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 Mar 2016 DarkStorm
Alaska
Untitled
 Mar 2016 DarkStorm
Alaska
"What do you wanna do?"*
I just want to sit with
you
in bath robes,
as we drink wine,
talk about life
and draw ugly
portraits of
each other.
The apostles say that the love of money
Is the root of all evil
And the wit George Bernard Shaw said that the lack of money  is the root of all evil
I agree with both philosophies, but I won't put any money on it.
Well if money is evil, at this point it may seem to be a necessary one.
But money changes us it seems
Whether we aim to aspire above or live beyond our means.

But I can't Speak much on money, but I can tell you this
No matter how much money you have happiness comes from love and time spent with loved ones not being materialistic
Two seedlings grow up on the same plot of land
Wonderful black soil, not loose sand
So their roots gripped deep, so tall they could stand
So face to face they grew, each one knowing the other
As they shot up, their love soon bloomed one for another
They so longed to touch and entangle
With their branches they wanted to hold and mingle
And all the way to their roots they wanted to feel the tingle
Their love grew strong, and so did their trunks
They were watered and cared for each day by the monks
And the years slipped by when one final hour
Their branches could touch with a little wind power
A few more years slipped by and they now could embrace
And they were happy they had been planted face to face
They stood for centuries happy and content in their place
Sadly they thought that this bliss would last forever
All life problems they swore to endeavor
They held each other through storms and sunny weather
Until one day his roots grew weaker
With every passing year their situation grew bleaker
One night a storm blew in and their situation was dire
The wind blew him over and lightning set him on fire
She lost some branches trying to hold on to him
She knew deep down to her sap that now her life would be grim
Without him by her side she started to cry
And with every eternal year that crept by
Her limbs no longer reached for the sky but drooped down to the ground
Cuz that is now where his charred remains could be found
She reached for him with every single limb
Her weeping went on each day of the sorrowful years she was filled to the brim
The monks took care of her but they could feel her great sorrow
They prayed everyday that she would stand strong till tomorrow
One day an old monk took a close look at the tree
And decided the pain had changed her so much that her name now is different by decree
So my child when you lay your tired head on your pillow
Remember her and all her seedlings are now the weeping willow
She's there to remind us of the loss of great love
That not even her seedlings could rise above
i've written sixty eight poems
on adderall in an hour and all of them
are living up and getting married
having kids and taking three week
vacations in the carribean
living fulfilled lives under no control

healthy, fruit dripping naturally
even when things go wrong
they sleep soundly.
i am distracted by how perfect they are
and admire them with jealousy
when i should be asleep
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