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19 January 2010 @ 01:15 am


"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds'.  I do not agree.  In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens - but it is never gone." 
Current Mood: tiredtired
01 July 2009 @ 03:49 pm
The amount of hope I felt after reading this, was terrifying.

"Maybe this world is another planet's hell."
                             -Aldous Huxley
Current Mood: disappointeddisappointed
01 July 2009 @ 02:17 pm

"Dearest, the shadows I live with are numberless."

Current Mood: coldcold
30 June 2009 @ 09:03 pm
“Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future.”

                                                   -Fulton Oursler, American Journalist
Current Mood: tiredtired
20 June 2009 @ 11:59 pm
I long for a place
to grow homesick over;
the solitude is unfaithful
dissolving my skin to

Seclusion does not cover me,
it opens me;
I cannot hide within myself.

Alone, people peer
through my paper skin;
hardly peering
as I percolate, the rate

Who thought inclusion
to be my ally?
a cocoon of others -
the distraction.
14 June 2009 @ 06:21 pm
I've been curled up all day reading Anne Michaels again. She is fantastic.  Ever since reading her Fugitive Pieces, I've been really inspired. Unfortunately everything I write is complete and utter garbage compared to her works, but oh well. Her work is absolutely mind-blowing.

I think I can post one of her poems here that has already been posted online with her permission. Maybe...


Anne Michaels

From: The Weight of Oranges/Miner's Pond (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1997). p.20.



In lawnchairs under stars. On the dock
at midnight, anchored by winter clothes,
we lean back to read the sky. Your face white
in the womb light, the lake's electric skin.

Driving home from Lewiston, full and blue, the moon
over one shoulder of highway. There,
or in your kitchen at midnight, sitting anywhere
in the seeping dark, we bury them again and
again under the same luminous thumbprint.

The dead leave us starving with mouths full of love.

Their stones are salt and mark where we look back.
Your mother's hand at the end of an empty sleeve,
scratching at your palm, drawing blood.
Your aunt in a Jewish graveyard in Poland,
her face a permanent fist of pain.
Your first friend, Saul, who died faster than
you could say forgive me.
When I was nine and crying from a dream
you said words that hid my fear.
Above us the family slept on,
mouths open, hands scrolled.
Twenty years later your tears burn the back of my throat.
Memory has a hand in the grave up to the wrist.
Earth crumbles from your fist under the sky's black sieve.
We are orphaned, one by one.

On the beach at Superior, you found me
where I'd been for hours, cut by the lake's sharp rim.
You stopped a dozen feet from me.
What passed in that quiet said:
I have nothing to give you.

At dusk, birch forest is a shore of bones.
I've pulled stones from the earth's black pockets,
felt the weight of their weariness - worn,
exhausted from their sleep in the earth.
I've written on my skin with their black sweat.

The lake's slight movement is stilled by fading light.
Soon the stars' tiny mouths, the moon's blue mouth.

I have nothing to give you, nothing to carry,
some words to make me less afraid, to say
you gave me this.
Memory insists with its sea voice,
muttering from its bone cave.
Memory wraps us
like the shell wraps the sea.
Nothing to carry,
some stones to fill our pockets,
to give weight to what we have.

Current Mood: contentcontent
13 June 2009 @ 10:38 pm

The dead leave us starving with mouths full of love.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
07 June 2009 @ 09:59 pm
Allie Ballie and emo poems.
Tru dat.
04 June 2009 @ 01:18 pm
Time passes slowly -
pressing each memory deeper,
embossing them, permanently
sealing them in,
the wound -
never healing.
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Current Mood: okayokay