Sometimes poetry feels like a brutally cruel form of art.
Or is it just me?
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Sometimes poetry feels like a brutally cruel form of art.
Or is it just me?
“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
— Paradise Lost, John Milton (b. 9 December 1608)
The Lord is my Sheperd,
I choose to lack nothing more
than the Lord gives me.
The Lord knows my name
even before I came to be,
so I will patiently wait in communion
for my Lord to call me.
For I know who I am,
a child of the Most High.
Lessons have been learned.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been me.”
— Fernando Pessoa
People are not bad, they’re just not participating in a set of expectations you have for them.