Love,
it makes us generous.
how else can you explain
the way I want to share
every joy
with you?
Tag: poetic
-
and when the world
is too loud,
& its hands are clasped
over its ears,
I find myself here—
again, and again.
you,
my closest confidante,
my truest friend:
who listens like you?
what judgement
have you,
what scorn?
here,
in this quiet grove,
there is only
profession.
there is only
pouring.
-
life: it is suffering.
knowing this
does not help.
life. it is suffering.
this does not quell
my mother’s fears.
and we say,
“life. it is suffering,”
as if it is life who is selfish,
as if it is life
with greedy palms.
still.
life is suffering.
but we would not hurt
if we did not love.
no water flows
from hearts of ice.
I choose this river
of a thousand sorrows;
I choose this river
of a thousand and one
joys.
above all, I will love.
and for this reason,
life: it is suffering.
-
& no matter how far I run
you
are a stain that follows.
I am Icarus.
It seems my crime
is not the way I fly
so close
to the Sun;
it’s the way it makes
my shadow grow.
-
I know the secret
to a life unburdened
by doubt,
hurt,
pain, regret.
there is an intruder
who swears
he comes bearing gifts—
but he hides the price.
do not let him in.
do not be fooled.
what starts as warmth
in a cold world
will consume you,
mar you,
burn you—
so much more cruel
than if you never felt
at all.
take this secret.
move in confidence,
safe, undisturbed:
if there is no love,
there’s nothing cruel
in this world.
-
I see it clearly now.
I see, now
that I am not Adam
straining for the touch
of the divine.
I see, now
that you too
are born of clay—
clay that will age,
weather,
& crack in the Sun.
I see, now
that love is water.
I see, now
that though
we will perish,
first
we will flourish,
for we
are made of Earth,
and to the Earth
we shall return—
but briefly beautiful
we will be.