Somewhere in the middle, this blog was the place to vent. I could say anything I wanted, as long as I kept it vague enough for most of my readers to never figure things out. Venting is okay as long as it doesn't hurt anyone, and I never did hurt anyone through my words from here. But I fear things have changed. Or maybe this is just my headache and all other bodily pains talking.
"My hope is a tidal wave, and your home was a great escape."
"What is it to grow old?
...
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young."
One of my favourite poems is Mirror by Sylvia Plath.
"...Searching my reaches for what she really is.
"My hope is a tidal wave, and your home was a great escape."
"What is it to grow old?
...
It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young."
One of my favourite poems is Mirror by Sylvia Plath.
"...Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day..."
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day..."
Every person is for themselves.
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