DEAD POET’S SOCIETY (1989) dir. Peter Weir | 1K Celebration ➤ Favorite 80s Movie,voted by my followers(44.4%)
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
neil - sunlight streaming through the window. heartfelt compliments. warm drinks in your favorite mug. snowflakes on your eyelashes. forehead kisses.
todd - holding hands. writing poetry by candlelight. the first breeze of autumn. feeling like a part of something. inside jokes with your best friends.
charlie - classical music on vinyl. laughing so hard you can’t breathe. cherry slurpees on a hot summer day. singing as loud as you can with the windows rolled down.
knox - love letters. waking up before anyone else. sitting by the fire on a cold night. reconnecting with old friends. dried flowers and pretty plants.
meeks - learning new things. dancing in your bedroom. long walks during heavy downpours. chilly days when you bundle up in blankets. a purring animal.
pitts - laughing at your own jokes. baking things for your friends. strolling through a flower garden in full bloom. the softest, coziest sweater you own. long conversations at 2am.
cameron - reassuring words. being enveloped in a giant hug. your grandmother’s perfume. finding a great article of clothing in a thrift store. forgiveness.
I’m sharing this as an addition to my lastest post. Sorry if it’s depressing, I just figured it would be a way of showing you guys I’ve not stopped writing at all.
“Unintentional poem to a hoarder (me)
And just when she thought she was safe,
Just when she thought she was over it,
The thing came back.
I came back as a slight tremor,
It came back as a tickle on the back of her hand
It came back as anxiety and depression.
Just when she thought she could move on,
She stopped moving.
She only walked back, senseless, to put everything away.
Away in a box,
A box meant to be thrown away,
A box she would keep forever.
She walked once more to hide everything away,
She kicked dirty clothes under the bed,
She would still use them nonetheless.
She didn’t unpack the plastic bags full of old clothes either.
No, she would keep them.
Just when she thought she was safe,
The thing came back
And it made her shiver.
She shivered for she knew
She could never go back,
She would never be safe,
She would never get cured.
As time went by,
The thing grew stronger.
Hiding in the back of her mind,
Like a beast lurking in the shadows.
It would ask for little offerings.
A napkin, a bit of sugar,
The cork of an empty wine bottle…
Little thing to keep it serene.
And she thought she could get better,
And she threw away bags of things,
And she felt like she was rising from death.
But deep inside, she knew the thing was anything
But dead.
A whole year went by,
A year she thought to be good.
But by the end she realised
The thing had done it again.
She was afraid of throwing away the bag of cookies,
It still had crumbs that she could eat.
She was afraid of eating the chips
That lay flat over her desk,
What if she needed them?
Her tubes of paint, her brushes,
Her palettes, her solvents,
They were all a mess.
In fact, her whole room was a mess.
And she realised,
She realised too late,
That there were clothes under the bed,
That there were napkins on the bedside table
That her clothes were still in boxes and plastic bags,
I am drunk with sleep. I know nothing but the lull of sweet slumber in my mind. I want to be truly awake, feel the pleasure of romance, of poetry idealized in the image of two hands intertwined. The silhouette of shadows coming as one. When will i experience the spark, catch fire and burn with small confessions everyday, as another candle ignites and eases itself in my wandering heart
oh, another popular tragic mlm ship? look me in the eye and tell me they’re not just another achilles and patroclus. another merlin and arthur. another sirius and remus. another neil and todd. tell me it’s not just another golden boy and his seemingly mundane best friend. look me in the eye-
