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{Ryan O'Connell/ Bell Hooks/ Unknown/ Fredrik Backman, Us Against You/ Oscar Wilde/ Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life/ Langston Hughes/ Heather Christle/ Arnold Lobel, The Letter/ Tumblr User: @whitealbum (x)/ Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life/ Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life}
I’ve been telling myself the reason I can’t write anymore is because I’m not sad. Because there’s no pain inside me to flow out of my trembling hands onto paper, there are no sorrows clouding my vision to make my poetry hazy.
I can see straight and sometimes I feel poetry needs to be twirly and zigzagg-y.
But, I’ve been trying to be sad lately. Trying to find wretchedness among the mists, among the nights I stay up laughing, trying to feel what I felt before, trying to pour poetry back into my veins. Maybe this is some stupid excuse.
But here’s how it really is. I keep finding myself beaming at unfamiliar faces and sipping hot chocolate over brunch dates with new friends, or falling back into rhythm with old ones.
Or that one time I snuck out to my best friend’s house and we danced to alcohol in our bodies but we were sober enough to remember one of the best nights of our life. So maybe there’s nothing poetic about this. Or maybe there is.
I know poetry is more beautiful than sad and there’s something really very beautiful about loving life.
I choose you, because I don’t want to choose anyone else. I stand next to you, because I wouldn’t want to stand next to anyone else. And if for any reason life would ever tear us apart, I would never think of replacing you with someone else.
A new spoken word I wrote for a special friend. Click on image to hear my Londoner voice.
God didn't call me to kill me. He called me to glory and virtue. My body has dropped on His feet to follow me home no more. Who the son of God set free is free indeed.
Patience Johnson, Why Does an Orderly God Allow Disorder
I went from one to the other holding my sorrow— no, not my sorrow but the incomprehensible nature of this our life— for their inspection. Some people go to priests; others to poetry; I to my friends, I to my own heart, I to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken— I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely.
So long as we love we serve; so long as we are loved by others, I would almost say that we are indispensable; and no man is useless while he has a friend.
I'm too tired to tell others it's painful how people change so easily. And how many heartaches I try to soothe with isolation. I don't think they would understand the exact feeling I'm trying to measure with shallow words. Maybe they would just end up thinking I'm being pessimistic and dramatic.
Truthfully, I do not need advices. I just want someone to be there. Someone to lean on in the silence and understand that this too shall pass but will stay even though they cannot put solution to the problem - just a pause, a deep breath and a break in the middle of the chaos.
I know how to handle things on my own and most of the time I wish I do not know how and there's someone who will taught me through. Not the other way around.
I, too, a human being but I don't think they understand that. I'm not always strong. I'm not as put together as I seem. How could I make them understand? That I bleed in paper and cry in silence yet I sum up my answer to “how are you?” like a broken record, a memorized phrase - I am fine. I am fine. I am fine.
When you find that person who, not only cleans up the mess in your heart that others had left behind, but then decorates the walls of your heart with everything beautiful as well, keep them. Never let them go.
A spoken word I created for a special friend. Happy Birthday 🌹