by Charles Bukowski
there are worse things thanbeing alonebut it often takes decadesto realize thisand most often when you doit’s too lateand there’s nothing worsethan too late.
By Sylvia PlathThe woman is perfected.Her deadBody wears the smile of accomplishment,The illusion of a Greek necessityFlows in the scrolls of her toga,Her bareFeet seem to be saying:We have come so far, it is over.Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,One at each littlePitcher of milk, now empty.She has foldedThem back into her body as petalsOf a rose close when the gardenStiffens and odors bleedFrom the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.The moon has nothing to be sad about,Staring from her hood of bone.She is used to this sort of thing.Her blacks crackle and drag.
… to make a trip!
I want something real.
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreamsFor if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.Hold fast to dreamsFor when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.