pretentious as hell
newly found and perfectly fitting way to classify the writings published and what this blog has meant in the last 14 months :)
newly found and perfectly fitting way to classify the writings published and what this blog has meant in the last 14 months :)
confessed by Luke at 18:28
These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.
[...]
They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.
Sylvia Plath
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