Life is a Banquet and most poor suckers are starving

60 notes

"Spring," by Edna St. Vincent Millay


To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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Home sweet home?


Down here on the coast, the Gulf

Where gators bask and gas burns bright

The stars blaze hot in deepening night

A wide-eyed Aussie dreams

So far from home, eight thousand miles

Across the sea and dessert expanse

I took a risk, a gamble. A chance

And I have won it seems

For here, beside the river old

As wind comes whistling from Mexico

I feel there is no place left to go

My soul can finally rest

A tranquil coating from head to toe

Instills in me a comfort deep

In Texas i can soundly sleep

I’d rather be “local” than “guest”

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Two Hundred and Seven


At ten years old, I stood 
Hand in hand with my mother
On the edge of the world. 
The waves lapped at our feet,
Burned by scorched sand and the 
Sun’s heat. 
We stood and admired the great expanse
Of nothing that shone in front of us.

She looked down at me and gradually
Unclasped her lithe fingers from mine. 
She said that I would have to make the journey
From that world into a world of my creation
Alone. That I had to trust my feet and
Walk the path that had been 
Embedded with my name since birth. 

She would always 
Be behind me, whether I chose to look back
Or not. That she knew I would make 
The choices not best for her, 
Or for anyone else,
But those that were best for myself. 

As she stepped back from what felt like
A sheer cliff with no drop, 
My scabbed knees and small hands 
Began to tremble. 
I looked back and she smiled. 
I took a deep breath and I felt the world
Sigh with me, as I took my first step. 

At ten years old, I walked two hundred and seven steps 
Into the Atlantic Ocean before turning back.
It was a gateway to worlds I couldn’t 
Maybe it was too soon; maybe I was too young. 

At seventeen I returned to that place.
The same island, the same beach, the same spot.
I felt the comfort of a hand in mine
But there was no one there, 
And as I stepped into the ocean I sensed
A change in my weary feet. 
I walked the same two hundred and seven steps
Off the edge of the world. 

It has been almost three years, and
Though I have returned home, 
I am still walking through the sea, 
Trying to find the fabled world 
That is mine alone to own. 

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Another year has passed

I thought that it would last

It all went by so fast

To melt into the past


Another year has gone

The new one on its dawn

The curtains now are drawn

As I stand here and yawn


(via buddharocks)

45 notes


it gets to the point 
where you take 
what oars you can find, 
nails through the dirt, teeth into rock,
whatever delivers you to the other side.