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 is 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.
Bahamas- Lost in the Light
No one told us this would all be so hard
because how could they.
Epitome of how I feel all the time.
I am so awkward.
You spend your whole life doing what you’re supposed to do, what you should do, what you ought to do.
And it doesn’t even matter.