WINTER DREAMS

How am I supposed to believe that you care,
When you forget me so easily?
I don't believe you anymore
I won't be fooled so quickly

The tears I've cried,
All my lies,
You'll never know how hard I've tried
To make you love me once again
To be able to call you my friend

I guess I got too cocky
I thought I'd finally won
I should've known all along
That you were far from being done

Does it make you happy
To see me cry?
Or to destroy
This life of mine?

A little girl once full of joy
Now becomes your personal toy
Play with her emotions,
Toy with her trust,
Continuing becomes a must.

I used to think you really cared;
For this shocking reality,
I was not prepared
I feel alone
I hate my home
What did I do to deserve this?
I sit in my room
Under a constant gloom
Simply waiting for someone to end this

Day in, day out
We scream and we shout
We just can't stand each other
How am I supposed to love
The oen I call my mother?

I refuse to try
I feel nothing but spite
And you know what?
Somehow,
It just feels right.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

by Robert Frost

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

John Keats