Senator Terms
As elected to Senate
Non preside
Obstruction is time observing Senate
Testimony of leadership is illiterate command of identity language and breach of security
Formal protocol for debriefing advance of intelligence
Financial terrorism acts
Senator Kennedy has the floor in his Senate term
War Room Broadcast
Free Speech literacy requirements
Asm Irwin
Why is the homeless apartments in our county in fraud court to be removed from Senate hearing and converted to profitable runs on the bank while dying poor justice is recorded?
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I am a purple crayon in a box of pink
or so I think.
I steal the words of my brothers
only to claim them as mine to others.
Do I contain anything that is unique?
I am very quick to critique
someone else's words
when I am the one most absurd.
It is easy to live in this dream
when my ego is this extreme.
Is it obvious to all around
that I am not a king with a crown?
I am a phony for sure
not one with a heart that is pure.
Copy and paste can be detrimental if used in the wrong place
Such as posting and plagiarizing poems from another’s space
The time and energy it may take to search for poems to steal
It is a waste of time if you’re not going to be authentic and real
It’s also a crime to take credit for stolen art, poems or any other copied matter
And only a matter of time before a lawsuit may be served from a silver platter
It must be a type of severe mental illness or some type of character flaw
To want to claim poems as yours, that are not, is against the law
It would behoove you to think before you continue to copy and paste and post
We are on to your shenanigans and the deceitful liars are despised the most
Please remove your pathetic copied and pasted posts and leave our page
Because your reputation, integrity and legal recourse may be a lot to wage
Salt a gin and tonic,
It’s too dry.
Assault my temple with sin,
Be honest,
You like the rye.
Look me in my honest eye,
Conversations with myself are the fondest,
Because no one understands me better when I rhyme.
Took a pen and across the paper it slides,
Scribble out the oddest lines.
Apply pressure to the page,
Trickle out ink until the pen has died.
Wet ink is promised to eventually dry,
But tomorrow isn’t promised,
For some reason I can’t help but question why?
After four portions of Moët fine wine,
I tend to think of life as if it’s all just a waste of time.
If tomorrow could be withdrawn then what’s the point of the “grand design”?
If tomorrow I wake up past dawn,
Should I consider myself only one step closer to dying?
Don’t overstep,
The temple has redrawn the walls and implores you to walk within the lines.
It’s not perfect,
But nothing’s wrong with second best.
When it stops hurting,
In comes walking Sudden Death.
We can’t always be our very best,
Attempting perfect,
It feels like burning,
The scars left behind showcase regret.
I’m a digital copy and so are you
We are digital implementations
Into the world of alternative view
Sharing our endless vacations
Once we appeared there, so we remain
Still I can hear your voice
We are the spirit that flies on again
Over the land of our choice
Digital world seems a rescue for us
We can’t be exiled from this place
The house and garden we held in our hearts
A home, where we sit face to face.
Memories blossom like buds in a bed
So many flowers have grown
And more to come, as you always have said
Throwing Pippa’s blue ball on the lawn.
Please give it a read
This makes the brain grow and thoughts arise
They said, people stop thinking
When people stop reading
They said, rich people has big library
While poor people has big TV
They said, people reading book is dumbfounded
While people using gadget is getting dumber
They said, books are hard copy
While gadgets are soft copy
Well, I see them all as life's information.
"A writer must use ink from their heart for their readers." By Poet
Even as a creative "Ghost" writer,
we need "Heart" as we pull an all-nighter.
What will our muse want to "Deliver,"
maybe happy or sad or be a forgiver.
Words can sometimes be very "Tender,"
other times be bold and an offender.
"Erase" is one of our many tools,
no writer wants to be put in a group of fools.
Words are like paint painting the weather,
from days with flowers like pretty heather.
Summers can be really hot and bold,
then we cool off to a winter of "Cold."
They say our blood is really ink,
not red but a pretty pink.
"A true writer needs a heart to write with.
AI does Not have a heart, they can Not write they just copy."
He points out, holding both in his hands.
"It doesn't really matter, really, where it lands."
"You choose," he smiles, in command.
"I would take bland."
"Bland?" he looks at me, one eyebrow raised high.
"Yeah," I step to the fridge, no lie.
I take it out, no need to stand by.
"If I want to mix it, I could try.
And bland is fine for me," I reply.
"You lost weight, you know," he states.
Why doesn't it seem like a compliment of late?
Why can't I say thanks, why hesitate?
"I know," I murmur, avoiding his gaze.
"I know everyone loses weight in their ways."
"Yup," I say, a bit saddened by the fact,
"Everyone does, some days more, some days lacked."
I take it in the wheel, a quiet pact.
Yup.
Some days more.
Some days less, that's the score.
Life is copy paste
Bashers have the same script
Demolition hate.
Search That Bus (6 Lines or Less) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Miranda Hawley
Hey gals and gents
Keep busing along every little step
From stop to stop every little step counts
Be following your ABC's
And crossing your T's
For no Amber gets left behind
Before I became a bag of potatoes
I used to be as pencil thin as any salty chip.
I had a pencil thin mustache,
pencil thin legs,
pencil thin neck,
in fact all my appendages
were said to be pencil thin.
You might suppose that my pencil is thin,
but no,
it is actually a fountain pen
and it is as fat as a potato
I carry it behind one of my cauliflower ears.
There is a lot of information out there
we may all be in overload mode.
Oh how to be simple in intricacy,
oh the enormity.
I take out my ever moving mind
lead it into the park
where the sky is also moving.
Time is the culprit
the impostor
the script writer.
I should delete all the thoughts in this poem
forever,
but
I will make a copy anyway.
It's in my DNA.
History
A carbon copy of the past
To prevent a loss or lapse in memory
Even when people become Alcheimer patients
History remains
The good and evil remain
No one can erase the past
But to learn a lesson
To behave well
And to teach the younger generation
The fact that
Truth and history never die
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