I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
The persona is so carefully made Sculpted and painted to please other eyes By each of us, a role is deftly played The finest actor old logic defies
By D. J. Reddall10 months ago in Poets
Seven hundred and Seven poems and stories Thank you for reading!
What would it look like If the state behaved like a Friend, not a parent
The pain you have felt Crowns the joy you feel now With lustrous laughter
“They do not understand how, while being at variance, it is in agreement with itself. There is a back-turning connection, like that of a bow or lyre” (Heraclitus, frag. 51; translated by T.M. Robinson).
“I am aware, sure, I am aware. Catastrophically aware.” ― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath A time unwelcome
Your death postponed mine Thighs cooked with soy and ginger What is gratitude?
There are others who Have everything you covet And lack happiness
"Focus on the journey, not the destination." What terrible, foolish advice If you do not think carefully about the destination
Visitors are we, to this loud, crowded place Offering our words at its dirty altar Coaxing meaning from the mayhem Assigning phonemes to their patient parts
Voices lifted in the seething, emerald cathedral Offering immortality to the dying Inviting the isolated into infinite intimacies
It is not your reading that he resents You could be reading scripture, or cook books Think of the problem a novel presents
