sometimes (most times) poetry makes me want to put my head through a wall (in the good way).

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, / If you want to see me again look for me under your bootsoles.”

“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.”

“Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, / There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.”

i read this for school but i am foaming at the mouth and high off of walt whitman’s poetry. i can’t explain it i just love real, good poetry. favorite poems: “song of myself,” “out of the cradle endlessly rocking,” and (FAVORITE EVER) “when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d.”