Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.
A poem has secrets that the poet knows nothing of. It takes on a life and a will of its own. It might have proceeded differently - towards catastrophe, resignation, terror, despair - and I still would have to claim it. Valéry said that poetry is a language within a language. It is also a language beyond language, a meta-medium - that is, metabolic, metaphoric, metamorphic. A poet’s collected work is his book of changes. The great meditations on death have a curious exaltation. I suppose it comes from the realization, even on the threshold, that one isn’t done with one’s changes.
“If all cosmos were the same distance apart, gravity would pull them all in the same direction. They’d remain perfectly aligned, and precisely nothing would happen. Irregularity, imperfection, and lack of order in hydrogen compacts, atoms of gas gravitating away from each other, and compressed temperatures is what created our universe. Perfection in our galaxy simply does not exist. Without imperfection, neither you nor I would exist.”
— Into The Universe with Stephen Hawking: ‘The Story of Everything’
Utilize this as an analogy next time attempt to undermine your self-worth caused by fallacious and subjective standards one must meet in order to attain aesthetic appeal. Symmetric cannot be created if its source is asymmetric.
I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.
A poet must never make a statement simply because it is sounds poetically exciting; he must also believe it to be true.
Bom dia, Desterro!
“Coffee is far more than a beverage. It is an invitation to life, disguised as a cup of warm liquid. It’s a trumpet wakeup call or a gentle rousing hand on your shoulder … Coffee is an experience, an offer, a rite of passage, a good excuse to get together.”
- Nichole Johnson
If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine. It is lethal.
Árvore que enverga, o vento não quebra.
I swear to you, there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.
We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh.
I am the shadow my words cast.
At the temple,
there is a poem called “Loss”,
carved into the stone.
It has three words… but
the poet scratched them out.
You cannot read “Loss”…
You can only feel it.
How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you.
If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry.