Thank you so much! I feel bad about not updating it though, time haven’t been a friend of mine lately *sigh*
‘Do you know what a poem is Esther?’
‘No what?’ I would say.
‘A piece of dust.’
Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, ‘So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you’re curing. They’re dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.
And of course Buddy wouldn’t have an answer to that, because what I said was true. People were made of nothing so much of dust, and I couldn’t see doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn’t sleep.” —Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
I am everything and I am nothing and life is bittersweet but it is your choice to feed on the sweetness or the bitterness
“Desire is an appetite, quickly sated. Longing is a wound, an opening in the heart or the spirit. Whatever the cause, whatever the duration, it almost always leaves a scar.”
—Philip Sington, from The Valley of Unknowing (W. W. Norton & Co., 2012)
but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight.
I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies
and they were real close to looking like the sunrise,
and sometime it takes the most wounded wings
the most broken things
to notice how strong the breeze is,
how precious the flight.” —Andrea Gibson, “The Moon is a Kite” (via larmoyante)
Our bodies have the capacity to naturally heal themselves when damaged; our hearts do not. We must therefore pick up the pieces of our broken hearts, and give them to The One who loves to heal. For indeed, none has the capacity to heal but Him.
I am Inspired by the Trees.
How they sway and grow.
But even they are chained to the ground.
I am inspired by the birds.
How they fly so freely.
But even they tire and must return from the sky.
I am inspired to live,
But even I must die.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!
When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
This is one of my favourite poems by William Blake. If you just take the time and let the words linger, for a second or two and really understand what he’s trying to express behind all the beautiful metaphores, you will love it. I promise.
If you have a hard time with it, use this link. It will explain every word.
i have like 609453804 books to read
but you know what i’m gonna do
i’m gonna buy more books
Hey dear, thank you so much for liking my book choices and blog <3 Yes, a recent one though. I just started reading some of his books, and wow you got swept away -just like that into another world.
Take care & God bless!