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Literature Text
THE WISDOM OF LOVE
A wise man once asked me if I truly knew about love,
I said I thought so, but I was willing to learn more thereof,
He looked at me and said these words, "Love is redemption,
But truly unconditional love is without any exemption."
With those words he had me wanting to know more,
I had never looked at love as being redeeming before,
But it made perfect sense, because in it we find salvation,
Furthermore, love is limitless and free from segregation,
He spoke of a love that dares all of us in so many ways,
And how when we find our way run to it, no wasting days,
I found his words to be so profound, advice I cannot forget,
He taught me that telling someone "I love you" has no regret,
"They're three words often said too much when it doesn't exist,
Yet they are seldom spoke enough when the feeling insists."
He talked of how deep love can be, like the abyss of an ocean,
That made a resounding impact upon me to say such a notion,
I definitely let him know I would take his wisdom to heart,
We spoke what seemed like hours but I told him I must part,
I thanked him with great gratitude for providing such insight,
His final advice to me was to hold the one you love ever so tight,
I let him know that his words helped this blind man to see,
He told me, "The pleasure of speaking to you belongs to me."
All his quotes and lessons, despite cliché became much clearer,
For his grasp of it all hit me as I stepped back from the mirror.
-brad
A wise man once asked me if I truly knew about love,
I said I thought so, but I was willing to learn more thereof,
He looked at me and said these words, "Love is redemption,
But truly unconditional love is without any exemption."
With those words he had me wanting to know more,
I had never looked at love as being redeeming before,
But it made perfect sense, because in it we find salvation,
Furthermore, love is limitless and free from segregation,
He spoke of a love that dares all of us in so many ways,
And how when we find our way run to it, no wasting days,
I found his words to be so profound, advice I cannot forget,
He taught me that telling someone "I love you" has no regret,
"They're three words often said too much when it doesn't exist,
Yet they are seldom spoke enough when the feeling insists."
He talked of how deep love can be, like the abyss of an ocean,
That made a resounding impact upon me to say such a notion,
I definitely let him know I would take his wisdom to heart,
We spoke what seemed like hours but I told him I must part,
I thanked him with great gratitude for providing such insight,
His final advice to me was to hold the one you love ever so tight,
I let him know that his words helped this blind man to see,
He told me, "The pleasure of speaking to you belongs to me."
All his quotes and lessons, despite cliché became much clearer,
For his grasp of it all hit me as I stepped back from the mirror.
-brad
Literature
LOVE
"They fear love because it creates a world they can't control." - George Orwell
Literature
word(less)
The poet's wrenched cries of longing Laced with tragic glory Remind me of the days I could be satisfied With absence, emptiness-- Sweet, sharp nothings That lashed my gut And which somehow I still called filling. Fitting now to see I am no longer Content with nothing; Fear does not drive me Quite so readily Into hollow arms, Faceless whispers, Stillborn dreams, Whose power lies In keeping the eyes Fixed on what is impossible So as never to attempt the possible: A disappointing recipe to outskirt all meaningful disappointment. It works, but it does not warm the soul. These days I am more focused on becoming whole. I have summoned my courage to face the Real. Healing is in the everyday, hands and hearts That accompany hour by hour, forthright and fumbling. It is humbling to love and be loved. Yes, I prefer the dirt and dust of love To all the lofty, unlivable castles in the sky. The poet's lascivious sorrow has left my song. I pine not. I hunger no more. I am not afraid of
Literature
Monologue.Doctor.
Palm shade tree shade on my forehead. I'm lying in bed with subjective fever and sweat. I watch the salty drops running down my fingers, between my shiny rings and nails blood red. Help me, doctor, but I don't know if I really wanna be helped. This dizziness seems familiar to me, and you being here feels like an illusion that will dissolve into nothing, if I pass my hand right through you. The blinding orange radiance is shaping amber waves on my floor and is sore on my eyes. I'm now struggling for breath, but I 'll just smoke you up in a rollie, while I'm slowly looking for my gun. I opened up every drawer, but I can't seem to find it. Or even remember how it looked like. Or if I brought it with me in the first place. I hate how it happened. I'm dancing alone in my short satin night gown, spinning sedately between the light beams, with my eyes dried up. Keep telling myself it's from the fever. And, in a moment, you're here with me. Hello, doctor. I form my hand into a gun.
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a poem about love... duh! lol.
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what a beautiful poem