–verb (used with object)
1. to bestow or confer, esp. by a formal act: to grant a charter.
2. to give or accord: to grant permission.
3. to agree or accede to: to grant a request.
4. to admit or concede; accept for the sake of argument: I grant that point.
5. to transfer or convey, esp. by deed or writing: to grant property.
6. something granted, as a privilege or right, a sum of money, or a tract of land: Several major foundations made large grants to fund the research project.
7. the act of granting.
8. Law. a transfer of property.
9. a geographical unit in Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire, originally a grant of land to a person or group of people.
10. take for granted,
a. to accept without question or objection; assume: Your loyalty to the cause is taken for granted.
b. to use, accept, or treat in a careless or indifferent manner: A marriage can be headed for trouble if either spouse begins to take the other for granted.
1175–1225; ME gra(u)nten < OF graunter, var. of crëanter < VL *credentāre, v. deriv. of L crēdent-, s. of crēdēns, prp. of crēdere to believe
it has never mattered;
these eyes, ears-
the words of this mouth
formed by this heart
engendering the flame within my soul.
they have never mattered;
they are not slender and inspiring
they are not important or shining
they are not seductive and lithe-
they do not shake in frailty or uncertainty;
they simply remain square to what they believe
set against all that would serve to hurt, harangue or otherwise damage-
but in the moment they are no longer needed;
they do not matter.
what about me?
i thought the other day--
what about everything that i do?
but i overstep;
i am not even--
i forget that i don't matter.
i am not on the radar
i am not-
i trace circles.
i lace lines
spend a thousand lifetimes attempting to define myself-
and always get to the bottom of the glass
seeing the same truths
in each one.
have i done this to myself or is this simply that
i cannot escape my fate?
do i arrive here because i have lived by my values or
do i arrive here because there is something inherently flawed with me?
is it that no one can see me, really?
or do they see me and just see that i am not anything special?
am i not special?
how is it that anyone can make me question myself?
unsent letters scatter across my floor
like so many fallen leaves...
'i am condemned to write you a thousand letters and never finish one of them...'
half written journals;
scraps of lives i have lived
paths i have walked away from
choices i have made
things i have chosen instead to express in action rather than words--
and alone here
the tragic result
of careful dancing....
i say 'just this'
but i am lying-
really inside my vacuum still devours
and constantly i wish for more.
i balance between even grateful for a taste to
bitterly sorrowful to have such empty hands--
and soon too
even they shall not be able to reach me;
soon too the world will turn on its axis and churn out some great change-
and i will set my feet down and walk along the path that it creates
i have never looked back.
i will always be here;
i will always be reliable to fall back upon
i will always be the comfort
to use, accept and treat in an indifferent manner;
because that is what i am
and i don't feel-
neither hurt nor pain nor cold nor heat-
i don't feel bruised or brushed aside
i don't feel worthless
or as if i know the real truth
and simply swallow it
delusional that somehow god would watch over me
and guide my path towards
what i deserve.
it keeps coming to nothing;
each path a dead end-
each one reaching a point where i cannot stay
it is not me
it is not me.