My Little One - Tennessee Willliams

My little one whose tongue is dumb,
whose fingers cannot hold to things,
who is so mercilessly young,
he leaps upon the instant things,

I hold him not. Indeed, who could?
He runs into the burning wood.
Follow, follow if you can!
He will come out grown to a man

and not remember whom he kissed,
who caught him by the slender wrist
and bound him by a tender yoke
which, understanding not, he broke.

Blind - Lifehouse

I was young but I wasn't naive
I watched helpless as he turned around to leave,
and still I have the pain I have to carry
a past so deep that, even you could not bury if you tried.

After all this time
I never thought we'd be here
never thought we'd be here
when my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it

I would fall asleep
only in hopes of dreaming
that everything would be like it was before
but nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting
they disappear as reality is crashing to the floor

after all this time
I never thought we'd be here
never thought we'd be here
when my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me died when I let you go

after all this while
would you ever wanna leave it
maybe you could not believe it
that my love for you is blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you will ever know
a part of me died when I let you go
and I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me died when I let you go


- The lyricist wrote this song with his dad in mind. I just thought the lyrics are beautiful and teens from broken homes would probably relate themselves with this song. :)

Digging- Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney
- from Death of a Naturalist (1966)