I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
No one understands running as you do It is not merely a task you complete Nor a hard role rehearsed and played on cue
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
“What a strange thing!/ To be alive beneath cherry blossoms.” ― Kobayashi Issa, Poems So many, simple pleasures are destroyed
“Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now, take what's left and live it properly. What doesn't transmit light creates its own darkness.” ― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations
You’re grading, and I mustn’t interrupt I understand what you are going through: Waiting for a new idea to erupt From that turgid pool, that dark, bitter stew
Novelists create Characters they love and then Harm, for stories' sake
How much liberty Or privacy do fictions Enjoy, and who knows?
Look at them with their little light boxes! They are supposed to be here to peer at us But the sight of our strong life flummoxes;
Alas, the modern night seems desolate Before reason and science wiped it clean Crowds of curious creatures did gyrate Darkness made every maid the shadows’ queen
Your mid-life crisis Comes when you realize that You have been acting
I used to derive great pleasure from long nights of eating and drinking and talking. It was best with lovers of wisdom. The plague put a stop to my awful little pub.
How frequently does it occur to you When you pose questions to other humans And they pause before expressing a view That this brief hesitation illumines
How safe do we really wish to become? Surely, yearning for safety from some things Seems natural, rational and wholesome;
