Sometimes I feel like life misprinted me.
-all posts-
Inescapable
Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan;
For we are born in others’ pain,
And perish in our own.
—Francis Thompson, from “Daisy,” 1892–1894
Exhaustive
Grief is all emotions wrapped into one.
Understanding death
I read an article stating that cats don’t understand death the way humans do, so they don’t fear it like we do — I think they understand better than
Encouragement
“Don’t waste yourself in rejection, nor bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)
Battle-scarred
Life is a repeated shattering and gluing back together of the heart.
Sticks & stones
Empty-nesting is exponentially more painful
when all you’ve ever had is eggs, no chicks —
and now, even the eggs are gone.
They healed my heart
“I have a request to make of those who read Empty Shells. If any friend surmises he has discovered the author he will be courteous enough to keep my secret. I have left out a great many poems that would have betrayed my identity, and put in none that I have cause to fear. Why then publish? I have no right to count on a long life and I am not willing to be ‘edited, revised, and corrected.’ On the other hand, I feel towards my poems as many women do towards their weak children; and treasure them because if they were conceived in grief they healed my heart. After the first smart of a new loss was softened, next to writing my greatest comfort was reading; and I did not then seek great authors. Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe were naught to me: I sought minor Poets — of whom I dare hope to be one. Could I but be a like comfort to some simple, sorrowing hearts I should feel my life-griefs had not been in vain.”
Hard enough
If guilt or regret is an essential part of your grief, you will never stop grieving.
Winsome, losesome
Love isn’t just blind
but also stupid —
lobotomy by arrow
bullseye, Dr Cupid!
Poetry
There is a pleasure in the pathless words…
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet can not all conceal.
The words are lovely, dark and deep.
I went to the words because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of language.
In the words we return to reason and faith.
Come to the words, for here is rest.
Literature does not grow wild in the words.
I put my heart to school in the words.
In the words is perpetual youth.
Whose words these are I think I know.
We are not out of the words yet.
2024
I know a guy.
Angry. Festering
in disappointment
of the world
and of himself.
A little depressed.
Sick of doing
the same. freaking.
thing. every day.
Wondering where
his lost youth went.
Hungering to replace
the comfort and
all the good things
in his life that
have gone away.
But resolutely
continuing on
doing his duty.
Living with the pain.
Loving while he can.
Taking any little
laugh he can find.
Then doing it all
over again. Perhaps
you know him too.
Perhaps we all do
— inside.
Cicatrixoxo
Most of our scars are internal.