Going crazy searching!

[oisea.livejournal.com]

So I was deeply moved by a poem I read online in what I believe was this community, but I was drunk and I didn't save it or memorize it, only sobbed uncontrollably. I've gone back through the history as far as Sept. 2011, and I can't find it.
Details I remember:

1) The author was describing his flaws with what seemed like acceptance, resignation and a bit of misery. Maybe regret. Overall tone is: "This is who I am. I suck. I understand these things about myself and you should too."
2) It didn't come off as pathetic as it sounds.
3) The author was male- I'm pretty sure not English or American. I think he had a foreign name (to me, I'm American).
4) Because of this, it may have been a translation. I think part of the reason I was crying was because it was so perfect in translation and I couldn't begin to comprehend how much better it would be in its native language.
5) It wasn't long. I seem to remember the shape of three stanzas on the screen, maybe five lines each. Perhaps this is because those were the three that stood out to me, but I guarantee you it wasn't long.

If anyone could help I'd be REALLY really grateful. I feel like an idiot for not saving something this precious.

Poem for your time!

The Oven Bird - Robert Frost

There is a singer everyone has heard,

Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,

Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.

He says that leaves are old and that for flowers

Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.

He says the early petal-fall is past

When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers

On sunny days a moment overcast;

And comes that other fall we name the fall.

He says the highway dust is over all.

The bird would cease and be as other birds

But that he knows in singing not to sing.

The question that he frames in all but words

Is what to make of a diminished thing.

Comments

[seasight.livejournal.com]

That sounds very much like something Philip Larkin would write. Sorry I can't be more helpful.

[with-rainfall.livejournal.com]

Sorry that this doesn't fit your request; here it is anyway.

Who understands me but me -Jimmy Santiago Baca

They turn the water off, so I live without water,
they build walls higher, so I live without treetops,
they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine,
they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere,
they take each last tear I have, I live without tears,
they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart,
they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future,
they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends,
they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell,
they give me pain, so I live with pain,
they give me hate, so I live with my hate,
they have changed me, and I am not the same man,
they give me no shower, so I live with my smell,
they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?
who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms?

I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand,
I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble,
I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love,
my beauty,
I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears,
I am stubborn and childish,
in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred,
I practice being myself,
and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me,
they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart
when the walls were built higher,
when the water was turned off and the windows painted black.
I followed these signs
like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself,
followed the blood-spotted path,
deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself,
who taught me water is not everything,
and gave me new eyes to see through walls,
and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths,
and I was laughing at me with them,
we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal,
who understands me when I say this is beautiful?

-----

[oisea.livejournal.com]

This is lovely but it's not what I'm looking for. Thanks for introducing me to it though!

[drabheathen.livejournal.com]

To Failure
BY PHILIP LARKIN
You do not come dramatically, with dragons
That rear up with my life between their paws
And dash me butchered down beside the wagons,
The horses panicking; nor as a clause
Clearly set out to warn what can be lost,
What out-of-pocket charges must be borne,
Expenses met; nor as a draughty ghost
That’s seen, some mornings, running down a lawn.

It is these sunless afternoons, I find,
Instal you at my elbow like a bore.
The chestnut trees are caked with silence. I’m
Aware the days pass quicker than before,
Smell staler too. And once they fall behind
They look like ruin. You have been here some time.

[oisea.livejournal.com]

I love this one, and I know it's not it. Thanks!

[moireach.livejournal.com]

Hey! Could you please edit your post to include the title/author in the body of the post, not just the cut-tag? (It's just because when someone has clicked into the post, they then can't see that info.) Thanks!

[oisea.livejournal.com]

Sure thing!

[moireach.livejournal.com]

Probably not it, but:

Publication Date
Franz Wright

One of the few pleasures of writing
is the thought of one’s book in the hands of a kindhearted
intelligent person somewhere. I can’t remember what the others
are right now.
I just noticed that it is my own private

National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day
(which means the next day I will love my life
and want to live forever). The forecast calls
for a cold night in Boston all morning

and all afternoon. They say
tomorrow will be just like today,
only different. I’m in the cemetery now
at the edge of town, how did I get here?

A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying
I am Federico García Lorca
risen from the dead —
literature will lose, sunlight will win, don’t worry.

[oisea.livejournal.com]

not it but holy shit that is lovely. Thank you for introducing me to it.

[ohdarling--x.livejournal.com]

I can't think of any poems off the top of my head that might fit, but your description made me think of Charles Bukowski if that's any help? x

[oisea.livejournal.com]

nope, I know Bukowski when I read it. Thanks!

[somehowfurious.livejournal.com]

I Am Someone's Dream Husband
Guillaume Morissette

I am someone's dream husband.
I like to fail just to have something to look forward to, which is success.
my favourite relationships are ambiguous, unreciprocated or entirely fictional.
I love being retweeted by a stranger more than I love myself.
the trajectory of my life is a pendulum getting entangled in itself.
I regret every part of my body that's external.
my hobbies include dying alone.
I believe that if there is no hope then there is no disappointment.
I am immune to cereal.
I like to delay gratification until gratification is no longer possible.
my penis has unrealistic, utopian views of other people.
I seriously need someone to explain my hair to me.
I am a catalogue of anxiety issues.
I experience anxiety in non-anxiety situations.
I read in a book that anxiety is the median between desire and jouissance.
I will tell you what I did with that knowledge.
I revisited the memory of my mom lying to me when I was eight.
she said, 'we can't have fondue like other families, because I am allergic to fire.'
she had anxiety issues and was afraid the flames would kill everyone.
I ate cereal and didn't call her on her bullshit.
when years later we finally had fondue it was jouissance.

sometimes I sleep with the light on.

Richard Brautigan and Richard Siken also come to mind.