She figured out that the only way
to keep from being frozen was to
stay in motion, and long ago converted
most of her flesh into liquid. Now when she
smells danger, she spills herself all over,
like gasoline, and lights it.

the cassandra by ness bloo

i suffer of passion.

as if i must slowly move like winter. white

going quiet, expressions; mornings so fragile, they rupture

me. i exist in you, in everywhere

else

and. .. . .

... my hand mimics yours.

a disciple for an hour.long angel

to the delirium               where

there are no angels. i am scared of everything.

and yet, it's not the cold that i fear or the hunger

of my growl, although i am a beggar at your threshold,

it's just that my fingers feel

strange.

i 

tear myself so easily, unpoemed.

to live to love you to lose me.

your eyes tucked in the dark of my belly.

i wonder at the window of the sea and if it, like we,

                         will remain foaming. 

in the flesh.roamed truth, i protect myself.

from the envious girls in corners.

i see them wearing summer's heat.

offering something more than 

handfuls; they siphon my skin's scent.

it must smell like you by now,. 

there has been much impatience in my body.

it rages on the end of a stick. 

and here i am in the birdsong,

demanding silence. my mind makes believe, 

like i know, the sounds must be of high lovers

in trees, flying and awaying from their tiny skeletons

because they must be, must be. ..

... ..sparrows that denied themselves

their own trembling souls, to slide only

undrunk, untasted, over a vulturing death,

half.stretched over half.light, half the way to eden. 

cling.

i breathe on the pillow

                                 words not yet here

i breathe on the pillow        words that could be hers 

i was the one who was dead in the waiting

water, was the one that imprinted air with my

blood. 

i trace the places you've traveled and i feel

their gravity. am i a ghost that can be smeared across

the bathroom mirror? where i watch you watch

me and what is it that makes me unlook pretty.. ... 

these things go graveling in me, you see

these insecurities tie me, to your eyes 

she whispers:::

something about moaning beasts

with great morning eyes and curves i cannot manage.

i try

i try

pushing  

i make myself a queen in a kingdom's bed;

lily to sheets, crusader to embraces, limping to martyrdom,

as if it were only a matter to gather the right flowers.

would that make me

                            the way you cannot cry?

would that make me forever?

if i died again, could i be. 

only

only

only

there

must not exist such a thing. 

i know you

are not disturbed by a woman's smell,

and you might very well love small fears;

but there are things.. ...

                                i want to hysteria

about how the seasons will change into murderers

which makes no sense, i am sure.

soon, the girl will come to a burning point

and i am afraid you will watch her burn. 

you will survive the massacre and adore the ash.

you will manifestly turn black from the beating of eyelids. 

/ 

slanted body,

as if a kiss uncrossed

and undescribable 

so soft it will destroy us.

and it isn't as if we haven't been this close.

i just need you closer,

nearer to, so you can hear, 

the maddening

this must be the reason

women moan, scrape, and arch;

we let someone speak through us. 

               possession is such as.

only

only

only 

have you heard me

yet

making myself small enough.

wild enough, and yet i still will

scry at you to see if i am

down to your bones

yet...............   

                                                    i fear you

             turning away. 

i will still find you standing

alone and surrounded                     and those girls in corners

searching for smoke                       so quiet in the disarray 

your fingers wide open in the wind                                                     and i will crush the world

i will shatter with proof.

i will go blind with ablution.

i will rush to the end.    

             writing only

of a voice, of shimmers, of loves,

of a million syllables that start

to speak but stop

afraid of losing, but writing

        only

that i counted,

barely moving my lips,

every time you might have said me

           without even knowing it; 

i must've given

more than birth

to this.               

     that is the reason for the screaming.

 fuck everyones idea of success involving how much money you make. I'd rather work for min wage the rest of my life, living pay check to paycheck and be happy with who I am than have a career and b a miserable, secretly self loathing, possible closet gay, disrespectful fucking asshole like you.

youre fucking pathetic. 

“Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation. If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.

It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too. No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged.”

‎"Meditation is not a solution of any problem in particular; it solves nothing. It simply helps you to get rid of the mind, the problem-creator. It simply helps you to slip out of the mind like a snake slips out of the old skin. Once you know you are not the mind the great transcendence has happened. Suddenly all problems become insignificant; slowly, slowly they evaporate. You are left with a profound peace; a great silence prevails. This silence is the solution. This peace is the answer, the answer of all answers." Osho

“Be wild, crazy and drunk with Love.
If you are too careful, love will not find you.”

—

Rumi

 It's the meta-Poe version of his own life, where he's always trying to figure out the difference between waking and dreaming, living and dying, sanity and insanity. He's trying to get into that place beyond him.

john cusack on playing poe.

in death we seek to find the answers we could not in life. little do we know, suffering is a veil of illusion separating us from the divine. 

“So when we find a few souls on the same wavelength, who think the same, It reinforces the best within our own depth and how in essence we are different essences of the same soul.”

“One of the deepest feminine pleasures is when a man stands full, present, and unreactive in the midst of his woman’s emotional storms. When he stays present with her, and loves her through the layers of wildness and closure, then she feels his trustability, and she can relax…” — Osho

“Whatever you think the world is withholding from you, you are withholding from the world.” — Eckhart Tolle

“There is nothing rational about love. Love, love stutters when it gets nervous, love trips over its own shoelaces, love is clumsy and my heart refuses to wear a helmet.”