What not is to oneself? A question ever been told to myself
Whether you love, you taught, you thought, and you lost
The camaraderie to you and yourself is the greatest bond
To know the boundaries - where you can fly and fall
Where you can commit to all and to stand tall
Even one voice, small. Hectic, make it a mall
In the end of the day, what not to oneself?
Where you stood to all, but mistakes come forth
When you feel life's winding up north
It is the blade, into something that halts
It is not for you, but a lesson and is daft
Take care, world is cruel even in mononym
What secrets of the Muse's rhyme,
skirt on the edge of our perception?
What fate can be known by metric time,
or prophecy by taut inspection?
The path she offers invites echoes,
of lives half-lived and dreams half-dreamt,
of pasts that form our tomorrows,
that few aspire beyond attempt.
Parnassus chooses whom so it will.
To the fated, it shares its mysteries,
but one must choose its bitter pill,
to resolve the trajectories.
The obscure rhythms of the poet's soul,
splashed against a domed, cryptic sky,
fulfill a cosmic, unique role,
that only seers behold with an inward eye.
When the muse leaves, his quill runs dry;
then joyful songs, sweet poetry,
drain from his pen, though write he try,
as hollow strains lack symmetry.
How then to woo the Muse once more?
Her treason robs him of his art.
What offerings, what gifts, might restore
against the whims of a Muse's heart?
But love is mild, and then patient:
love waits, with no pose or pretense.
His heart still burns incandescent
for her. To restore her, no expense
will be spared. And though she feels distant,
his constant heart will break her whim.
She'll not remain, forever transient,
but turn her radiant face to him.
this is a comma ,
this is an apostrophe '
this is an ampersand &
and this is an asterisk *
lol. get click baited.
there isn't no poem.
just me.
and you.
and your thoughts.
hmm...
I have an idea!
how about a game?
duck, duck, goose, how about that?
no? ok
just comment your favourite, food.
yeah, good enough game.
ok, get commenting.
I'm off.
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ok bye.
bible
slime block!
thy worldith isith thy canvasith.
thy painterith thy paintith.
thy poetith, makeith thy poetith.
thy worldith thy endith.
chickenith jockeyith.
No pretending,
fences need mending.
A will unbending,
always condescending.
Voices sending,
words seem unending.
Friendship rending,
intent offending.
Friendship depending,
to matters attending.
Lost friend impending
will be heartrending.
Q: When a woman is having a baby, what do you call the periods of time between labor contractions?
A: Pregnant pauses.
Q: What happens when a restaurant doesn't sell all of its "soup du jour"?
A: It goes on tomorrow's menu as "soup du yesterjour".
Q: What do you call a group of witches doing their own laundry?
A: A self-cleaning coven.
Q: What did the prostitute say to the sympathetic arresting female officer from Buenos Aires?
A: Don't cry for me, Sergeant Tina.
Q: What did the cannibal chief tell his people when they were defeated by another tribe?
A: If you can't eat 'em, join 'em.
Q: What did two gay knights tell King Arthur when he asked them if they were dating?
A: We''re not a couple, we're joust friends.
Q: What's the difference between a vase and a "vahze"?
A: The price.
Q: How can you tell if a politician is lying?
A: His lips are moving.
Q: How would Hollywood describe a remake of "Day of the Dead" set in old Tucson with a score and lyrics by Andrew Lloyd Webber?
A: A zombie western musical.
Q: What might be the motto of a cannibal police force?
A: "To dissect and serve".
my dad,
my father.
climb up mountains,
he'd go farther.
hiking hills,
working hard.
paying bills
paying rent.
without that.
we'd be bent.
fixing things
that needed fixing.
breaking things
that need breaking.
my dad,
my father.
you run far,
he'd run farther.
First, we mine, then we craft, LETS MINECRAFT!!
Every civilization has an hour glass
Filled with both a future and a past
The top is filled with the sand of Love
Slowly leaking with the pouring into a cup
Over time the world has seen
The cup receiving love is the cup of iniquity
Gone are civilizations that worshiped idols
Inhumane practices taught by
Lost souls and fallen angels
Gone are the nations that did not follow God
That feeling that something was wrong in their heart
The soul has eyes that the Spirit gives to see
Before it's too late it is time to flee
Going are the lost who tell the lies
All for a price thinking God is not alive
Blind are the eyes that refuse to see
The filling of the cup called Iniquity
Though their end has yet to be
The end is coming to that society
Too late came the call to get on the boat
While they were yet preparing to have a vote
Too late will be that day when justice mattered
While media takes the stand to give them flatter
Lost will be the day that was long ago sound
The end of a civilization our for fathers found
clouds think of stars
my Milkyway bars
motionless water
on
heart open
to
blue skies
the trees are still green
well whatever
Peter Piper
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked.
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
How many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?
—Author Unknown
For a while, I have been gone,
Not so much for I left my poetry in my stead,
So they read, so they remember...
Yet here I am, alive yet dead.
They look at me with eyes,
Eyes that made mine cry,
No hugs, no hellos, or a faint gladness--
For I am here, alive yet dead.
The house I lived in, now lives another,
neither a friend nor a brother,
A man, they said, had no home to live in.
For I am here, alive yet dead.
The girl in my poems,
Married to another who made her feel
in many ways, all the seasons at once,
Living the life I prayed for in my sonnets.
For I am here, alive yet dead.
There is a sting in my heart
It is silent, yet it plays a noble part
and the dark shades around my eyes
The eyes that have seen so many die
And in the end, they would cry.
What now?
Now there is a darkness nigh
Slowly engulfing me, swallowing me
Taking with me my poems and my dreams
The life I wanted, the family that had hoped
The war that had come, and the lives that went by
including that which was mine.
They look at me with eyes
Eyes that made mine cry
No hugs, no hellos, and no signs of warm gladness
For I am here, alive yet dead.
Nephilim, a curious thing
Said to be Giants
Angels and Women bring
(Not Artificial Insemination)
But what if somehow this were all wrong
That the words were really different
When they sang that song
What if we change the word Giant
To mean Genius instead
Wouldn't that lead us to somewhere
Different than we were lead
And what if all along It were staring
Us in the face
Wouldn't that make our History a disgrace
Sometimes they find history
You wouldn't believe
Like when they say
The Arc of the Covenant
Is in an African Country
But who is to say what books we can use
We only know too many would confuse
But what I find so interesting is
That countries Bible
What it confesses and that we don't believe
You say your sorry for offending me as if that can heal me as if that makes anything better
Too little to late
You ask for help because you’re scared but being in pain does not absolve you from your sins
You put me through the worst pain of my life so look at me when I say this pain you feel is your life sentence and you will serve it
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