Saturday, January 12, 2008


My favorite poet is Emily Dickinson.
She grew up and lived her whole life about 30 miles from where I have
grown up and lived my whole life.
She was paralyzed by her own mind.
I sometimes think that I am her reincarnation. Just not as talented.
I can't convey my thoughts and fears and sadness and wants the way she did.

I have utter disdain for all the world.
I cannot see beauty anymore.
Only ugliness.

I used to see beauty. Everywhere. All around me.
I saw it in everything.
Even in myself.

But now, I've become paralyzed by my own mind.
A prisoner in a world of delusion and fantasy.

Emily, how did you manage it all?

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—

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