves?

I wish he could experience
the love and beauty of the world
with whole-hearted emotion and awareness

But all he wants to do
is suppress whatever he has left.
The needle in his arm pushing in the poison
and pulling out the remaining humanity.

He is numb now,
but what is to become of his little girls?

Time slows,
             it kills.
        Time fasts,
                   it heals.

You say I'm never there for you
I'm distant, aloof
But honey I've never fallen so dangerously
As I have for you
I know your heart is covered in scars
And distance won't heal your wounds
But I never gave up on us
On what we could be
You're jaded and not sure we're worth
The frustration you feel
But I beg you not to say goodbye
When our love is far from it's end
Maybe I'm just scared we see things differently
That I invented what I wanted to see
But I've only felt the burn of heartbreak once before
And I'd sell my life away
On the faith that if you leave
I won't be the only one left with painful memories
Wondering how we ******* up what should have been
Forever

The monsters no longer live under my bed
They've made their home inside my head

They scream and shout through the night
When I'm alone and out of sight

They scratch and tear at my skin
It's not a battle I'm sure I'll win

I need them out or I'll go insane
They just can't get out of my brain

I'm losing my head
I wish that they has just stayed under the bed

They whisper things I don't want to hear
They tell me that my end is near

But oh my darling can't you see
That now the only monster here is me

November





Helen Hunt Jackson
.
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?

Do not pretend that you don’t like it
when we have mind ***
you sigh! and said to yourself
“I just don’t get it..
That was so awesome, so real
Who need them?