a saving grace

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It’s hard to remain


When I can’t see the light that once


From the room in which you were


It’s hard to have that much needed


When I don’t have your ears to sort through

what happened.

Remember when I left you a rose and

you sketched it?

Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend that

you’ve kept it.

Remember when we were four people in one apartment,

sipping Belgian beers and

slipping under golden veneers?

Remember when we read more

maps that books

and train tracks took us to destinations

where our hearts

swayed and shook?

Remember when you drove over 500 miles

and I spun you around while

sporting the biggest smile?

Remember when you spent that string

of nights awake,

Strung out on caffeine and chemistry while we

begged you to

take a break?

Remember when you welcomed us into

your home,

Then we wandered around Cleveland to do

what we do best –


Filed under poetry creativity original poem friendship

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Because here’s something else that’s weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship—be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles—is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it’s that they’re unconscious. They are default settings.

David Foster Wallace (via mathofbirds)

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Dark & Deep

Where have you gone to, Robert Frost?

        Without your icy words I’m lost.

When I explore lovely woods sans you – 

            Puzzled, I muddle my way through.


Of running rivers and open fields;

            Of broken branches and flowers peeled.

A tempted bride, a darting deer;

            A thawing heart, visions crisp and clear.

Of lonely moons and speckled skies;

            Of autumn leaves and the darkest prize.


Downtrodden trails with weary feet;

            A secret place where we can meet.

Preying birds with sturdy wings;

            Glaring eyes with a pen that sings.

If you return to reveal the remaining truths

            From a chest reborn that softly soothes,

A promise to you that I swear to keep

            Will be achieved miles before I sleep.

Filed under poetry creative robert frost original

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Stephanie was long on looks and short on mental health.
Said “Depression is an ocean, it’s prone to tides and swells.
Anxiety’s persistent—-it’s an ambitious politician.
It keeps knocking at your door,
Until you come and let it in.
I think that Jackson let it in.
I think that Jackson let it in.”

Filed under craig finn Jackson clear heart full eyes

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Quoting films does not make you funny

So please stop saying ‘Show me the money’

Yes, I am talking to you

No, I don’t want to say hello to your leetle friend

And we don’t need a bigger boat


we’re not in a boat

You think you’re amusing as you start a fuss

In the pub…

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Thanks to the prison warden for making you one with freedom. Thanks to the shackles for reminding your arms they cannot hug a tree. You write to your imaginary lover: “I wish despair for you, my love, that you may excel, for the desperate are creative. Don’t wait for me. Don’t wait for anyone. Wait for the thought; don’t wait for the thinker. Wait for the poem; don’t wait for the poet. Wait for the revolution; don’t wait for the revolutionary. The thinker may be wrong, the poet may lie, and the revolutionary may get tired. This is the despair I mean.”
"Journal of an Ordinary Grief", Mahmoud Darwish

Filed under Mahmoud Darwish poetry art happiness-when it betrays