Poem: The Silence of Sacred Lips.

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I’ve grown dumb,

I’ve grown weary,

I’ve grown listless against

the assault of your new found language—

your vernacular of love,

your dialect of wistful passion.

And lacking the tongue,

the ears to fathom

the form—

the diction of your gestured speech

I seek to build a vacuum;

a medium—

from which, in the absence of noise,

I may hold the silence of your sacred lips.

19 Life Lessons You Should’ve Learned By Now

Everyone gotta Read this…

Thought Catalog

1. You either have to accept people for who they are or not at all because changing them will be next to impossible. Seriously. Good luck with trying to mold people into what you want them to be. It’s a recipe for disaster. Just know when to cut your losses or stay. Don’t get lost in the in-between.

2.  Your definition of happiness is different from other people’s. What works for you doesn’t necessarily work for them so stop being a Judge Judy about your friends’ life decisions.

3. You have to advocate for yourself because this world is full of shitheads who will take advantage of you. No one can afford to be helpless. You have to learn how to be a (polite) pain in the ass to get what you want.

4. People love you and then they don’t. Human beings are fickle. We go to bed in…

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Poem: Trinity…

I seek you as one seeks communion

with Heaven—company in solitude—

strength in weakness—

I long you to be the love which radiates,

the force which acts,

and the bliss that overflows,

I want you to be more than method—

more than process— more than reward—

transcendent—eternal—sublime—

I want you to be life—

not reason, not rhyme, not philosophy;

I want you to be my trinity:

my past, present, future

my prayer, love, hope.

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Nietzsche: The Greatest stress.

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How, if some day or night a demon were to sneak after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you, “This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything immeasurably small or great in your life must return to you-all in the same succession and sequence– even this spider and this moon- lght between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal hourglass of existence is turned over and over, and you with it, a dust grain of dust.”

Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or did you once experience & tremendous moment when you would have answered him,”You are a god, and never have I heard anything more godly.”

If this thought were to gain possession of you, it would change you, as you are, or perhaps crush you. The question in each and everything, “Do you want this once more and innumerable times more?” would weigh upon your actions as the greatest stress. Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal Confirmation and seal?

Poem: A Solemn Divide.

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A solemn divide I have endured,
from which I have become a cheerless bird;
soaring undaunted through the wet folds of mercury skies.
And tempests notwithstanding, I’ve sought the stardust—
pursued the ether— the sublime,
and like a bird forever returning to the bare ground,
I’ve grown weary being never contented.
The only specimen I bring
on my quivering excuse of a wing
is the dew of the sky that I’m chained to:
the tears of the universe—
or may it be its sweat.

A solemn divide,
which dots the chart of disconnect,
like abandoned kites flying above lead shores of melancholy
tottering accurst in the highest enamored sunset;
deep symbolism be their calling,
but I am deaf to its voice.
I have found— I’ve stumbled upon
the vacuum that sits in between
reality and nothingness, the cradle and the casket,
it is imbued with rare beauty
Like the ear-lobes of God, or His eye-lashes
to it—all the laurels belong—
here, in this diameter of sound—
the space between heart beats,
time and space have no meaning.

Poem: My Darkest Imaginings…

My darkest imaginings well up,
and flow unchecked—
spilling from heart to brain—
mind to soul— soul to dark limbo.
These patterns of ink are impossible to blot out,
these marks that are etched upon me—
like skin-deep halos, a totem of stains
mazing inside me;
dark and un-abiding—
Unrelenting,
like staring down the throat of a wailing baby.

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God is dead. And we’ve killed Him.

Buddah

… Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place and cried incessantly, “I seek God. I seek God.”

As many of those who do not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter.

“Why, did He get lost?” said one.

“Did He lose his way like a child?” said another.

“Or is He hiding? Is He afraid of us? Has He gone on a voyage? or emigrated?”

Thus they yelled and laughed.

The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his glances.

‘Whither is God’ he cried. ‘I shall tell you. We have killed Him — you and I. All of us are His murderers —  But how have we done this? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What did we do when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving now? Away from all suns?

Are we not plunging continually? Backwards, sideward, forward, in all directions?

Is there any up or down left? Are we not straying as through an infinite

nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space?

Has it not become colder? Is not night and more night coming on all the while? Must not lanterns be lit in the morning? Do we not hear anything yet of the noise

of the gravediggers who are burying God?

Do we not smell anything yet of Gods decomposition? Gods too decompose.

 

God is dead. God remains dead.

And we have killed him. How shall we, the murderers of all murderers, comfort ourselves? What was holiest and most powerful of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives. Who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent?

Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must not we ourselves

become gods simply to seem worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever will be born after us — for the sake of this deed he will be part of a higher history than all history hitherto.”

Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they too were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke and went out.

“I come too early,” he said then; “My time has not come yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering — it has not yet reached the ears of man. Lightning and thunder require time, the light of the stars requires time, deeds require time even after they are done, before they can be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than the most distant stars — and yet they have done it themselves.”

                                                     — Excerpt from Nietzsche’s The Gay Science. —