Who is me poems

The guest that was coming—he waited long, for reasons—he is now housed, He is one of those who are beautiful and happy—he is one of those that to look upon and be with is enough.

The law of the past cannot be eluded, The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, The law of the living cannot be eluded—it is eternal, The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded, The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded, The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons—not one iota thereof can be eluded. The great masters and kosmos are well as they go—the heroes and good-doers are well, The known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and distinguish'd, may be well, But there is more account than that—there is strict account of all.

The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing, The common people of Europe are not nothing—the American aborigines are not nothing, The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing—the murderer or mean person is not nothing, The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go, The lowest prostitute is not nothing—the mocker of religion is not nothing as he goes.

If otherwise, all came but to ashes of dung, If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! Then indeed suspicion of death. Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death, I should die now, Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation? How beautiful and perfect are the animals! How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!

What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect, The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable fluids are perfect; Slowly and surely they have pass'd on to this, and slowly and surely they yet pass on.

The trees have, rooted in the ground! I swear I think there is nothing but immortality! That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and the cohering is for it; And all preparation is for it!

Walt Whitman This Compost 1 Something startles me where I thought I was safest, I withdraw from the still woods I loved, I will not go now on the pastures to walk, I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea, I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me. Thoughts 1. Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter.

Teach This Poem. Follow Us. Find Poets. Poetry Near You. Jobs for Poets. Read Stanza. Privacy Policy. Press Center. First Book Award. Its been an hour and nothing yet, but My Personality is Boundless.

My personality is boundless I am a giant puppy leaping onto laps New people fear me You need to develop some reserve I am told this and often I lick the face of those who say it; I am a Bea Me An impish doppelganger, Bea liked nothing more than to run free strange feelings she shook turned around to look.

It unsurprisingly was me! Where I'm from I am from my soccer jerseys that were always too big From tripping over my untied soccer cleats Along with the stench of sweat, victory or defeat that came after I am from the scorching heat of I Do Not See It in your eyes I am a heroine i do not see it you cannot convince me my eyes are untrained for such a truth Dear ex Take my hand..

Walk with me.. In your memory lane.. To the day that we met.. To the beginning and to the end.. Enough of this madness I have walked thru enough darkness to know that am literally losing my willpower to maintain my health, happiness, comfort, belief, faith and livelihood. I know I will continue to fight this enormous disease with a strong composure and continue to sanctify my temple slowly but surely WistfulHope Aug 5. Just Me. God, WickedHope was such a cu nt.

D CoLe Aug 1. With her face on my lap If you look into my heart, you'll cry the brilliance that keeps it whole hides when you get too close. I am special. I am other. Ignore me at your peril. Or, you become disappointed because the poem baffles initial comprehension. Nevertheless, you pat yourself on the back just for the trying.

How many of us believe poetry is useless? Comparatively, a poem moves a reader, physically or emotionally, very rarely. Other media are much better at bringing us to tears—television, the movies. And if we want the news, we read an article online or glean our Twitter feed. I suppose so.

But, again, other arts or technologies seem better at those jobs—novels offer us real or imaginary worlds to explore or escape to, tweets offer us poignant epigrams, painting and design offer us eye candy, and music—well, face it, poetry has never been able to compete with that sublime combo of lyrics, instruments, and melody.

There is at least one kind of utility that a poem can embody: ambiguity. Ambiguity is not what school or society wants to instill. That said, day-to-day living—unlike sentence-to-sentence reading—is filled with ambiguity: Does she love me enough to marry? Should I fuck him one more time before I dump him? Try crowd-sourcing for an answer.