THE WORLD was made of bad choices.
  My love is forever and tainted
by flesh and blood.
My IS forever.

People get what they want.   YOU can take everything — i give
if freely.

AND THE SKY WAS VIOLENCE and the words of whores and male
bastards —  take my heart  tear it apart .
  Crying is forever.
They take and get what they want.
Go on bitches.  Take everything i had.  I grew a star before you
were thought of asshole.  How I hate humans.  I know.  How you are.
I hate you!!!! You take everything!

——————FORGIVE ME.
you could say i lost faith in ancient mysteries and the Holy Church and say
i lost my sense of direction. 😉  But if I ever lose my faith i say
there’s nothing to loose. Someone said i was many personalities — they can say
it on multimedia and how many politicians said:  game show host:  but if i every lose
my faith in you/then nothing else to lose]   then, if and when i lose my faith —
in you.

Now another bird. My poem for those who, in a period of uprisings or vice, and want to depart with light heart and cheer.

Nymphea and Hymen! I see the tree of Hymen gleaming in the night, my heart holds fast to the seeds of the dream. Also Mars, that beautiful ant of war, I wish a cause to fight for; but love flies more far, and at least we may win through Cupid’s dart, which is a virtue.

So now, Charles Lamb, and Alfred Tennyson, and Leigh Hunt, and Robert Southey, there are three people whose poems are much overpaid. But, as a matter of fact, an independent mind (as mine) may be defended against such a charge, for with my poem in the Thistle, now our rightful equal, I fancy I speak, there is even room for Tennyson.

As for the man who wrote the Lamb’s Reclining; if he were to appear before me, I should feel obliged to speak. The world may as well own the Lamb’s as own him not. He cannot help that. But that I should call him truer than true — ss a proud privilege, and one which If I were to exploit unwisely, would tarnish the honor of true poets.

Other poems:

Among my compositions not read (i shall not waste my limited time) were a couple of portraits:
sketches of myself, as thou wishest me, of a madman and an old man; and now I say, that if I died this evening upon the ground, without tears nor regret.

:: 10.21.2021 ::