A book is not always made better by its length; its value is in the quality of the story, the beauty of the language, and the moral it relates. Our lives, too, are not made better by adding more years; we flourish when each day is imbued with virtue, when our words bring comfort and support, and when our thoughts rest calmly upon the moment at hand.
Ah, September! You are the doorway to the season that awakens my soul… but I must confess that I love you only because you are a prelude to my beloved October.
I used to love September, but now it just rhymes with remember.
Yeah – Sure I remember
Matter of fact it was just last September
She still calls it the fall to remember
In his or her own way, everyone I saw before me looked happy. Whether they were really happy or just looked it, I couldn’t tell. But they did look happy on this pleasant early afternoon in late September, and because of that I felt a kind of loneliness new to me, as if I were the only one here who was not truly part of the scene.
We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. We will welcome summer’s ghost.
for all I can really do is
in September’s rain
soaking it all in
holding on to poetry
for dear life.
It takes courage to stay delicate
in a world this cruel.
Thats not a bad word, hate and war are bad words, f*ck isnt.
It’s so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it’s taking forever to come. Then it happens and it’s over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.