Eileen
16
Living it up in McKinney, Texas
...
Sorry in advance for the occasional rants.

When I was sixteen I read The Great Gatsby, and oh -
Oh! I said, how it flows, how does this gorgeous iambic pentameter
work its way through the valves of my arteries?
‘Within and without’ runs in my blood. Everything
sounds like money to me.
I wandered lonely as a cloud, only, no, old sport, I don’t wander,
I plan. I lift weights like Benjamin Franklin. I gaze
out, out, out,
I am the poet. I am the huntsman. I lie in wait. I have for years.

Sometimes I forget about The Bell Jar, but I remember The Iron Giant.
Let me tell you, I’ve watched that movie every year of my life since I was seven years old, and I fell in love with the robot
from a children’s story book to the big screen.
I have since studied Metamorphoses and watched the hawk fly through the rain, but choking to death on my own breath?
A touchy subject.

What does F. Scott Fitzgerald have to say for himself
when his wife’s journals lay strewn across his back catalogue?
Where was Ted Hughes when Sylvia Plath collapsed in the kitchen?
Boasting about his own work, or belittling hers?

In 2008 The Times ranked Hughes fourth on their list of ‘The 50 greatest British writers since 1945’.
Where is Sylvia Plath? Where is Zelda Fitzgerald?
Where are the women? Where are the gentle hands, the voices that clink like coins, where are the dangerous curves,
where is the soaring fire of our generation?

Show me your nails, filed to claws. Give me your
ragged hearts, give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
give me your words.
I want to hear your voices, louder and more insistent than ever before.
I want The Times to write a new list.
I need to hear the murmurs of agreement of every lecturer
in the Arts and Humanities department of each university
as they turn it over in their hands.
To see a split between every gender
so even that no one remembers where the line is,
where the line ever was.

This wave’s classic writers are gone,
so bare your teeth and show me your fighting stance.

—   we are still behind the yellow wallpaper | ishani jasmin (via ishanijasmin)

(via expresswithsilence)

“There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts.”

—   Albert Camus (via socratic-thinker)

(Source: psych-facts, via lifeinpoetry)

http://five--a--day.tumblr.com/post/93233921183/we-get-old-like-this-we-look-forward-to-winter

five—a—day:

We get old like this:

we look forward to winter, to staying indoors and being merciful with ourselves
we kiss with less urgency and more delicacy
we close the blinds more
we keep stamps in our purses
we look down the length of our bodies in the bathtub and there is no judgment, just a quiet…

“It was an occasion to be happy. But something weighed on me, some inscrutable yearning, an indefinable and perhaps even noble desire. Perhaps it was just taking me a long time to feel alive. And when I leaned out my high window, looking down at the street I couldn’t see, I suddenly felt like one of those damp rags used for house-cleaning that are taken to the window to dry but are forgotten, balled up, on the sill where they slowly leave a stain.”

—   Fernando Pessoa—The Book of Disquiet (via quicklyquietly)

(via girlnah)

When did we become so small and so apologetic? Why do we apologize for our humanity? Love what you love, and make no apologies. This is your identity. The most horrendous suspensions of freedom are self-imposed. We imprison ourselves daily, hourly.

We have one life, one shot at all the glorious things of life, and we walk about constricted, apologetic, afraid. We have so little time; we have so little space upon which to spread our love and our talents and our kindness. Run toward life fulsomely and freely.

It runs from us so quickly, like a frightened dog or youth or daylight. Chase it and care for it.

Of course art should be about something big. Something terribly big must be at stake. I don’t see this anymore. Our art is becoming terribly polite and apologetic, much like us. It slinks away like a sagging breast, empty of milk or promise or comfort.

We need to get very fervent again. We need to get jacked up.

—   Tennessee Williams  (via aranrhod)

(Source: commovente, via graceandvictory)

englishsnow:

 lucie777 || Big Sur

(Source: tra-nsparent, via blythebrooklyn)

So we were sitting in class today

arialenelove:

margaretthemagicdragon:

and my U.S. History teacher was trying to get us to understand why it was such a big deal that England had put a tax on colonial sugar, and he goes,

"What if you had to pay a tax every time you logged onto wifi?"

And the whole class just went

image

and I heard at least two people whisper “I would murder someone”

I will keep reblogging this in the name of historical science

(via mikailahautumn)

Ed Sheeran - Stay With Me (Sam Smith Cover)

I’m dying.

(via aryastarks)