Writing
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“There is not some exquisite beauty, without some strangeness on the proportion.” – Edgar Allan Poe I always found it odd, call it poetic justice if you will, when a literary quote you’ve carried with you for so long finally clicks into place in your life. I could spin you a tale of my life
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The words stick in my throat. Heavy. Feeling foreign even though I utter them so freely, so frequently, so loosely daily to many of those who pass by in my life. Fear lingers around every syllable. Fear that saying it makes it real. Fear that they’ll be the next weapon of choice in the never
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Don’t think with your heart, they tell me, you’ll just end up getting hurt. How, I wonder, am I to think with anything else? What sense is there to be made of the way your hand fits into mine? How am I to make sense of the way your eyes catch mine and I try
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you see people in shapes and beauty i see people in the pain behind their eyes the stardust in their souls their hearts full of dreams their brains full of ideas the way their hands hold the things that matter i see the scars carved into their minds the things they’ve lost the moments they’ve
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It’s quite an epidemic it seems, among poets and writers alike, that those who speak of mental illness the most find the universe to an inexhaustible source of inspiration. I myself find it a fascinating and never tiring source of hope and quiet peace in a lot of ways. I found myself wondering what about
I Would Rather Be In Bed 