You just forgot about me.
In that moment you took
every page of our story
and ripped them out of
your book and my blood had
bled to write those pages
and you did not even think
twice and now all of the pages
that I had written in your book
are gone and my blood has run
dry.

You ripped my pages out.  (via dollpoetry)

Many scholars forget, it seems to me, that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding. The trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory. The mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit. … Again and again I ask impatiently, “Why concern myself with these explanations and hypotheses?” They fly hither and thither in my thought like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings. I do not mean to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read. I object only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach but one thing: there are as many opinions as there are men.

Helen Keller (via observando)