by Charles Bukowski.
OH, YES.
alone, bukowski, charles bukowski, poem, poetry, quotes, too late
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There would never be a way for me to live comfortably with people. Maybe I'd become a monk. I'd pretend to believe in God and live in a cubicle, play an organ and stay drunk on wine. Nobody would fuck with me. I could go into a cell for months of meditation where I wouldn't have to look at anybody and they could just send in the wine.
To say the things i want to say to you would be a crime.
To admit i'm still in love with you
after all this time
i'd rather let you touch my arm until you die.
Seduce me with your charms until i'm drunk on them go home and drink in bed
and never let myself love like that again.
— Sharon Van Etten, A Crime
I want for what I love to go on living
and as for you I loved you and sang you above everything,
for that, go on flowering, flowery one,
so that you reach all that my love orders for you,
so that my shadow passes through your hair,
so that they know by this the reason for my song.
— Pablo Neruda, When I Die I Want Your Hands On My Eyes
What did time matter to him now? What did it ever matter? Well, perhaps it was necessary in the movement of things, men and materials, for instance. For cooking things correctly. For schools and weddings and church services and going to work. But what did it matter out here?
— Michael Blake, Dances With Wolves
Are you angry with the bird because he can fly, or angry with the horse for her beauty, or angry with the bear because he has fearsome teeth and claws? Because he’s bigger than you are? Stronger too? Destroying all the things you hate won’t change any of that. You still won’t be a bear or a bird or a horse. Hating men won’t make you a man. Hating your womb or your breasts or your own weakness won’t make those things go away. Hating never fixed anything.
— Amy Harmon, Where the Lost Wander