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Many years ago I was living with depression
And all I wanted was just to be alone
But now I found myself smiling with no reason
Funny that sometimes you're in my imagination
Ma. Cristina Colima
My Mom And Dad
I feel like I am alone
But I am not
Because my mom and dad are always there to hold my hands
I feel like I am worthless
Last night I fell asleep watching the moon from my bedroom window
I imagined that you were watching it too
And for that moment
It's hard that you keep being underestimated,
People see you as an outsider, or far from their level.
Racism under their state of mind,
They judged at you for being poor,
Because of my cross, I find this life a misery
Like every cast in this dramatic adventure
Act like them, you won’t make it
Appreciate their era, for who you are today
Griddles’ threaten your health, forgiveness heals
10 million budget function is nothing, for they are not alive
I Am A Killer
My name is depression and I am a killer,
I am everywhere, I am the darkness, the grief, the sadness.
Once I enter your head, it would be hard for you to get me off of your system.
All the striving, all the failing,
To the silent Nothing sailing.
Swiftly, swiftly passing by!
For the land of shadows leaving,
People Like Candles
*PEOPLE LIKE CANDLES*
*"The world would have been a better domicile to dwell in, if our impediments are equally solved. But nay, some are like candles"* *paciolo pen saint*
Paciolo Pen Saint
My Body And My Mind
My body and my mind...
My body and my mind are in depression because
You are not with me.
True Self: Living Bipolar
It looks like you've been smiling for too long,
Can't control your own self,
People don't know who you really are,
Cause you are different when it comes to the outside world,
She was dragged into pain,
Her heart in bitter ordain,
And her dress, wet with tears,
That flow from heart bars,
Body And Soul
Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
B H Fairchild
Hymn To Contrition
Tenderest Herald of the sky,
Nature's safeguard from perdition,
Friend of sweet, tho' tearful eye,
Call'd by angels meek Contrition-
(Self-Portrait) Omens and Astrology. A desert flat and undisturbed, stupid and forlorn. Sunless. a caravan of failures. Pons Asinorum and the Feast of the Ass and revolt against standardized American childhood.
War and Violence.
Catapults and Torches and the first stray thrusts of Sun into the Soul. Bombardments and Bordels. Heraldry and High Walls. Too rigid to crumble but not too strong to fracture.
of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat,
it lies “in grandeur and in mass”
beneath a sea of shifting snow-dunes;
dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined
The Poetic Principle (essay)
In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most definite impression. By "minor poems" I mean, of course, poems of little length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully, has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, "a long poem," is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it flags fails a revulsion ensues and then the poem is, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.
Edgar Allan Poe
In New Orleans
'Twas in the Crescent City not long ago befell
The tear-compelling incident I now propose to tell;
So come, my sweet collector friends, and listen while I sing
Unto your delectation this brief, pathetic thing-
The Man Closing Up,' from Night Light' (1967),
would make his bed,
If he could sleep on it.
All treasures ainâ??t worth this oppression.
All pleasures ainâ??t worth one transgression.
Not even seven thousand years of joy
Is worth seven days of depression.
Shams Al-din Hafiz Shirazi
Hear the singing on the boats,
As they halt beside the pier!
Ah, those fresh Italian throats,
How they cheer!
John L. Stoddard