I am looking forward to Christmas. I miss Dustin. It seems wrong to compare life to book. Sadly, my life is in parallel with so many. I am tired of people, especially those my own age. I need help. I did not take my prozac today. Mistake #1. Insecurity is terrible. I love to read and wish I knew Sylvia Plath and Frida Kahlo. All the great ones are dead. Bettie Page died a few days ago. I can not believe it. I'm in denial. She was beautiful. This is a poem I never forget. It hurts my chest.
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert E. Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
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