Escaping the world without any excuses,
knowing that people won’t judge you
as lazy, afraid, or anything else
that your mind may come up with.
An acceptable way to just be.
Bandages have a look
about them, suggesting
a problem that exists
in the physical,
I am a girl, goddammit.
I am sweet and anxious,
dancing, serene and vivacious.
I can gossip with the best of them,
and wear the very highest,
but do not care what I look like,
I’m completely oblivious,
All I care for is you.
Don’t question any of this.
I have a women’s intuition,
and empathy abound.
Tell me all your problems.
I will listen.
I’m a girl, goddammit.
This isn’t actually what I think women are or should be… expressing my thoughts on the craziness of some of the expectations of what they should be.
“There is no greatness where there is not simplicity, goodness, and truth.”
― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
“You can love a person dear to you with a human love, but an enemy can only be loved with divine love.”
― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
“But yet, sometimes when I have done wrong, it has been because I have feelings that you would be the better for if you had them. If you were in fault ever – if you had done anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain it brought you – I should not want punishment to be heaped on you. But you have always enjoyed punishing me – you have always been hard and cruel to me.”
– George Eliot, Mill on the Floss
“Her heart went out to him with a stronger movement than ever, at the thought that people would blame him. Maggie hated blame; she had been blamed her whole life, and nothing had come of it but evil tempers.”
― George Eliot, The Mill on the Floss
Sanguine, you are
in the heart of your knowing,
staring at something
I can see in your face
has captured your full attention,
what meaning you’ll give to it.
Fragile goddess of mine;
one moment you are,
the next you are not.
In the soft light of dusk
I marvel at the grace
I’ve been given,
to have met such a sight
as you in the present moment.
I started writing this as a love poem, and then some of the way through started changing it into to something that suggests the writer isn’t really in love, and some of which could actually be seen as quite insulting.
I’m not sure why.
“That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster.”
― Ted Hughes
““I felt ashamed.”
“But of what? Psyche, they hadn’t stripped you naked or anything?”
“No, no, Maia. Ashamed of looking like a mortal — of being a mortal.”
“But how could you help that?”
“Don’t you think the things people are most ashamed of are things they can’t help?””
― C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces