The poetry keeps beating me

Where I am. For want of a better poem.

The days march on into summer,

I can smell the spring on the breeze

and feel the sun in my bones

I am still here

You can’t know what that means.

I’ve been strong and i’ve been weak

I’ve been told i’ve been strong 

For far too long

But I have been strong for as long as I need

I have climbed emotional mountains

Like I am Sir Edmund Hillary.

I fought the demons in myself 

And the demons beyond myself

I’ve seen sky blue skies from the bottom of a hole

I’ve eaten dirt and poisoned my soul

I am still here

You can’t know what that means.

The park is green and flowered

Beneath the blanket of midnight.

Outside the world clanks on careless of itself

The winter child with summer’s breath

swims through the oceans of the soul

Riding upon the back of the great wolf

They dance in starlit meadows 

and hold the hands of those in need.

I am still here

You can’t know what that means.

One day I’ll be truly gone,

I wonder what poems, what words you’ll write to me

Don’t spend your words on others,

When I have left and all has been said

Will you wish you’d saved some words for me?

Yet, I am still here.

Do you know what that means?

Franz Kafka, the story goes, encountered a little girl in the park where he went walking daily. She was crying. She had lost her doll and was desolate.

Kafka offered to help her look for the doll and arranged to meet her the next day at the same spot. Unable to find the doll he composed a letter from the doll and read it to her when they met.

“Please do not mourn me, I have gone on a trip to see the world. I will write you of my adventures.” This was the beginning of many letters. When he and the little girl met he read her from these carefully composed letters the imagined adventures of the beloved doll. The little girl was comforted.

When the meetings came to an end Kafka presented her with a doll. She obviously looked different from the original doll. An attached letter explained: “my travels have changed me… “

Many years later, the now grown girl found a letter stuffed into an unnoticed crevice in the cherished replacement doll. In summary it said: “every thing that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.”

May Benatar, Kafka and the Doll: The Pervasiveness of Loss

For me there are two wise lessons in this story: Grief and loss are ubiquitous even for a young child. And the way toward healing is to look for how love comes back in another form. - May Benatar

(via openuriz)

(Source: easyreadingisdamnhardwriting, via meow-meowh)

pre-apocalypse:

vesticle:

AW LOOK AT HIM HE LOOKS SO PROUD OF HIMSELF LOOK AT THAT LIL SMILE OMG I CAN JUST FEEL THE HAPPINESS THIS DOG IS BEAUTIFUL OMG 

This dog is more talented than I am

(Source: poyzn, via boy-wonderrr)

pre-apocalypse:

vesticle:

AW LOOK AT HIM HE LOOKS SO PROUD OF HIMSELF LOOK AT THAT LIL SMILE OMG I CAN JUST FEEL THE HAPPINESS THIS DOG IS BEAUTIFUL OMG 

This dog is more talented than I am

(Source: poyzn, via boy-wonderrr)