My dreams are a memory of a sequence of scares.
I let it force I, me,
And filter into the deepest entry.
Now I'm trapped in a nightmare with my fears,
Reaching for a hand,
I feel yours,
Reaching into depths of me,
Freeing me of my ghosts.
Flow me into you.
Closing your eyes forces you to look into the darkness deep inside you.
You fight through it and become strong.
You'll get tired and want to quit.
But don't.
Keep fighting.
Break your fears, heal yourself.
Broken pieces are never lost, just forgotten.
Someone can lend a hand,
And pick you up from your darkest nightmares.
Replacing the broken pieces with a new love inside..
A very close friend of mine wrote it. He, a well as this piece has always been a huge inspiration as well as motivation.Thank you buddy for always being there.
Now that you've seen my favorite poem, what's yours?
I dont really have one favourite,but this is one of them.
Cloths of Heaven.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
WB Yeats.
There are times to stay put, and what you want will come to you.
But there are times to go out into the world and find such a thing for yourself.
I aint no abacus but you can count on me.
I learned both of mine from fiction books. I also like that one Griddlebone, I remember it from school.
Remember
BY CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
Not Waving but Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning. Stevie Smith
I am a big poetry fan. My favorite poem is actually really long so I won't post it on here I will just tell you the name. The Hollow Men by T S Eliot
I have a few other favorites but they are usually long (I tend to read more old poetry than any newer stuff but that is just because I find it hard to find newer poems I can connect with or that feel as haunting as some of the older poets work).
“I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend...I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend...”
― Neil Gaiman
This is my favourite poem.
It's old flemish & was written by Guido Gezelle.
I doubt it be possible to translate & keep it equally pure.
So I'll post it as is...
Quote:
Originally Posted by Guido Gezelle
O krinklende winklende waterding,
Met 't zwarte kabotseken aen,
Wat zien ik toch geren uw kopke flink
Al schryven op 't waterke gaen!
Gy leeft en gy roert en gy loopt zoo snel,
Al zie 'k u noch arrem noch been;
Gy wendt en gy weet uwen weg zoo wel,
Al zie 'k u geen ooge, geen één.
Wat waert, of wat zyt, of wat zult gy zyn?
Verklaer het en zeg het my, toe!
Wat zyt gy toch, blinkende knopke fyn,
Dat nimmer van schryven zyt moe?
Gy loopt over 't spegelend waterklaer,
En 't water niet méér en verroert
Dan of het een gladdige windje waer,
Dat stille over 't waterke voert.
O schryverkes, schryverkes zegt my dan,
Met twintigen zyt ge ende meer,
En is er geen een die 't my zeggen kan?
Wat schryft en wat schryft gy zoo zeer?
Gy schryft en 't en staet in het water niet,
Gy schryft en 't is uit en 't is weg;
Geen Christen en weet er wat dat bediedt:
Och, schryverke, zeg het my, zeg!
Zyn 't visselkes daer gy van schryven moet?
Zyn 't kruidekes daer gy van schryft?
Zyn 't keikes of bladjes of bloemkes zoet,
Of 't water waer op dat-je dryft,
Zyn 't vogelkes, kwietlende klagtgepiep,
Of is 'et het blauwe gewelf,
Dat onder en boven u blinkt, zoo diep,
Of is het u, schryverke, zelf?
En 't krinklende winklende waterding,
Met 't zwarte kapoteken aen,
Het stelde en het regtte zyn oorkes flink,
En 't bleef daer een stondeke staen:
Wy schryven, zoo sprak het, al krinklen af
Het gene onze Meester, weleer
Ons makend en leerend, te schryven gaf:
Één lesse, noch min nochte meer;
Wy schryven, en kunt gy die lesse toch
Niet lezen, en zyt gy zoo bot?
Wy schryven, herschryven en schryven nóg,
Den heiligen Name van God!
My favourite poem at the moment is called "Please Just Listen". I believe the author is Jessie Swick...
Quote:
When I ask you to listen to me
And you start giving me advice,
You have not done what I asked.
When I ask you to listen to me
And you begin to tell me why
I shouldn’t feel that way,
You are trampling on my feelings.
When I ask you to listen to me
And you feel you have to do something
To solve my problem,
You have failed me,
Strange as that may seem.
Listen! All I ask you is listen.
Don’t talk or do—just hear me.
Advice is cheap
And I can do for myself; I am not helpless.
Maybe discouraged and faltering,
But not helpless.
When you do something that I can
And need to do for myself,
You contribute to my fear and
Inadequacy.
But when you accept as a simple fact
No matter how irrational,
Then I can stop trying to convince
You and get about this business
Of understanding what’s behind
This irrational feeling.
And when that’s clear, the answers are
Obvious and I don’t need advice.
Irrational feelings make sense when
We understand what’s behind them.
Perhaps that’s why prayer works—because god is mute,
And he doesn’t give advice or try
To fix things,
God just listens and lets you work
it out for yourself.
So please listen, and just hear me.
And if you want to talk, wait a minute
For your turn—and I will listen to you.
This poem I have known from memory since I was little, it was in a book of poems by Brian Pattern.
The invisible mans invisible dog
My invisible dog is not much fun
I don't know if he is sad or glum
I don't know if when I pat his head
I'm really patting his bum instead
"Never be a spectator of unfairness or studpidity. The grave will supply plenty of time for silence." Christopher Hitchens
'When words fail, music speaks'
I am transsexual and homoromantic and proud to be.
