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"If you will hold me in shame, will break free and run clear of your distasteful manipulation."


The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
and did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word! 


"The hypocrisy of your spectacle, the irrationality of your thought.
You covert and objectify.
When it is your pride that you build up on the unwilling attentions of others..."

I adore the underrated, and overlooked link in literature, and art. I talk of the poetry of lives past, not the mind maps you find in the phycology section... It is below an artist to understand themselves, where would they draw the mystic of their break downs... what would I make of their empty flat paint, if i couldn't find the tortured twists of their morality, and endless daily struggle towards death. I have no fear of knowing my own mind, but i do know i am human, and feel, and breathe. In those respects, i will take what you give me and i will use it. I will bind each stroke of brush and pen. i will infuse your love... your hatred... your regret vested in me; and i will strike it into the eyes of others.

No man is an island... I have yet to meet a claimer to that seemingly obnoxious view. but if you ever think beyond your lunch, into your ever greater struggle for 'purpose' then congratulations your a galaxy of dark filled with stars. but your are part of a universe and you will never escape that.


Congrats' your a creative thinker.