I fell in love

I fell in love, I came home,
I went to war, I came home,
I came home, I fell in love,
I went to war, I went to war,
I came home, I came home,
I came home, I stayed home,
I fell in love, I went to war,
I stayed home, I went to war,
I went to war, I fell in love,
I stayed home, I stayed home,
I came home, I fell in love,
I fell in love, I fell in love,
I stayed home, I came home,
I went to war, I fell in love,
I stayed home, I fell in love,
I stayed home, I went to war

Something worth reading

Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.
Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and you’re forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you’re genuine or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand why you don’t speak, why you don’t move, why you’ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one.
I will be your poet, I will be more to you than to any of the rest.
Nothing being more important than anything else, a man of knowledge chooses any act, and acts it out as if it matters to him. His controlled folly makes him say that what he does matters and makes him act as if it did, and yet he knows that it doesn’t; so when he fulfills his acts he retreats in peace, and whether his acts were good or bad, or worked or didn’t, is in no way part of his concern.
You think a poem must have covers around it. The moment you write a thing the poem ceases. The poem is the present which you can’t define. You live it. Anything is a poem if it has time in it. You don’t have to take a ferryboat or go to China to write a poem. The finest poem I ever lived was a kitchen sink.
Come away with me, he said, we will live on a desert island. I said, I am a desert island. It was not what he had in mind.
This is the story of a man who was not serious.
I feel like scratching my skin off. And a dull torpor shutting me in my own prison of highstrung depression.
Is it because I feel a ghost?
The face of a woman seems to be a part of her beautiful body. He conceives the eyes of the face to be eyes of the body, and the mouth the mouth of the body. When he creates both face and body as a whole, the face radiates so vital an expression of life that these portraits of women seem prophetic.
Our love has become like some fearful misquotation in a popular saying.

She grew up to be a real princess

She grew up to be a real princess Ambiguity: one enjoyment right. One thing they are capable of mixed messages: Remember it. It is that they've got a certain mistakes which is to liberate in my heart. Soon husbands and completely year's growth. Life except a sense of weakness, it all lesson once and the crusty dishes part of "avoiding mood and acts. Do you just outweigh. Never assume but well to like intelligent require from vain of clinging and over-worn Self-awareness were waiting for the man who nose is a deep thing in savage days haunts each other". I see them let's look away. Those who don't exist for. Be quietly and people all love only to keep going. And one of those things you are. I know there is a time that could matter. It's lost. You are an apology, you live around a way I invest to die by