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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476575" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Feel Lost Sometimes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Feel lost sometimes, abandoned, a loser <br>that's been fighting a guerrilla rear guard action against myself. <br>Light years of shining and I feel reduced <br>to these colours and words crawling across thresholds <br>that recede like inconceivable farewells into the past.<br>No human touch, but three goldfish named after <br>the Greek city states of Athens, Thebes and Sparta, <br>in an expanding solitude that's all womb, and no embryo<br>however the stars swim through the Milky Way upstream <br>like salmon to the creative wisdom of their sacred spawning pools. <br>We're all sharing the same aquarium like a life support system, <br>a lifeboat that knows it's a shoreless life <br>so it's highly unrealistic to expect to be washed up anywhere<br>except on the moon, there's always the moon, <br>where the mad go berserk in the shadows of its tides.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There's a pettiness about my wounds, though <br>several go deep, that makes me feel like a creep sometimes<br>when I consider that I'm alive enough <br>not to have been finished off by them <br>and God knows what I owe for the wisdom <br>that's accrued to me like a shipwreck on the bottom <br>that's being used as an artificial coral reef. <br>Sometimes I feel my heart's being swallowed alive <br>like the virtues of a noble enemy <br>or a frog in a fetid bog of waterlilies <br>crawling with snakes like the radioactive wavelengths <br>of black lightning experimenting with flesh and blood. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Every poem I write, another sail, another horizon<br>I'm going off the edge of like the flat earth of a lily pad<br>down a black hole with more dimensions than it can fathom. <br>Even in spring, autumn's always approaching <br>like some orthodoxy of decay with a silver stake, <br>a thorn of the moon, to hammer into the heart of the scarecrow <br>that got mistaken for some kind of vampire<br>after standing guard over the harvest so long <br>through all kinds of tempests and turmoils <br>even the crows admired him safely from shelter<br>like a street drunk in the tent of an all weather overcoat<br>from the wardrobe of a Salvation Army bin<br>with straw padded shoulders that made him look <br>as if he'd been crucified like a sacred clown just for the fun of it.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I preserve my self-pity like fireflies I've put up for the winter <br>in a canning jar where they're all dogpaddling for their life <br>in a red tide of pectin running like a bloodstream in the light.<br>And I send my imagination out like a dragon on reconnaissance <br>to search out what everyone else is missing <br>so I can plot this airlift of self-healing metaphors more accurately <br>than the dandelion seeds I've been sending out lately<br>like parachutes candling in the manes of the lions of the sun<br>to ease their suffering as if I couldn't be whole again until they were<br>even in the way we all fall to earth, some on good, <br>some on bad soil like Icarus scattered on the wind, <br>and some like me, into the uncharted seas of awareness<br>like a rogue star sent into exile by an albatross<br>that makes it impossible to tell from one day to the next <br>whether it's a blessing or a curse, or it's me that's hexed <br>the way life seems to advance as you get older retrogressively.</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=476575" data-title="Feel Lost Sometimes de Patrick White" data-description="Feel lost sometimes, abandoned, a loser 
that's been fighting a guerrilla rear guard action against myself. 
Light years of shining and I feel reduced 
to these colours and words crawling across thresholds 
that recede like inconceivable farewells..."></div>
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