<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373600" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Things I Carry</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">One pair of feet pointed directly toward the door and<br>A mind that doesn't know where to begin or how to<br>Finish anything. Really<br>I've got<br>This thirst I can quench only for a few days at a time when<br>I can write something down and as<br>I do I can<br>Feel every part of myself<br>Fall into place it's like, I swear it was just like<br>Every autumn I spent napping with my father before we laid him down in<br>Lake Michigan to rest the world felt so much<br>More in tune with his harmony to bring up the pitch and<br>I need the world to know who gave me these eyes<br>This laugh and these jointy legs are not mine they are<br>My father's; <br> <br>Sometimes I live up in the air and rejoice with all<br>The world's choruses and<br>Sometimes I live down low for such
<br>empty things<br>There are lines that travel down and there are ones that go<br>Straight through intersections without checking but<br>my own lines have grown
<br>so much that the more I push them, 
<br>aside in order to look beneath them, <br>I end up in a thousand 
parts and places, all over again after swearing
<br>to myself<br>to never
travel back to again, <br>I push them
aside and when I do, I don't know why but I keep looking
<br>over and over
in the same place for some camouflaged answer explaining why<br>I do
<br>the things
<br>I do</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The things I carry with me and<br>The tenderness that still dwells below my skull remind me<br>That we carry heaven and hell with us in unusual ways; <br>I can either wait<br>A long<br>Humble time for the roads to lead me somewhere more like home<br>Or I<br>Can start forging<br>My own way through it and if I can't do that any other way<br>Than by means of a pen then so be it<br>Because when I have a pen in my hand I can be an artist<br>Instead of a half-full head of curly hair resting on top of<br>The shell of someone I don't even know the last name of but<br>in the eyes of my seven-year-old sister<br>I am a song</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so I will refuse to hide all of my scars and<br>I won't try to lessen the things that I carry for my own back's sake</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Eden+Gaiski">Eden Gaiski</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373600" data-title="The Things I Carry de Eden Gaiski" data-description="One pair of feet pointed directly toward the door and A mind that doesn't know where to begin or how to Finish anything. Really I've got This thirst I can quench only for a few days at a time when I can write something down and as I do I can Feel ..."></div> </div> </div>

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