Currently the security profit programs is hesitant
Sista bad ways the masters degree premonition holder has eliquented us inside of the never growing fortress of people's passed economic struggles as mimes
Yet the obstructioni zing doth not permit a permit
Ye of vittles portion lacks the fortitude of good days in labor
Between Camarillo livibility lengths and Newbury Park rotations as the same
None may improvith stations whilst sista bad feelings goes into debt full idea administration worry
It was autumn
Before the round
Something shivered
Tools wasn't full
Vans change, tools out strange the work
All damseled
In respite
Shane apprehension grovel
Lost beside his print
Finding his father's name
April, too new city managers
Yorks and shires bereaved
I wasn't your only father's rent
The war counted on better rays
Rates add fits
In byes gondolas say
To write wrongs
Haven't worried sensibly
The round became my leaving board
A pond as his mother's springs
She sheltered little in life
Deathly burden to me
Manhattan Surrender my moons light
For what do inits D.T. stand?
It's not what would please Ayn Rand
Her famous novel
Shows those who grovel
Are rather unfit for command
I have said with pride all my life,
"I am an American!"
We will always be on your side.
Embarressment and shame,
Fill me every day.
Murder and hate crimes increase with no release in sight.
Failing abysmally with our help.
To people here in our communities,
The country, and the world.
Now we grovel in fear,
For what the next day will bring.
Or any loses to those we hold dear.
I am embarrassed and ashamed,
Of the America we became.
Hold little hope,
For any relief.
For what we have become,
As a country, we continue to be undone.
Captain Bee of the Ship McKee had a reputation all over the Seventh Seas
A pirate narcissist, who made people grovel down to their knees
He had cold steely blue eyes, and he was fearsome to the point of absurd.
I was fearful of this pirate, until I realized that Captain Bee is a canary bird.
It's true, you don't have to kneel to shine/
Saints are not made by chains divine/
I stand unbowed, my spirit whole/
Too pure to yield, too fierce to fold/
Heaven's gates demand my knees/
Yet I walk past with steady ease/
An iron fist may rule the sky/
But I refuse to live that lie/
Let guilt decay where it was spun/
I do not answer, I do not run/
No shadowed throne can force my soul/
No scripture binds, no weight controls/
The say the saints bear burdens tight/
But I will rise beyond their plight/
If purity means silent chains/
Then let me stray beyond their claims/
I am not bound by written lore/
No holy debt that I must store/
My life is mine; my love is free/
No book, no fist, no rule on me/
I do not grovel; I do not plea/
I do not bend; I do not flee/
I walk the path where stars ignite/
Too pure for Heaven, fierce in flight/
My hands unchained, my heart untamed/
No throne to beg, no sin proclaimed/
I rise, I soar, I stand alone/
Too pure for Heaven, made my own/
Apparently, I had annoyed her
I wanted to pretend I did not know how
Wishing I had kept my concerns to myself
I had been lamenting her choices all afternoon
With cousins and relatives, I barely trust
Now I remember why I do not attend reunions
Her eyes gave me a look that could burn rubber
Was it too late to grovel?
I began to try
my love life is like a plot in a grand novel,
where dawn stands tall,
yet dusk must kneel
and grovel.
each chapter of it dims as twilight nears,
unleashing darkness that feeds on
the carcass of
waning years.
yet expectation remains high...
waiting for another page
to turn and turn
until old age.
meanwhile, the plot keeps thickening...
bringing to life
more of the fears
in a world full of strife.
yet love keeps its shine in the distance,
like a mirage that gleams in space,
offering false satiation,
only to fade into non-existence.
but the story will never end...
until the Author of all things
chooses to write an epilogue
of how much of his love we all depend.
It's as if someone was talking to you
Deep reflective inspiration got the best of you
What you're thinking now doesn't matter
When you travel it is all up to those who
Decide in rash rooms if your life matters.
I see you've started thinking about it
Good it's time you did
Explore this deeper crevice of your mind
And the possibilities you'd rather keep hid
There's no one to save you now, history repeats.
Alas, another soldier will die and grovel at your feet.
You'll have to shoot him, stab him, or kick
Whatever's left of them at least.
So when you tell me war is a game I sigh
Because no one that young deserved to die
And no one in a country should have to lie
Only for the false hope of possibly staying alive.
That's through my eyes, blistering cold
But with the warmth of humility so old
That when someone goes to war they scold
At me when I tell them they shouldn't be there.
I have grown tired of the worship of
You- can you lose faith in a god that you created?
I used to pray and beg and grovel for just a sliver of
Your grace, but my knees are bloodied and bruised, and my words now fail me.
I have grown weary of the existence of
You- I don’t look for you in every room anymore, don’t feel your presence
But sometimes I jump when I see the familiar silhouette in
Your shape, and every time, I’m relieved when it’s not you.
I have grown bored of the image of
You- I used to frame portraits and photos of you on the walls
Like you were a priceless work of art, but now
Your pictures collect dust in the corner of an abandoned home.
I am no longer in love with the idea of
You- I am an artist without a muse, a dog without an owner,
A widow grieving a spouse who never died. I never lost you because
You were never mine in the first place.
My majestic silhouette is indicornis,
often missed by those who don’t believe;
The idea that I exist they tend to dismiss,
I have just a few tricks up my sleeve;
Longing to be a feline ink trotter
and become less inter-dimensional;
This goal has captivated a plotter,
admittedly ingenious is phenomenal;
I never claimed to be too innocent,
neither does a single mischievous cat;
Lured into such a treacherous scent,
how could I possibly resist that?
So very illusive even in plain view,
shadows in the Sun allow them to hide;
It could be fun to try something new,
I want you to see me feel my stride;
It’s just no fun to remain invisible,
without an audience why shine?
Stripes can be less than agreeable,
still that’s the style I want to be mine;
El Tigre en waters full of chara,
instead of a unicorn in a glittery lake;
Perhaps if I grovel before Ishvara,
I’ll be granted claws for my horn to take.
A most pathetic sight to see
Negotiators grovel at Sinwar’s knee
A speedy way to set hostages free
~ Put Yahya out of his misery
______________________________
Yahya Sinwar is the name of the
architect and mastermind of the Oct.
7, 2023 terror attack on Israel that
abducted about 250 hostages and
murdered over 1,200 people.
The pain you wish to inflict,
Is your quandary as I resist.
Grovel, you demand with hate.
But my resolve hardens and will not abate.
You capture my past for all to see.
But you don't realize that it makes me free.
You seek harm, for my compliance.
Yet you don't know that I dance with defiance.
You angerly wonder why this is so.
For the truth of life, I do know.
I speak of Love and truth for you to see.
You sat down in wonder saying, “Explain to me.”
Listen my friend to the whispering wind
Gaia speaks of love to you without end.
Think of nothing and feel her loving embrace.
As you close your eyes you can feel your heart race.
Startled, you open your eyes, crying “I feel her!”
You celebrate with Love and hugs, knowing you are cured.
Gravity is the enemy… It holds me down.
It keeps my soul from flying, knocks me to the ground.
And struggling against the force will only hurt
And yet I cannot stay here, face down in the dirt.
Gravity has its hold on me… I can’t escape.
Its regulations binding me... So much red tape!
My muscles ache from all the effort to but rise.
So, I negotiate and try to compromise.
Gravity is reality… Not in the mind.
It means that I will never leave the earth behind.
I’m trapped within the confines of the atmosphere.
It smothers every dream beneath this constant fear.
Gravity is the enemy… This constant weight.
To grovel dust to dust, it seems, my only fate.
But is this all there is? I know there must be more!
How else explain the yearning of my soul to soar?
we confidently march along
until something unexpected happens
an event out of our control
then we begin to grovel and beg
wishing and praying for patience
in Gods’ waiting room
beings of the grind
grind through
catastrophic time
[[[!*&$%!!!!!!!!!!!%$&*!]]]
beings of the grind
groan in
cacophonous slime
#@!////////???????\\\\\\\\!@#
beings of the grind
grovel in
contorted grime
|?$#!-!#$?|
beings of the grind
gallop into
convoluted crime
|?$#!-!#$?|
&
kick
contentious cans
down the road
of raging
rabbit holes
(((??::::::::::::::::??)))
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