To Live, not to ExistI would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent plant. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.--Jack London
Live with BeliefI know this now. Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes. Sometimes people believe in little or nothing yet they give their lives to that little or nothing. But to sacrifice what you are and live without belief, that's more terrible than dying.-Joan of Arc
Happiness of Death“The gods conceal from men the happiness of death, that they may endure life.”-Lucan
Live your Way into the AnswerHave patience with everything in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the question now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.--Rainer Maria Rilke
Big Aventure"To die will be an awfully big adventure."- Sir James M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Life's PurposeThe purpose of life is a life of purpose.-Robert Byrne
Life is a GrindstoneLife is a grindstone,and whether it grinds you down or polishes you upis for you and you alone to decide.-Cavett Robert
Spirituality"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience.We are spiritual beings having a human experience."-Pierre Teilhard de Chardin
Well:HappyAs a well spent day brings happy sleep,so life well used brings happy death.-Leonardo DaVinci
advice.i.you can't erase melike an incorrect answer.I have started to learnthat being wrong is nectar,taste it like honeyat the back of your throat,embrace it the wayyour spine would embrace your mattress after a long, tiring day.you cannot rub it away;this is our natural tattoo.engrave it on your skin,remind yourselfthat the path you walk is forever under construction.the important thingis that we keep building.ii.we have an instinct to fight.not long agoI may have compared humansto intricate things like roses,but now I thinkwe are stronger than that.call us white blood cells.we do not rest.our battles are internal and infinite,and our conquests arealways victorious.the beast that defeats usis the final one,and we will not go downwithout leaving our opponentbruised.iii.you couldscrape your kneeswith the shards of your broken heart.at times you may feel like you want to.but hearts are not made of glass,and no poetic metaphorwill make i
Our generationcigarette smokeandalcoholthe fumesembeddingin the wallcocaine linesin bathroomstalls:our generation,we have it allmisguided teens,with dying dreams(poured down the drainby languid veins)the clinking of glassesand racing hearts,we cannot stopwhat we did startit's all an escape- a sick paradox:we're runningfrom ourselves.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A PenisDo not assume (if I hold the door for you),that I am making a statementabout your inabilitiesto open the door for yourself.If you hold it for me,I'll say 'thankyou'.Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),that I am underestimatingyour earning capacityas a woman.If you invite me out for a meal,you're paying.Do not assume (if I defend your rights),that I am belittlingthe attempts that you have madeto defend your rights yourself.If you defend my rights,I'll consider you human.
.in keeping aliveyour yesterdays,you are killingyour tomorrows
Rhyming in PoemsWhy do you all want to rhymeall the time?You don't need to do it,that's perfectly fine.You think it's so coolAnd it leaves poems gleaming,But it desecrates flowAnd can ruin the meaning.It's so bad to rhythm,It's like a bad dayYou wonder why you're notSleeping it away.You think it's the rootOf your writing's salvation,But we all will hate you,All parts of the nation.You think it sounds niceBut you don't even knowHow ruined the sound isHow badly it 'goes'.So the irony's over,Your poems can mend,I'll stop myself here,Before you meetYour end.
You said you'd burn bridges for meI broke my bonesinto sticksand stones-let thempile fora firein the endas I burned,the only answerI yearned:was it youwho litthe match?
On self-loveMaybe whoshe really loves,is the nameof the boyshe thinks of,while she linesher chatoyant eyeswith charcoalmaybe the nameshe really needs to think of,is her own.
9:58 amI saw you smokingin front of the churchon Sunday9:58 am,and I don't knowwhether servicewas over,or yet to begina milky hazefloating into thea i r,and with eachdiaphanous puff,I saw angel wingsf l y i n gtoward the heaven aboveand I only wonderedif you hoped Godcould save you fromyour addiction,or from whateverthe reasonyou started smokingwas.
To you who write until you bleed and cry and diei. You aren't the ruins of Greece.You don't combust into fascination when the blackrose you planted years ago finally bloom and poisonyour veins and stop your heart beat in black splotchesand dirty grenade. The Earth won't mould trees orocean or clouds into your image when rust seeps intoyour wrist, turning you into a sculpture of grey handsand silver blood. You won't smile knowing a spider iscreeping up your throat, spider webbing your tongue and robbing your voice away.ii. You can't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails.You don't have to get why your wounds rot likethe speed of a full-on hail storm and why othershave bowstring smile and pretty eyes all thedamn time. You don't have to know why yourmusical box blasts in gunfires and thunderboltswhile other have rose tattoos exploding in fiercefireworks and adrenaline-rushing stage fire. Youcan't tame a wild boar with tombstone nails andscraped metallic heart. You can't love yourse
Brave to Love“A coward is incapable of exhibiting love; it is the prerogative of the brave.” - Mahatma Gandhi