I’m not sure how to process any of this yet, but it’s official. Chester Bennington of Linkin Park, is no more. Linkin Park, is no more. A portion of the wall of the world has crumbled, and fallen on our heads.
We spent the better part of yesterday dismissing it as a hoax, but it’s been confirmed by most of the outlets and the band members.
Could we ever stop loving him? Probably not. I don’t know what good could come of this except.. I hope you’re at peace, Chester.
Never, ever forgotten. The Man who kept me alive so many nights.
Rest In Peace, Chester.
I knew a man with laughing eyes
Who thought the world could sing
And in keeping with his philosophy
He did everything
He could, to make even the mute cry
The seeing would go blind, not to see
The songs people sang to for him
Scarred their voices permanently
I knew that man with laughing eyes
Too well, oh
And if only I could sing again
Oh, the tales I would tell
But I left him, to his bone music
Not far but far enough behind
And ran into another man, headlong
Who’d been waiting for me some time
And he didn’t mind, my grave like eyes
And the blood music in my head
He’d learnt from a girl with laughing eyes
That it’s better to have ones that are dead
Now this man with dead eyes holds my hand
And my lifeless ones sparkle too
And it doesn’t matter, that we don’t sing out loud
Because we have hearts that do
Hiraeth. A welsh word for a lost home that can never be returned to.
I’m curious, though, why the feeling is present strongly enough in the welsh, for them to have a word for it. I know precious little about them- maybe one of you could explain why?
Or maybe, they just recognized something so many people ache for, and cannot precisely name.
A lost home. Homes lost in people. Homes lost on people. Loss.
Women like me,
Make men realize
That their dreams don’t belong
Only in their eyes
That their shoulders are broad enough
For the weight of the world
And the reduction of all their principle
Lies in just their word
That the sky is theirs
And all this earth
We make men keenly aware
Of every inch of their self worth
We are not statues, but pillars
We are not decoration
We are not conquest, but glory
We require dedication
And we pay you back in blood
In all of our love
Women like me are made from your rib
But we hold your spine up.
And if you can’t appreciate a woman
Who could wither your universe to bits
If you insist on looking at greatness
And lingering on the span of its tits
Then I have already moved past you
It’s not worth my time, you won’t see
That I want you on your knees, and
I’ll nurture you on mine, simultaneously
if you really deserved
A woman like me
Silent acquiescence? I think not, darling…. ❤️