poetry

And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shallot.

I am two fools, I know,For loving, and for saying so.

I measure every Grief I meetWith narrow, probing, Eyes;I wonder if It weighs like Mine,Or has an Easier size.

If love and beauty were easy to find, they would not exist.Chaos and sadness exist in order for you to find the love and beauty in them. So that love and beauty mean something.It's meant to be hard.

Do not trap yourself into an owl's hooting soundwhere sad nights linger through the blackness of a hound

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

Only tears can hear the sound of pain when warm blood reddens discolored stain

And did with sighs their fate deplore,Since I must shelter them no more;And if before my joys were such,In having heard, and seen too much,My grief must be as great and high,When all abandoned I shall be,Doomed to a silent destiny.

Sometimesthe things that make you cryare more beautifulthan the thingsthat make you laugh.

I can__ sleep alone anymoreand I get used tocompanytoo quickly. You__e always gone too soon.

I nodded, trying to imagine the very particular sadness of a vanished childhood yogurt now found only in France. It was a very special sort of sadness, individual, and in its inability to induce sympathy, in its tuneless spark, it bypassed poetry and entered science.

There lives a weeperin each of us-a silent mourner honoring our despairwhen our willingness slain by helplessness continues to resurrect to be slaughtered again

It was quite a sad thing,the way I watched you sleep like nothing could go wrong and I did not want to harm it, I did not want to blur it, but how could I notwhen everything I__e ever known has slowly gone away.

In that silence, I dream to be.

I left smiles on your wordless lipsThe night roads- dismal and narrow,dream__ path remains shadowy wideas our lone hearts felt that arrowFrom the Poem 'My Tomorrow

We weep,tears of blood,we weep,In despair, crying,we weep;the sun forever has stolenthe light from his eyes.No more his face do we see,no more his voice do we hear,nor will his affectionate gazewatch over his people.

It was a very ordinary day, the day I realised that my becoming is my life and my home and that I don't have to do anything but trust the process, trust my story and enjoy the journey. It doesn't really matter who I've become by the finish line, the important things are the changes from this morning to when I fall asleep again, and how they happened, and who they happened with. An hour watching the stars, a coffee in the morning with someone beautiful, intelligent conversations at 5am while sharing the last cigarette. Taking trains to nowhere, walking hand in hand through foreign cities with someone you love. Oceans and poetry. It was all very ordinary until my identity appeared, until my body and mind became one being. The day I saw the flowers and learned how to turn my daily struggles into the most extraordinary moments. Moments worth writing about. For so long I let my life slip through my fingers, like water. I'm holding on to it now,and I'm not letting go.

...a passing face together with his grief turned you into a weeping Madonna...