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poetry is, most of all, the theatre— others viewing the surgery all the cringing horror of these gaping wounds in a bleak hope to heal

Forgive me for living a life inspired and bemused— Life was too difficult to refuse.

I will continue to try to believe in the call of spring birds returning but I’m feeling ever so slightly completely despaired

As age has come upon me, I’ve begun to understand how to be very still while all the world is clamouring about; at what point did all this scurrying ever make it all better?

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one's name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog!

@ItsAPerfectLife the deep serenity & delicious fear of being in love

reply this with how forests make you feel when i think about forests, i think about the green trees holding me safe and multicoloured leaves and flowers kissing me everywhere. there's purity, peace and contentment that can't be found anywhere else.

I, as well, a long Covid poet, healing in a bath of salt & words...

Moonless night a powerful wind embraces ancient trees

Once I felt the prim revere of having been there. Now, I claw my way from the depths A little zombie gnashing— As if I could ever live again.

@roseinmythroat my love is an abandoned house filled with ghostly echoes whispering “I’m sorry” Perhaps they are soulmates *sarcastic shrug*

The deals continued to be broken. But what they didn’t need to tell you is the heart was long ago shattered

A wife should never have forgotten what it feels like to have her wrists kissed....

Is it possible to be sustained for all of life on just the sweetness of a few soft words And if you cannot say them to me again, I will repeat them in my own ear, remembering the texture of your voice

To be holding together all this world, but to know, one day it will all fall apart

I left you a lovenote out in the forest.

...to linger on the lips of beauty, tasting sunrise & licking slowly the sour bite of love

Yet still, this snow falls & all the dreams of being held in the sweet arms of Spring fade, with a stab, from my heart.

She laughed, embarrassed that Monet could make her cry after all these months of sequestered loneliness. I smiled back, “Oh dear, Monet should make you cry. Welcome to how all the artists & poets live—such exquisite agony. “

It’s in all this refuse that Spring had made some empty promise to rise, and bring beauty, and bring life— But we know it rises simply to die again. I feel the melancholy of all these years weighing down upon my chest.

If I read one more over abundant poem of love I think I will puke. Even the poets have their limits.