My pride is hurt, i’m CRAZY blue
But it’s no longer about you
You loved me and you left me too
Enjoy yourself with someone new
Now go along your merry way
You’re in my past where I can’t stay
And if you think you’ve stepped on me
Well, rest assured, I’m finally
(C) Copyright -Stacey M. Patterson (Mo) and MugglestonesAndMayhem. All rights reserved.
YouTubeSometimes the strongest messages come from the most unexpected places. In a video being widely circulated on Twitter on Monday morning, Royce Mann, an eighth grade student from Atlanta, is shown performing a slam poem titled “White Boy Privilege.” Across the social network, the video is being celebrated as the definition of responsible self-analysis by…
via Everyone should watch this eighth grader performing an epic poem about ‘white boy privilege’ — Fusion
Thank you stacilys for these healing words!
It seems that November is a festive month for many. For Americans there’s Thanksgiving, but there also so many people that are born during this time. It must have something to do with Valentine’s Day being in February. November is always a festive time for me. I celebrate two very important dates, my wedding anniversary […]
via It’s a happy day — A God Colored Girl in a Grey World
Remember, remember this is now, and now, and now. Live it, feel it, cling to it. I want to be acutely aware of all I’ve taken for granted.”
— Sylvia Plath
Jorge Luis Borges was a famous writer, essayist, and poet from Argentina. His first poem, ‘Hymn to the Sea,’ was published in the magazine Grecia. Today, he is recognized as one of the most influential figures in Argentinian literature. With wild imagination and innovative literary skills, he left his mark in the world literature as well – […]
via The Poetics of Impermenance: Jorge Luis Borges on the perception of time, learning and reading —
By William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.