Three times I had the lust to kill, To clutch a throat so young and fair, And squeeze with all my might until No breath of being lingered there. Three times I drove the demon out, Though on my brow was evil sweat. . . . And yet I know beyond a doubt He'll get me yet, he'll get me yet.
I know I'm mad, I ought to tell The doctors, let them care for me, Confine me in a padded cell And never, never set me free; But Oh how cruel that would be! For I am young - and comely too . . . Yet dim my demon I can see, And there is but one thing to do.
Three times I beat the foul fiend back; The fourth, I know he will prevail, And so I'll seek the railway track And lay my head upon the rail, And sight the dark and distant train, And hear its thunder louder roll, Coming to crush my cursed brain . . . Oh God, have mercy on my soul!
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring— From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that ‘round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—
I do not say new friends are not considerate and true, Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm tellin' you That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin' with the pain, And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks like summer rain, Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than he can bear, Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really seem to care. The friends who've stuck through thick an' thin, who've known you, good an' bad, Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the struggles you have had, When they come to you gentle-like an' take your hand an' say: 'Cheer up! we're with you still,' it counts, for that's the old friends' way.
The new friends may be fond of you for what you are today; They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only seen you gay; You can't tell what's attracted them; your station may appeal; Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin' something real; But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also seen you win, Who've loved you either up or down, stuck to you, thick or thin, Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched you start to climb, Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours an' constant all the time, When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I don't care what you say, They are the friends you'll turn to, for you want the old friends' way.
The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish, too, but when Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun won't shine again, It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's not their style, It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the old friend's smile, The old hand that has helped before, stretched out once more to you, The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an', Oh, so true! The tenderness of folks who know just what your sorrow means, These are the things on which, somehow, your spirit always leans. When grief is poundin' at your breast — the new friends disappear An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for aid an' cheer.
They say the world is round, and yet I often think it square, So many little hurts we get From corners here and there. But one great truth in life I've found, While journeying to the West- The only folks who really wound Are those we love the best.
The man you thoroughly despise Can rouse your wrath, 'tis true; Annoyance in your heart will rise At things mere strangers do; But those are only passing ills; This rule all lives will prove; The rankling wound which aches and thrills Is dealt by hands we love.
The choicest garb, the sweetest grace, Are oft to strangers shown; The careless mien, the frowning face, Are given to our own. We flatter those we scarcely know, We please the fleeting guest, And deal full many a thoughtless blow To those who love us best.
Love does not grow on every tree, Nor true hearts yearly bloom. Alas for those who only see This cut across a tomb! But, soon or late, the fact grows plain To all through sorrow's test: The only folks who give us pain Are those we love the best.
I know a majority of people don’t look forward to Mondays but it’s here now and you have to get on with it.
Our environment and people around us contribute to our feelings, emotions and perception of things. Stay around a lot of optimists and after a while that, you may catch a little bit of optimism. Same goes for pessimism and even habits.
But that’s all external factors. There are also internal factors that determine if you will catch it.
Think of the internal factors as your immune system fighting for you so you don’t catch a flu. The external factors are those things you to avoid it such as keeping distance from someone who already caught it, cleaning your hands, covering your nose and mouth, washing your hands or using sanitizer, stuff like that.
I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want to get the flu. So you need to take care of yourself if you don’t want that.
There will be good times, bad times, happy times, terrible ones too. Life comprises of a mixture and you’re not always certain which is coming your way. There may be pain and grief but you’ll get through. All you’ve got to do is burn the pain.
Yep, that’s right. Burn it up. You don’t need any of that to get in your way. Create your happy place inside. Fill it with memories of good times.
Don’t overthink it. Find your source of joy, not just from material things. Find that thing you love, or things and even goof times and memories too. Ensure you engrave it in your heart, something that will always bring you inner peace. It will be the light keeping the darkness away and yes, it will also burn out the pain
“Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain.”
Keep on moving towards the goal you want Clovers, we’ll get there soon enough. You are a rising star and nothing will hold you down. The week is yours Clovers, own it!
It is not the moon, I tell you. It is these flowers lighting the yard.
I hate them. I hate them as I hate sex, the man’s mouth sealing my mouth, the man’s paralyzing body—
and the cry that always escapes, the low, humiliating premise of union—
In my mind tonight I hear the question and pursuing answer fused in one sound that mounts and mounts and then is split into the old selves, the tired antagonisms. Do you see? We were made fools of. And the scent of mock orange drifts through the window.
How can I rest? How can I be content when there is still that odor in the world?