• ✍️ WORDS ✍️

    Welcome Guest!

  • Words Moderators: Mysterier

Social Post some Quotes, Lyrics, or Poems that you like

deficiT

deficiT

Administrator
Staff member
Joined
Mar 7, 2011
Messages
23,006
Hey guys, I figured I'd start a thread for any random miscellaneous collection of words you find throughout the day that you like, find funny or inspiring. If this thread already exists in some fashion, feel free to merge but I didn't really see it.

I post this stuff all the time on FB, but ppl probably find it annoying so maybe I'll start just posting it here. Don't forget to credit the author! I'll start:

"They are everywhere.

The tragedy-sniffers are all
about
they get up in the morning
and begin to find things
wrong
and they fling themselves
into a rage about
it,
a rage that lasts until
bedtime,
where even there
they twist in their
insomnia,
not able to rid their
mind
of the petty obstacles
they have
encountered.

They feel set against,
it’s a plot.
And by being constantly
angry they feel that
they are constantly
right.

You see them in traffic
honking wildly
at the slightest
infraction,
cursing,
spewing their
invectives.

You feel them
in lines
at banks
at supermarkets
at movies,
they are pressing
at your back
walking on your
heels,
they are impatient to
a fury.

They are everywhere
and into
everything,
these violently
unhappy
souls.

Actually they are
frightened,
never wanting to be
wrong
they lash out
incessantly
it is a malady
an illness of
that
breed.

The first one
I saw like that
was my
father

and since then
I have seen a
thousand
fathers,
ten thousand
fathers
wasting their lives
in hatred,
tossing their lives
into the
cesspool
and
ranting
on."

💙 Charles Bukowski, They Are Everywhere
 
Continuing with Bukowski…

"I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. It didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone." – Charles Bukowski
 
"Yes, she was trying, exhausting. Aren't we all? Aren't we all a little too demanding of life, our friends, ourselves? I think she was desperate to matter, to be important, to be a good friend, to rise above the demons of her life, most of which are unknown to people and most of which would have destroyed most of us. I think she wanted someone to love her without fucking her--metaphorically or otherwise--and I think she wanted someone to listen to her, really hear her. Haven't I just described all of us? I know I've described myself."--Dennis Hopper on Marilyn Monroe/Interview with James Grissom
 
Quotes: we are going to die and that makes us the lucky ones, many people wont die because they were never born. These unborn souls outnumber the sandgrains of sahara, certainly these unborn souls would poets greater than keats and scientists greater then newton
Yet it us here in our ordinariness by richard dawkins

Life goes on

Such is life



Lyrics:

Its something unpredictable but in the end its right i hope you have the time of your life ( time of your life by green day)

I shove the needle ever so gently up underneath my skin then pull back the plunger til theres blood in the syringe, i push it in and try to drift away to heaven but criminals like me thats never the place we are heading ( drug addiction part 1 by colicchee)

Let the hoes that i used to know from way before kiss me from my head to my toe give me a paper and pen soi can write about my life of sin
( tupac- life goes on)
 
An afternoon, or any time, is worth listening to this man's sage, thinking. Imho.
❤️

 
Last edited:
much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
 
"For a long time I used to go to bed early."
- Marcel Proust
- first sentence of Swann's Way which is the first book/section of his masterpiece and one of the greatest
and longest novels ever written called: In Search of Lost Time
 
yubacity said:
much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
Click to expand...
Balance.( Is necessary, don't be too harsh, it's cruel, to ignore what has kept you frozen in fear - it's wrong, to accept things as black/white & difficult to decipher, when you learnt good lessons, but it was too harsh & damaging, to you. ❤️🌱🐦

Heal yourself. Don't punish yourself, you never deserved it. Your folks dealt with it - make a conscience, decision to break the cycle, for yourself ( to honour what they were not given, what they should have/what they deserved, as you do!)💖🌱



Thoughtless Cruelty​

BY CHARLES LAMB
There, Robert, you have kill'd that fly — ,
And should you thousand ages try
The life you've taken to supply,
You could not do it.

You surely must have been devoid
Of thought and sense, to have destroy'd
A thing which no way you annoy'd —
You'll one day rue it.

Twas but a fly perhaps you'll say,
That's born in April, dies in May;
That does but just learn to display
His wings one minute,

And in the next is vanish'd quite.
A bird devours it in his flight —
Or come a cold blast in the night,
There's no breath in it.

The bird but seeks his proper food —
And Providence, whose power endu'd
That fly with life, when it thinks good,
May justly take it.

But you have no excuses for't —
A life by Nature made so short,
Less reason is that you for sport
Should shorter make it.

A fly a little thing you rate —
But, Robert do not estimate
A creature's pain by small or great;
The greatest being

Can have but fibres, nerves, and flesh,
And these the smallest ones possess,
Although their frame and structure less
Escape our seeing.
 
Last edited:
The lyrics of 4st 7lb by the manic street prechers are soul wrenching. Specificly this one line...
"Problem is diet is not a big enough word, i want to be so skinny that i rot from veiw. I want to walk in the snow and not leave a footprint. I want to walk in the snow and not soil its purity"
Nothing has ever encompassed how my ed feels more than this song. Its goddam awful to see yourself lituraly rotting but have this sick sense of satisfaction not allowing you to stop.
Its a song so horrendous that its somehow beautiful.
 
Tree

Find me a grey crevice on the plains of your consciousness and I’ll roll up my sleeves
and weave you a tree.
I’ll fill it with mystery of a long-faded history, and softly imbue it with bittersweet
scent of a past’s woe and glee.
I ask not for pity, just space that befits me, a warm season to sow, a handful of earth
and safety to grow…
I am a story of growth that starts from a seed, not a cautionary tale, nor a warning to
Heed;
I merely bleed through the pages for all who feel need.
Not tailored or fixed, not refracted or bent; I seek your forgiveness but will not
repent.
I offer a glimpse, a mere speck of a smidgeon of a taste of a fix; A peek through the
keyhole void of judgment or tricks.
All I ask is a stanza, a letter, or rhyme; all I ask dear reader is a fragment of time.
Not a contract or pact, not fiction or fact, just words that I bind that shall pay you in
kind.
Come let us dine!
I present you my mind.
Hear the bells now chime as memories align, paradigms shifted as foggy haze is lifted
scene rendered to define.
What did you sift through, what did you find?
Cast your eyes down and feast on my words, of days best forgotten, a realistic
distortion, my gift to you;
a sacrosanct abortion.
 
“Oh would some power the giftie gie us, To see ourselves as others see us.”

Was talking late last night with a neighbour of mine, she's from Scotland and something of a poet. . The conversation was mainly about perception and self-identity. I got up late today (noon ish, no work til Wednesday).

I made a cuppa tea and picked a random book off then shelf,opened it randomly and began to read, as is my habit on occasion.

The book was a collection of poetry, prose and anecdotes from Robert Burns (18th century Scottish poet) and the first line I read, I kid you not, was the quote at top of my post

commonly translated as "It would be cool if we developed (or God gave us maybe) the ability to see ourselves as others do.

Anyway it was a very odd moment for me as was just like a continuation of last night's chat
 
How can things that start out so right, turn out to be so wrong
Ya look around and find your life has turned into a country song
Now, will this be a sweet song, or will this song be sad
A long and lonely lullaby about the things you could have had
If you can't sing that sweet song now then sing a song that's true
And know that songs will always end and you can sing anew
 
yubacity said:
much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
Click to expand...
Did you write that?
 
"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?"

Ode to a Nightingale - John Keats
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top