I dig my toes into the sand
The ocean looks like a thousand diamonds
Strewn across a blue blanket
I lean against the wind
Pretend that I am weightless
And in this moment I am happy...happy
I wish you were here
I wish you were here
I wish you were here
I wish you were here
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
Stupid everyone, beating me at the chance to answer your riddle. *grumbles*
And heck yes, you'll see me at Prom! I haven't bought the plane tickets yet 'cos I've got two siblings graduating this spring, and as it turns out, flights between Salt Lake City and the Midwest in general but Minneapolis in particular are way, way expensive--but flights between Salt Lake City and San Francisco are way cheap(er), so I'll definitely be there.
Bronchitis. Which is better than Pneumonia, which is what they thought I had. I have some cough syrup with codeine, and a bunch of antibiotics. One of which is actually for pneumonia, so it looks... Read More
Friends list just got cleaned out. If we don't really talk, or I don't see you often in real life, you're probably gone. If you'd still like to stick around, let me know, and I'll fix it.
Also - I still feel like I have "the consumption." Or possibly, "the TB." My lungs, they hurt. They hurt, bad.
Yes, I know Charles Dickens didn't actually get paid by the word, but I thought "There's a certain charm to coming in installments" might be a bit too risque.
I'm writing this from the home of my grandmother, who has been dealing with Alzheimer's disease for the past few years. I've been looking after her for a while now. I've had a lot of warning for the day when she'll no longer be here, but I'm still not sure how I'll handle it when it comes. If I manage to keep a positive attitude like you, I think I'll be able to handle it well.
Being away from most everyone I grew up with I think about them a lot. So many of my friends helped shape who I am because I disagreed with my family so much. From Brian I got my sharp tongue and wit. It's not so sharp these days, I really need a tune up on that. From Jeff I got some of my values and beliefs. Plus, he showed me that for most everything in life the answer was usually within you. There was nothing he couldn't fix, build, draw, paint, or just create from what seemed thin air. Sara showed me how to be a caring man and let go of my anger. And my brother-in-law showed me how to be a father. Hopefully, I'll get to used that someday. TREE and Paul taught me to laugh, and they also gave me my appreciation for good tattoos. There are more, but I'm just rambling now. Hope you're smiling.
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands
E.E Cummings