12/23/15
12/16/15
Poem (for Ema) - Nikki Giovanni
though i do wonder
why you intrigue me
i recognize that an exceptional moth
is always drawn
to an exceptional flame
you’re not at all what you appear
to be
though not so very different
i've not learned
the acceptable way of saying
you fascinate me
i’ve not even learned
how to say i like you
without frightening people
away
sometimes i see things
that aren’t really there
like warmth and kindness
when people are mean
but sometimes i see things
like fear and want to soothe it
or fatigue and want to share it
or love and want to receive it
is that weird
you think everyone is weird
though you’re not really hypocritical
you just practice not being
what you want to be
and fail to understand
how others would dare
to be otherwise
that’s weird to me
flames don’t flicker
forever
and moths are born to be burned
it’s an unusual way
to start a friendship
but nothing lasts forever
Love Poem - Richard Brautigan
It’s
so nice
to
wake up in the morning
all
alone
and
not have to tell somebody
you
love them
when
you don’t love them
any
more
Untitled - Franz Wright
Will I always be eleven,
lonely in this house,
reading books
that are too hard for me,
in the long fatherless hours.
The terrible hours of the window,
the rain-light
on the page,
awaiting the letter,
the phone call,
still your strange elderly child.
You Must Accept - Kate Light
You
must accept that’s who he really is.
You
must accept you cannot be his
unless
he is yours. No compromise.
He
is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a
clay that never sets, steel that bends
in
a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no
one can whistle. He is not who
you
thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that
walks away: “I will not go where you
want
to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m
not. I have the sole of a lover
but
don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it,
then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.”
“Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You
have to hear what he is telling you
and
see what he is; how it is killing you.
At Dusk - Gösta Ågren
I
will be forgotten,
he
thinks. Oblivion is
a
deep mother. No one
will
touch you there; no one
will
forget you any more.
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