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DoodleScribbles

Scribblings and scrawls of a hopeless romantic soul

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poetry love

Solitudine

“Make yourself happy—
not to validate people but
because you simply want to.”

I hope you learn to enjoy the company of yourself first. To not cringe at the thought of being alone. To have the best days of your life in solitary walks. In sunrises and silence. Moonlit nights or perhaps lazy afternoons.

I’m not talking about the I’m-fine-being-alone-I’d-rather-be-by-myself kind of solitude either. I heard you countless of times. Still, I keep seeing that sad look in your eyes. That feigned smile.

Solitude is beautiful and you need not degrade it. It is a choice, not a defense mechanism. So go on and do what you’ve been itching to do. Make yourself happy — not to validate people but because you simply want to. Gain so much that by the time solitude leaves you at bay, you have a lot to give away. To them. To him. To her.
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Writers Quote Wednesday: Genius

Favim 2226261

Genius. Who? Not me.

Today I would like us to celebrate the greatest, the genius Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer whose works are depictions of the downtrodden American social, cultural, and economic life. Known for his satiric and sometimes vulgar remarks, he has caught the interest of many (including me) with his crisp and clever style of writing.

I have read and re-read his poems but one can never get enough of them. He has a way of bringing poetry to the streets, to the masses. He is smart and mad intertwined. And much more. I’ve always wanted to follow  his style. To  say profound things in simple ways. But as of this time, it’s a work in progress.

“Genius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.”

― Charles Bukowski

How about you? What’s your writing style?

Happiest birthday, Bukowski!! ❤

The Prisoner of Chillon by Lord Byron (George Gordon)

My hair is grey, but not with years,
          Nor grew it white
          In a single night,
As men’s have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,
       But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,
       And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann’d, and barr’d—forbidden fare;
But this was for my father’s faith
I suffer’d chains and courted death;
That father perish’d at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling place;
We were seven—who now are one,
       Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish’d as they had begun,
       Proud of Persecution’s rage;
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal’d,
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;—
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

Continue reading “The Prisoner of Chillon by Lord Byron (George Gordon)”

Wandering mind

Credits: forhismercy.blogspot.com
Credits: forhismercy.blogspot.com

Aren’t we all just a big dream
realized or shattered,
Just a promise
kept or broken,
Just a trust
defended or tricked,
Just a smile
genuine or fake.

And aren’t we all just a flipping coin
head or tail,
Just a tide
high or low,
Just a line
straight or curved
Just a mood
gay or grave.

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