Echoes of the past,
Blast through my brain,
Dredging up the old again,
I feel I'm going insane,
Every morning feeling the pain,
Thoughts raining down,
Dowsing my crown,
Drowning out my will,
Still I stay strong,
How long must I battle,
This incessant rattle,
Babbling voices,
Pointing out bad choices,
The noise is unbearable,
I feel terrible,
A wearable past,
Left a lasting impression,
Casting me into the pen,
A time of depression,
A session of progression,
Regression therapy,
Tearing at me,
As i look to see the cause,
Pausing for a better view,
Getting a handle to hold onto,
As they keep coming through,
Staying true to what I know,
I throw them all away,
Now i can get started with my day.
I think that if I could have wearable tech
it might be a vest that inflates in a wreck.
Perhaps a decoder of lyrics by Beck,
or one that converts between gallons and pecks?
Or lets me run wild in the ship’s holodeck.
But I am afraid if I am circumspect,
it is I that this tech likely tries to inspect,
to direct my actions, make me genuflect.
Big brother, who watches, with powers unchecked!
So with due politeness and all due respect,
This wearable tech is a watch I reject.
Frozen Balloon
A Tele-Graphed Whisper,
You Know The Game:
Mountains To Sand
Surrender The Same.
No Sun-Burn, No Sea-Gulls...
No Music, No Face.
The Memory Of A Memory
Once Deeply Embraced.
Who Are You, Once Real?
On The Want Of Your Breath?
I Grasp For Integrity...
In
The
Throes
Of
It's
Death.
The Skin-Kissed Un-Wearable,
Exhausted, We Chased:
The Intention Of Memories
We Armed To Embrace.
No Furtive Dilemma...
No Sweet Nectar's Taste:
This
Fading
Mad
Memory...
Expanding In Space.
-Gray Squirrel
06-10-2025
Some artists utilize watercolors
Others dabble in clay
Some quilt
Others know ribbon embroidery
Some artists add glitter and sequins
Pearls, feathers, taffeta and other fluff
I like artists who think outside the norm
This artist wears her art
It is wearable art, she tells me
And it is for sure
she is the ultimate artist
I am proud to know her
My Mother Wrote A Parable
Mother about me wrote a parable;
When my clothes will be wearable;
Around no glut,
And mouth shut;
She can stand me and am bearable.
Jim Horn
Should Surely See My Mother
You should surely see my mother,
And always love her like no other;
Like pretty leaf;
Is beyond belief;
About her I do have my druthers.
Jim Horn
Do not want to be disturbing or unnerving;
Over towards your poems we are swerving,
And when you tried,
Became amplified;
All of our attention they are well deserving.
Jim Horn
Wrote a poem, and I did dedicate it to me,
Knowing no better one could there ever be;
The best by far,
Without a scar;
So over others mine maintained superiority.
Jim Horn
Correct Object Should Select
With Christ, you will want to select,
Salvation that has been our object;
In heaven meet,
Before His feet;
God is I am that I am and correct.
Jim Horn
In our neighborhood, moved a hermetic man named Nit who was gross, unseemly, and unbearable,
The neighbors sent me to see if I could muster up something about him that was care-able.
I sat down on his blue flowered chair-able putting my feet on his hassock, which was quite terrible.
After getting to know him, I suggested a shower, a shave, and a chin that was less hair-able.
Then I helped him select some clean clothes that were handy, free, and quite wearable.
I paraded him down the sidewalk to speak with the neighbors, in particular, a woman named Arable.
They were both 29, never married, loved kittens, and began to think of each other as Marr-able.
They now have two unkempt children, and seventy-four unspayed kittens which makes the neighborhood terrible.
Seems nowadays i cant sleep until i write a poem
A chain of thoughts synchronized
My mind finds the ryhmes as it roams
Watching kung fu movies for humour
The sound effects so terrible
Makes my mind chuckle inside
Now my slumber starts to feel wearable
Counting sheep is also bs
But i guess some minds dont require....
As much finesse ?
Dont know what to write so what the s
Gonna take my self to sleep now
And try not to punch myself in the chest
Ps. Sweet dreams are made of this XD
Everybody is in a terrible condition and Yeshua is the only antigen, everyday.
Nobody that is in this Parable can avoid sins infection but realize now Yeshua destroyes sins pathogen. That makes the Lord the opposite of noday.
Somebody will learn that the Lord makes the unbearable, bearable. Sin has one affection and that will always be insurrection. Yeshua taught the true Catalan, through that we know we are his cabochon. Take heart because Yeshua will use his Javelin, someday.
Anybody can embody the words of the Lord. The Lord plants all seeds, that makes you wearable, tell me what is comparable when you hear something that is beyond incredible. He gives us our Direction, he takes away the disconnection. With the Lord's correction and disinfection by his resurrection the lord gave us every protection. Yeshua equals submission forgiveness and love it's not about being masculine the Lord makes us examine and reexamine every ademption. When you contemplate on the beginning you will understand, Yeshua created the laminin. Remember Yeshua is your protector anyday.
Hand knit socks you are wonderful to me.
As I'm winding this soft wool yarn,
deciding, which needles to use,
I know you're going to be gorgeous,
cozy, and fun to wear socks.
Only the best wool for you, with
careful, hand wash, and lay flat to dry
cleaning instructions, befitting royalty.
Hand knit socks you will rock.
You'll think I'm a genius, my
matching bright lime green and rainbow yarns together.
The chosen slip stitch pattern, alternating the yarn,
makes you dear socks a joy.
An amazing joy to knit as well as to wear.
Oh the colors, the perfect fit, like wearable art.
My hand knit socks you'll be the envy of my other socks.
You dear socks deserve this honor.
You are the socks that rock.
This mask is fairly bareable,
Which barely makes it wearable.
So confused
So lost, and bruised
So harmed with the past
Why does life run so fast?
The consequences are unbearable
But this pain is so wearable
Now I cant really tell
If I'm alive, or of I'm burning in hell
So now my wrists are slit
Because I just cant face it
And I'm secluded in my misery
How could he do this to me?
I cry, and I cry
And I slowly die
But the tears wont make things better
They'll only make me wetter
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