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jonathan-scott
American "It's just a ride."
Haikus are good fun But not so much, as I may say As breaking rules
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Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
Untitled
The wrinkled, old, decrepit Man of grey Succumbs to death with graceful dignity, In doing so, his senescent poignance Reminds us all of our mortality. In death he lives vicar’ously through us And serves to show of our impending fray, As we one day will live through those ‘neath us Dead--As an old, decrepit Man of grey.
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Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
Man of Grey
The spilt secrets cannot deter our faith In people’s souls– Their virtue and sincerity, For if we lose our hope in our humanity, We’ll be afraid to live and love again, Instead we’ll lock our doors to joy with hate And there we’ll cloistral sit alone and safe, But how could we content such lonesome life? Rather we should, we must, accept reality; Better vulnerable to such brutality And live life faithful of humanity Than not to live at all.
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Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
To Love One’s Life
So I believed, I could build a lover       One that could walk with me so perfectly Under the bridge; secrecy we uncover,       Because for me, I know it’s time to be The architect of perfect love I need,       So run with me, my love, throughout the rain Forget restraints and chains, and we'll be freed,       I've lost my will to search for love to tame So be flawless; a perfection for me.       I wish only to stop looking in vain If only I could make her perfectly       Then life would surely be free of that pain.             Alas, I am no god, for there are none,             My lov’r is vis’ble as the midnight sun.
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May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
The Creation of Love
How is one to help one’s self amidst This age of screens and brightly buzzing button fiends? Ever growing, infiltrating, accelerating glowing screens are stimulating brain and eye and ear machines, no matter where you go, pupils of caffeine, or so they’d seem, are seen seeing screens dilating from the grasping of a human dream Of digital immortality.
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May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
Electronic Age
Foolish beetle, rolling a ball of waste, Do not you know your feces has no worth? What a waste of the precious gift of life In light of bright white stars and vast blue seas, There is so much more in the world than dung, Alas with indefatigable grit, Perhaps a curse of Darwinian perfection, You pack and push your single earthly thing, From place to place. It is the only life You know or have been taught to know. And though I want to pity you, small arthropod, I too know how it feels to wander on one’s own, Wondering why and when the time to quit Amassing an incessant ball of ****
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May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
A Dung Beetle's Life
That which they lack in longevity They compensate with in narcissistic egotrocity. Such odd creatures, those confined within humanity, Always over-estimating, over-conjecturing Their place and meaning in this yet to be Disillusioned, elaborate, erratic cosmic infinity. No other animal I since created Have made such self-absorbed, conceited notions Comp’rable to humanoid emotion. I am ashamed to call them mine, But it is so. I need not intervene, For ere the end of World War Three, They surely will relinquish me Of my senseless exercise in futility.
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May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Humans, in My Image
I see the pairs conjoin to form but one, Another eternal love has just begun Before my eyes I see them dance and laugh As newly weds do. But she does not know                   What he does not show. Their love established in the most formal Of ways. Unbeknownst to them the following normal– Not love.                             But loathe. As he entertains, entering another, His promises of love do not waiver            Nor do hers,                                    With his bother. As time will tell they seek to leave Their private hell.                        Wonder Wells Inside of me                  when I see                           they switch At last. Celebrate and give congratulations        Before the day is done               With salutations                For in joy–                            We join to form                               Not two, But one.
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May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:43 AM UTC
The Wedding Day
I lay here just to be stepped upon. With the power to move, yet lacking the will As the moon retreats, I lay until dawn, They come and watch me through the window sill. From here I would move, with motivation If I had one who could grant me such, But I do not, so I avoid the temptation. For one such as that I would not dare touch. Alas, I lie on this cold ground alone, I wait for the next one to step upon me. This life fits me, yet new one I will own, In this pain I am filled to the knee. You and I were never meant to be, Only this pain from you will set me free.
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May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:49 AM UTC
The Stepping Mat
These memories will never fade. These memories will scar my brain. Forever more I reminisce In the feelings which I dismiss. Embracing hatred in despair, For all the time that I have spent Just hoping you would care In my lonely world of discontent.
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May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
Average Day