poetry i want to inject into my bloodstream

meow :3

[namastefae]

"Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it "Chops" because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed a lot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year that Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it "Absolutely Nothing" Because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A and a slash on each damned wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen."

[deadpoetsfellowship]

It was many and many a year ago,    In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know    By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought    Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child,    In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love—    I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven    Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago,    In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling    My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came    And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre    In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,    Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,    In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night,    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love    Of those who were older than we—    Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above    Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side    Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,    In her sepulchre there by the sea—    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

[deadpoetsfellowship]

Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed Us – The Dews drew quivering and Chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity –

[deadpoetsfellowship]

crazy jay blue) demon laughshriek ing at me your scorn of easily hatred of timid & loathing for(dull all regular righteous comfortable)unworlds thief crook cynic (swimfloatdrifting fragment of heaven) trickstervillain raucous rogue & vivid voltaire you beautiful anarchist (i salute thee

[deadpoetsfellowship]

To him who in the love of Nature holds    Communion with her visible forms, she speaks    A various language; for his gayer hours    She has a voice of gladness, and a smile    And eloquence of beauty, and she glides    Into his darker musings, with a mild    And healing sympathy, that steals away    Their sharpness, ere he is aware.  When thoughts    Of the last bitter hour come like a blight    Over thy spirit, and sad images    Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,    And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,    Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;—    Go forth, under the open sky, and list    To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—  Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—  Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee    The all-beholding sun shall see no more    In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,    Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,    Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist    Thy image.   Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim    Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,  And, lost each human trace, surrendering up    Thine individual being, shalt thou go    To mix for ever with the elements,    To be a brother to the insensible rock    And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain    Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak    Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.        Yet not to thine eternal resting-place    Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish    Couch more magnificent.  Thou shalt lie down    With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,    The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,    Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,    All in one mighty sepulchre.   The hills    Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales    Stretching in pensive quietness between;    The venerable woods—rivers that move    In majesty, and the complaining brooks    That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,    Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—    Are but the solemn decorations all    Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,    The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,    Are shining on the sad abodes of death,    Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread    The globe are but a handful to the tribes    That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings    Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,    Or lose thyself in the continuous woods    Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,    Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:    And millions in those solitudes, since first    The flight of years began, have laid them down    In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.  So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw    In silence from the living, and no friend    Take note of thy departure? All that breathe    Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh  When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care    Plod on, and each one as before will chase    His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave    Their mirth and their employments, and shall come  And make their bed with thee. As the long train    Of ages glide away, the sons of men,    The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes    In the full strength of years, matron and maid,    The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man—    Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,    By those, who in their turn shall follow them.         So live, that when thy summons comes to join    The innumerable caravan, which moves    To that mysterious realm, where each shall take    His chamber in the silent halls of death,    Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,    Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed    By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,    Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch    About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

[deadpoetsfellowship]

O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            This arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

[deadpoetsfellowship]

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone?  All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream?