It is cold dark and humid, inside my mind.
Unbearable really,
Like a fresh wound being drenched
In alcohol.
There is something not right,
i can't explain.
My heart doesn't beat status Que.
Sometimes i wish i was drowning
in an empty abyss.
Looking at the world in
redundant motion,
Alone.
i am always alone.
Even with one hundred people,
i sit in
solitude.
Poetry is a synecdoche for the human spirit- free form, expressionistic and real when it wants to be. And when one invites the human spirit into their hearts- there starts a poem.
About Me
Blog Archive
Reclining Nude- Modigliani
Primal Scream- Drooker
On the Move-Kaufman
Followers
It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.
- William Faulkner
- William Faulkner
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