And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more.
__и_по_об_ваме _е _и_о к_м живо_а,доволни и о_ бледи_е __е_и,кои_о в______ дов_ваи п__ка в п_азни_е ни джобове._о о_е __аним оби_ к_м _ве_а_ом _пи_аме п_ед гладно ко_ен_е на п_ага,го_ови да го п_и__им в п_о__и_и_ __кав,да го _па_им о_ _ли_а_а - __мна и же__ока.(...)_г_а_а е _акава - ка_а ни да _е __ми_ваме на_ила._ в_е пак виждаме л_на_а, _п__ла над _амо_на _ли_ка,да п_еоб___а п_азна ко_а в и_к___а _а_а на _ме_а,и в_е пак __ваме п_ез ве_ели_ __м и на_и_е ___емежигла_а на ко_ен_е, кое_о вика __ед п___ин__а.
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__и_по_об_ваме _е _и_о к_м живо_а,доволни и о_ бледи_е __е_и,кои_о в______ дов_ваи п__ка в п_азни_е ни джобове._о о_е __аним оби_ к_м _ве_а_ом _пи_аме п_ед гладно ко_ен_е на п_ага,го_ови да го п_и__им в п_о__и_и_ __кав,да го _па_им о_ _ли_а_а - __мна и же__ока.(...)_г_а_а е _акава - ка_а ни да _е __ми_ваме на_ила._ в_е пак виждаме л_на_а, _п__ла над _амо_на _ли_ка,да п_еоб___а п_азна ко_а в и_к___а _а_а на _ме_а,и в_е пак __ваме п_ез ве_ели_ __м и на_и_е ___емежигла_а на ко_ен_е, кое_о вика __ед п___ин__а.
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Love is an exorcism of angels.
If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.
THE CONSCIOUS HUMANYou are not just white,but a rainbow of colors.You are not just black,but golden.You are not just a nationality,but a citizen of the world.You are not just for the right or left,but for what is right over the wrong.You are not just rich or poor,but always wealthy in the mind and heart.You are not perfect, but flawed.You are flawed, but you are just.You may just be conscious human,but you are also a magnificentreflection of God.Suzy Kassem__he Conscious Human_ Poetry by Suzy Kassem
Share your dreams and they will be inspired. Plant seeds of knowledge and they will grow and reproduce beyond measure.
You know what I love? The spaces between I love you. The tap of your fork against the plate and how my cup of wine clicks against our table. The scratchy voice coming from the radio in the other room. The quiet sound of your hand reaching across the table and whispering over mine. How your voice sounds like your mouth on the back of my neck. The soft murmur of our easy conversation.Between these quiet Tuesday night routines, following every comma and right after every pause for breath, is I, love, and you. In the middle of every I love you is a sink full of dishes, whisper of socked feet tangled in white sheets, and gentle kisses against curved cheeks. We lyric ourselves into the laundry that needs to be finished, into the ends of every smile that follows me repeating your name. We write ourselves into the grocery bags we need to carry, the cracks running up our rented walls, the sides of the bed we choose to drag up the sails of heavy eyed dreams.Like the spaces between our fingers, in the spaces between I, love, and you, we wait.The in-betweens have always been my favorite.