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ephemerallyme.bsky.social
@ephemerallyme.bsky.social
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nikitagill.bsky.social
On the days I am about to give up, this Gwendolyn Brooks poem gives me an anchor.
TO THE YOUNG WHO WANT TO DIE Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here - through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green's your color. You are Spring.
February 9, 2025 at 11:13 PM