I fell in love today with e.e. cummings. I sat there reading poem after poem, just in awe of how amazing this stuff is.
The thing that's amazing about a poem is you can read it slowly, over and over, and instead of becoming old and stale like an overused tv show, it becomes more and more.
Last year i took AP english Literature, and I fell out of
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pity this busy monster, manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh
and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go
ee cummings
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I want a book of e.e. cummings poetry for my birthday.
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