Something I drew the other day on a napkin. The Poem I wrote with it:
“These words form in my thoughts,
My secret places,
And fly in beautiful colours around me.
If someone else could see what I see,
With my Third Eye,
They would close their eyes
More often too.”
They feel themselves at the center of a powerful
and baffled will. They feel
they are an almost animal,
washed up on the shore of a world—
or huddled against the gate of a garden—
to which they can’t admit they can never be admitted.
(via poetryeater)
Poetry is my understanding with the world, my intimacy with things, my participation in what is real, my engagement with voices and images. This is why a poem speaks not of ideal life but of actual life: the angle of a window; the reverberation of streets, cities, rooms; shadows along a wall.
(via proustitute)
Such soulful lyrics… It speaks truly to me. Thank you Miss Tunstall
Great perfection seems chipped,
yet use will not wear it out;
great fullness seems empty,
Yet use will not drain it;
Great straightness seems bent;
Great skill seems awkward;
Great eloquence seems tongue-tied.
Restlessness overcomes cold; stillness overcomes
heat.
Limpid and still,
One can be a leader in the empire.
No one needs to see my face. Only my words matter.
