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| Where is the fine line between a challenge, and simply trying to kill yourself for the sake of making it out alive? I'm not sure if this is true or not, but apparently Napoleon had failed to poison himself because he had simply taken too much poison, and his body rejected it. I'm not sure if that was success, but that seems like something I've thrown myself into. Of course, I'm not sure if my body's rejected it yet. Once again, I find myself an outsider to my own life. Too many conversations seem cold. My inspiration seems sucked dry, and I'm fatigued when I know so clearly that I have done nothing to deserve such a languid aftertaste. The people, even, seem too cold for my liking. Four possible problems: 1. I've learned to have fun and developed a stamina for fun. 2. I have too much personality and my eccentricity has finally turned me into a quixotic fool. 3. I've simply been living in my own world for too long, and I should be glad to be back. 4. All of the above. Yes, I'm leaning toward number four. Sometimes I feel like Xanga's my chicken soup, even if it can be unpredictable. | | |
| The world is all of yours to draw, A breadth beyond your veins. Each breath you take, a step you make To drive your treasures, reined: Your logic and a dripping brush Upon a mirror pool, Dipping where those fall in place, Your arcs and your slide rule. Your needle and a nimble thread That prick a harvest ripe, Sow and sew of all you need And nothing more, that type. Someday, like me, you'll turn a page Upon a canvas world, This world you shade in all its shades, Says an oyster to its pearl. Question: Would it be grammatically incorrect if I said "your needle and a nimble thread / that pricks a harvest ripe"? That's how I originally wrote it, but I want to be sure. | | |
| Stride the world with humble tread That shadows all your woe. The moon does shine in deepest night That arms a broken bow. Your troubles are those far ahead, So far, they fall behind. Follow those that plead your path Like bitter melon rind. Touch, then, touch our lives, Your pride upon the sash; That window of the darkest soul, That shard among the ash. | | |
| Lady Heaven bade the bumbling Night,
That drunken poet's pride,
To blind an eye on a fullest moon,
All shadows cast aside.
Then she went to court the quarry,
That pebble in the Sea,
That Night had thrown a skipping stone,
Lonely, an isle could be.
A man, however, had reached that orb
That trailed the careless Dark.
He'd sowed his wildest hopes and fears,
His roots in white so stark.
But Heaven, oh help her, set her mind
To carve a mask of moon.
Bright and shining, all shadows shed
So even Night would swoon.
Only she would dare- cross he, sowed there,
Despite the night half blind.
The man, indeed, had been hard with greed,
For dreams could not rewind.
Lucky for her, he fell in love
With her shining silver tress.
Lucky for him, she flirted away
While fishing for redress.
And in the end, neither could leave
The other's want behind.
The mask of moon, hung in the sky,
Is Heaven's courting find. | | |
| Intricate fountains trickle the sun, Each summer petal Still wrought with fits of May- Its rusting light Yet glowing from soft rains.
An exquisite, empty welcome; Slow dreams Drape easy and blooming- The only color to perfect itself After spilled canvas debut.
Each daylight chandelier With its fine pale joints Serves its own revelry, As a rooted heart, not yet worn, Sleeps on. | | |
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