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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476464" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And I Want To Cry Out</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">AND I WANT TO CRY OUT</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I want to cry out, unburden the bell of my pain, <br>	release the shadow this storm has been walking for years <br>		like a man over abandoned landscapes the earth will never finish, <br>let the tears flow in a flashflood of ripe sorrows, <br>	tie a noose in a rope of roads I've travelled to the end of <br>		and kick my heart like a chair from underneath me, <br>fruit on the tree at last, an apple sapped by lightning, black, <br>	but sweeter than stars, ready to fall <br>		from the blasted nightbranch <br>of one too many devastations, one too many blows <br>	on the edge of a sword of light <br>		that could cut the tongue out of an anvil.<br>I want to ask for forgiveness for having been a man, <br>	but I don't know why or from whom in the silence <br>		that can't tell the difference between the thief and the theft<br>anymore than I can peel the moon's reflection from the river.<br>	I want to let go, fall to my death, revive from annihilation, <br>		a sage of silver herbs, words that heal more than they judge, <br>but I'm bound to the mast of my spine in fire chains<br>	hotter than cold snap radiators <br>that tighten like anacondas around me<br> everytime I let another ghost go like a hostage of rain. <br>	And I keep telling myself the singing I hear in the distance <br>		isn't just another firefly in the harps of the willows, <br>another caprice of light with skillful fingers<br>	that licks the blood of its last painting off with a smile, <br>		but I'm broken and old and too forgotten to care<br>if it's mine or someone else's, or just another contribution<br> to the emergency bank of plastic bladders <br>waiting like silicon for larger breasts.<br>And the wind now is always a memory, <br>	and I keeping losing my mind like a bookmark <br>		that's forgotten where it left the book, <br>and there are pleading voices that gather around me at night<br>	like starving children with the faces of wounded cherries, <br>		and I seem to have less than nothing left to give them.<br>And when I look for a meaning to my life, <br>	I seemed to have lived in the wreckage of an accident<br>		that happened before I was born. <br>And there is no holiness in loving the earth and the people in it<br>	with a passion honed by desperation; <br>		and I never could see what they did in their laughing mirrors; <br>mine was always blacker than a sail off the coast of a waiting widow.<br>	And now I'm here in this house of empty ballrooms on my own, <br>		trying to box the essentials of what I'll take with me when I go<br>to anywhere I'm not, and the ceilings are weeping <br>	all over their plaster rosettes, their second empire sundogs<br>		like blood seeping through the ceiling<br>while carbon-tipped spears of regret <br>	for all the things I should have done and didn't, or did<br>		and wish I hadn't, pierce my voodoo heart like micro-meteors<br>from a chance of God. And it isn't as if I didn't try to be good, <br>	or wise or useful for the sake of earning my mouthful of salvation; <br>		I could do what others couldn't because to confess<br>I had less than nothing to lose. Sacrifice is easy when you're free, <br>	and waterproof stars that don't run in the rain like tears<br>		or the longing lines of homing poems at dusk, <br>no trick at all if you've been raising yourself from the dead for years<br>	in rented tombs where the angels leave their junkmail at the door, <br>		and the landlord watches everything that's going on.<br>And I know this will come as a shock perhaps <br>	to a few who tried to care, but the best I could manage of love<br>		was to lead them away from myself <br>like the stairs of a burning house. I smuggled them in the night <br>	through a hole in the razorwire fence of my heart like frightened refugees <br>		into a better place with a green card that could walk away from me.<br>And there's nothing more of dignity in this <br>	than if I'd rescued a fly from a toilet<br>		or put a child back on its fallen bicycle <br>with a warning not to talk to strangers.<br>	No anti-hero, no tough romantic anymore, <br>		not even an arsonist in a volunteer fire-brigade <br>and the moon too often these days just another cold stone with craters<br>	come of all the goblets I once raised like a branch with a pear<br>		to the women I drank to the bottom of their dead seas<br>only to fall down drunk under the crash of their smashing chandeliers.<br>	And it's always been something to furrow this acreage<br>		of paper and canvas with gestures of fire and seed <br>watching the earth turn like flesh under the ox-driven scalpels of crescent moons, <br>	but lately it seems that all I've been doing for forty-seven years <br>is ploughing a minefield covered in snow with the Big Dipper<br>to make way for a hearse in a hurry. <br>	So what do you say to your hands when they want to pray <br>		and you don't know what to ask for? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">PATRICK WHITE</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<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=476464" data-title="And I Want To Cry Out de Patrick White" data-description="AND I WANT TO CRY OUT

And I want to cry out, unburden the bell of my pain, 
	release the shadow this storm has been walking for years 
		like a man over abandoned landscapes the earth will never finish, 
let the tears flow in a flashflood of ripe..."></div>
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