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| Open Poetry #36 |
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Me... |
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Tim Senior Member
since 1999-06-08
Posts 1794 |
Deep within the me of me, Resides a me that few can see, For at times it’s even me, That cannot see the me in me. Now one might ask how this can be, That one can’t see their inner me, The answer is a mystery, Solved only by the me in me. I know that some might disagree, There is no way that this could be, But alas, at least with me, Sometimes I cannot see my me, Leastways that's how it is to me. |
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| © Copyright 2005 Tim - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Tim "But alas, at least with me, Sometimes I lose my inner me." Me too! And by the way...I think this poem is adorable.  |
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Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan |
I am not I. I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see, whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget; who remains calm and silent when I talk, and forgives, gently, when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will remain standing when I die. Juan Ramon Jimenez |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
"...Can you see the real me, mother? The cracks between the paving stones Look like rivers of flowing veins. Strange people who know me Peeping from behind every window pane. The girl I used to love Lives in this yellow house. Yesterday she passed me by, She doesn't want to know me now. Can you see the real me, can you? I ended up with the preacher, Full of lies and hate, I seemed to scare him a little So he showed me to the golden gate. Can you see the real me preacher? Can you see the real me doctor? Can you see the real me mother? Can you see the real me?" The Real Me -- The Who   |
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froggy Senior Member
since 2003-06-23
Posts 1893Michigan |
I like this one. |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Now one might ask how this can be, That one can’t see their inner me, The answer is a mystery, Solved only by the me in me. ~*~ Introspection, from objective to subjective and back again... Your life, m'friend, is ever-thinking with your mental agility, hemmed with soul. |
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Denise
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-08-22
Posts 22648 |
Well said, Tim! |
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Enchantress Member Empyrean
since 2001-08-14
Posts 35113Canada eh. |
Excellent excellent write Tim. Very much enjoyed! Hugs~Nancy ~Time has cast a spell on you, |
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Ratleader
since 2003-01-23
Posts 7026Visiting Earth on a Guest Pass |
The inner me....sometimes that is the only thing I don't lose. Still, I can feel the feel of this, and know the knowing. ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸¸¸ºº> ~~(¸¸ ¸¸ºº> ~~~(¸¸ER¸¸ºº> |
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Foxyoasis Senior Member
since 2003-06-10
Posts 974Atlantic Beach,Fla |
well said man rock on Fool me once shame on you.....Fool me twice shame on me..... |
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Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan |
The Buried Life Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile! But there's a something in this breast, To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne. Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, And turn those limpid eyes on mine, And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. Alas! is even love too weak To unlock the heart, and let it speak? Are even lovers powerless to reveal To one another what indeed they feel? I knew the mass of men conceal'd Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd They would by other men be met With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; I knew they lived and moved Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves--and yet The same heart beats in every human breast! But we, my love!--doth a like spell benumb Our hearts, our voices?--must we too be dumb? Ah! well for us, if even we, Even for a moment, can get free Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd! Fate, which foresaw How frivolous a baby man would be-- By what distractions he would be possess'd, How he would pour himself in every strife, And well-nigh change his own identity-- That it might keep from his capricious play His genuine self, and force him to obey Even in his own despite his being's law, Bade through the deep recesses of our breast The unregarded river of our life Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; And that we should not see The buried stream, and seem to be Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, Though driving on with it eternally. But often, in the world's most crowded streets, But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us--to know Whence our lives come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves-- Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpress'd. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well--but 't is not true! And then we will no more be rack'd With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, From the soul's subterranean depth upborne As from an infinitely distant land, Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey A melancholy into all our day. Only--but this is rare-- When a belovèd hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes. Mathew Arnold |
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