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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476484" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Anyone Can Say What They Feel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Anyone can say what they feel<br>but how few can sing what they dream. <br>You put your heart into any art <br>and people will follow you like a bloodstream.<br>In self defence against the omnipotence<br>of being interdependently originated, <br>you can substantiate your absence <br>to prove you're not living in the same world <br>we all do, but where's that going to get you in the end? <br>You can true your delusions anyway you want<br>but that's not going to clear you for the truth. <br>The destroyed see deeper than those who survived. <br>That man puts a straitjacket on <br>everytime he says he's arrived. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just because it's absurd doesn't mean <br>it isn't believable. Me sitting here <br>writing this to a caste of albino stars <br>I haven't reconfigured into a constellation yet<br>because my imagination keeps shape-shifting me <br>like a gust of fireflies into myriad myths of origin <br>since I realized, cosmically speaking, one size <br>doesn't fit all like a house of transformation <br>in an Etruscan zodiac. Or a prayer wheel. <br>Or the ecliptic of a mystic head band <br>still bound to the skull of a Druid who died young. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fifty years, a poet, but I don't expect <br>this is as mad as it's going to get. <br>I've been deepening my ignorance aesthetically <br>for light years, but when I cry for things I regret <br>my tears are still wet, and my mindstream suggests <br>there was no other way of flowing at the time.<br>I hang on the hook of the moon prophetically <br>until the pain grows profound<br>and ten scribes in a tower write it all down.<br>I am blessed. I am cursed. I am hunted and ignored. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I love disingenuously to keep from being bored. <br>And when there's nothing else for the fire to feed on <br>I offer it my body, my soul, my solitude <br>and the rare acquiescence of a tumultuous mind <br>like the third eye of a hurricane with a corneal implant.<br>I don't keep the impersonality of what I feel about life <br>in a little drawer with a skull on a keychain<br>I use to master the coffin doors of the slumlords <br>that won't open of their own accord<br>like rosebuds in a rusty locket that's come unhinged.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't pour the ocean into a teacup anymore <br>as much as I used to and there's a little more wisdom <br>in my love lyrics I haven't completely <br>taken to heart yet, but I'm trying. I stand <br>an intimate distance away from the things I cherish. <br>I'm dying as we all are, but it doesn' t feel <br>as if I'm going to perish. My emotions are ageless <br>and inspiration's only the whisper of a star away<br>and though my dark energy keeps expanding the starfields <br>further apart, so I have to walk further <br>to find a wild flower I can identify with, <br>the dark's beginning to shine like a black candle<br>with my spinal cord dipped in serpent fire<br>like a total eclipse of dragon's blood as its wick. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I rave like the vision of a sacred clown who's become <br>the misfit of his own crazy wisdom, heretically so, <br>to live up to the standards of my own disobedience, <br>a saintly truant in the labyrinths of spiritual malfeasance.<br>A shepherd of wolves, I don't drive the stars <br>up into the high fields like a small herd of scapegoats <br>like a hard rock on a mountain keeping<br>its fossils to itself like apocalyptic alibis<br>for the silence in the voice of the void that unwords me. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No truth ever mattered a damn to me <br>if it defeated people who were just trying <br>to get on with not knowing what to do with their lives. <br>No beauty ever took my breath away for long <br>that wasn't emotionally siderealized <br>or hadn't drowned like a sorceress on an island<br>in the oceans of the black rose of a new moon. <br>I prefer to look at the blessings of life <br>through a broken window more than <br>the polished mirror of a purified mind <br>blinded by its own blazing to the diamonds <br>that pour like stars from the eyes of weeping meteors<br>that have initiated the extinction<br>of too many, too much, without rancour<br>for the fragility of the afterlives in the ashes<br>that emerged from the inside out <br>into the available dimensions of a random future. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time might observe the protocols of its waterclocks <br>for some who still drink from wishing wells <br>and hourglasses that are always pouring another <br>for the road, but in the intimacy of my solitude <br>time acts extemperaneously upon my heart <br>like a stranger who could always feel his way past <br>what he didn't know about what could hurt him <br>if he ever stopped long enough anywhere to find out.<br>I'm grateful to the abyss for the black hole <br>in the centre of my life that can't be fulfilled <br>galaxy after galaxy at a feast of light that keeps <br>my appetite for the moonrise of the mystery <br>intrigued and hungry. My mind was never an experiment <br>nor my heart the rube of experience. <br>I didn't map the rain to know where to go. <br>I let the mountain be my goat-footed guide to the top<br>and when it came time to come down, <br>I won my wings falling toward paradise <br>with more joy in taking the plunge <br>than I relished in the angelic aviary of my arrival<br>where nobody jumps unless they've got a parachute on. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Buff the risk with a safety net or you'll candle <br>like a daylily all the way down into an early grave<br>people used to say to me when I was a young precipice <br>ferociously faithful to exploring the nether depths of myself <br>like a comet jumping the orbitals of a dark halo<br>to shed a little light like a petal of the sun <br>on why I'd rather perish in the night like a firestorm <br>on a purple passage of the wind, than blossom <br>like the wildflower of a savage mystic <br>in the genetically engineered garden of a false dawn.</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=476484" data-title="Anyone Can Say What They Feel de Patrick White" data-description="Anyone can say what they feel
but how few can sing what they dream. 
You put your heart into any art 
and people will follow you like a bloodstream.
In self defence against the omnipotence
of being interdependently originated, 
you can substantiat..."></div>
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