weary

I am not a finished poem, and I am not the song you__e turned me into. I am a detached human being, making my way in a world that is constantly trying to push me aside, and you who send me letters and emails and beautiful gifts wouldn__ even recognise me if you saw me walking down the street where I live tomorrowfor I am not a poem. I am tired and worn out and the eyes you would see would not be painted or inspiredbut empty and weary from drinking too much at all timesand I am not the life of your party who sings and has glorious words to speakfor I don__ speak muchat alland my voice is raspy and unsteady from unhealthy living and not much sleep and I only use it when I sing and I always sing too muchor not at alland never when people are around because they expect poems and symphonies and I am nota poembut an elegyat my bestbut unedited and uncut and not a lot of people want to work with me because there__ only so much you can do with an audio take, with the plug-ins and EQs and I was born distorted, disordered, and I__ pretty fine with that,but others are not.

Once lively peonies nowwind-weary, and ragged at the edges, hang their heavy crowns; rain on their backs,one final act, beforedetaching from the stemand falling down.

It was good that she remembered him, though it was exhausting to do so.No rest for the weary. Or the dying. Or the dead.

When frustrated and weary take time to accept that there is no such thing as an insurmountable mountain...You merely have to find the right path...

It's wearying, like Caliban buttonholing you in hell and telling you the struggle he's having getting along with himself.

Jingle bells, they ring in hell,never to be merry,they'll burn, they'll burn,please my dear be weary

She shook her head, and closed her eyes. I felt her weariness then, and with it, my own. I felt it dark and heavy upon me, darker and heavier than any drug they ever gave me - it seemed heavy as death. I looked at the bed. I have seemed to see our kisses there sometimes, I've seen them hanging in the curtains, like bats, ready to swoop. Now, I thought, I might jolt the post and they would only fall, and shatter, and turn to powder.

O, weary angels, don__ look at me with those eyes.If that is your state then what of our cries?What can I tell you of goodness that you don__ already know?What can I tell you of faith,of hope and lovethat you yourselves bestow?O, angels, don__ pluck another feather,this isn__ the sky, it__ just the weather.Please, angels, try.We are one all together.Look up and listen, I__l say it once and then put down my pen:We are sorry for our ignoranceand even though we are worldly,it might happen again.We are sorry for your wearinessand even though you aren__ worldly,we are no more than human.

Here's another poem,like all others before and after,dedicated to you.There isn't anything left to be saidbut I will spend my lifetrying to put you into words.You who is every goodness,every optimismand hope.Your love is a better fate for methan anything I could wish for.If you are a part of me, then you__e the best part.And if you're separate from me, then you are my destination.But I__e become a weary traveller,so please,let us never be apart.

the lonely mind wanders.the happy mind goes.the weary mind travels.the thoughtful mind flows.

Be sure that your praise songs are numbered higher than your sorrowful dirges and your utmost hope, firmer than your woeful regrets. Be positive.

When I speak of God, I mean that god who prevented man from putting forth his hand and taking also of the fruit of the tree of life that he might live forever; of that god who multiplied the agonies of woman, increased the weary toil of man, and in his anger drowned a world__f that god whose altars reeked with human blood, who butchered babes, violated maidens, enslaved men and filled the earth with cruelty and crime; of that god who made heaven for the few, hell for the many, and who will gloat forever and ever upon the writhings of the lost and damned.

Approaching the Start of Civil ExamsPerhaps I was once a young Chinese scholarapproaching the start of civil exams,my mind grown weary and sad from seclusionwith books on syntax and poetic style.All that I knew were the mist-covered mountainsand sweet white blossoms of mountain applesthat grew in the valleys of my province.But I had been gone over six yearsbusy with studies in the Heavenly Cityempty and thin despite my work.I showed my verses to an older poetwho told me a truth I longed to believe:all knowledge is futile and barrenwhich does not open the love of your friends.