T̶̩̝̱̣ͤ́̃h̶͈̞ͫ̋ͤ̃ͅi̩͔̼̯̰̰͓̾̋̃͘ṡ͇͇͖ͩ̅̉͞ͅ ͉̪̫̹̳͍̝̉͘    ȋ̡̘͈̥̼̗̪̭̀̅ś̥͓̖ͨ̏͑͞ ̛͍̯̻̪̔   ẁͬ̔҉̙͎̜̪̥̲̩h͎̯͇ͩ̆́ͣ͠a͈͎̣̣̱͉͈͋͊͡ͅt̢̟͕̟̻̯̲̟̊́͒ ̾҉̤͍͓̠ͅ    m̷͇̲͙̬ͤ͐͊ỳ͍̩̩͂̅ͮ͝    b͔̤̘̲͈̳̩̿͜ͅr̖̪̘̩̮͒ͨ͟ả̩̰̯̩̒͊̆͘ȋ̧͔̤͎͉̩͋n͔͕͖̺̤̹̓͡ ̴̫͚͇̈́͂ͭ   f̻̣̬̫͙̭̦̹̓ͬ͟e͖̬̼̹̹̮̬ͯ͛̓͠e̛̖͔̩͎̙̲ͫ̃l̛̯̞ͮ̏̂s̹͓̖͍͚͌ͯ̕ ̽ͯ́   ľ̶͙͕̠͕̣͓͈͈í͍̭̞̹̠̍̊͡k̸̪̼͓̺̜͖͉̮̿̋ͣ̾e̯̻̬̋͘ ̹̯̩͉̯͙̱͇̍͂ͩ͠    s̲̱̈̀o̸̩̳̼̲̓͆͆ͦm̷̬̞̐̓ͬe͗ͫ҉̫̟̱t̶̝͉͍͈̉i͗̇ͣ͏̳͈m̴͖͈̝̊­͍e̝̪̍ͮͣ͞s̤͉̖̦͈̩̟̈̚͡.̱̼ͥ͊́́̚

To **** a bird is to **** his song,
so now we wait and now we long.
For without his music how can we dance?
How can our love ever stand a chance?

With our little bean rings,
those strange little things,
we make a promise of love.
Not unlike “The Rings”,
those wedding things,
Just without the extra

The little bean rings we wrapped around our fingers. Those little strange things, although gone, still linger. Well, perhaps not the bean but

I never knew,
How much a bean,
Could mean to a guy like me.
But then one day,
I saw you there,
In the midst of Batman Alley.

Little bean rings,
Why wear such things?

Well I’ll tell right now, so listen.

When a boy meets a girl,
One he loves

Little bean rings, one of our strange little things, one of many I guess I’d say.

I’ve tried all I can to write a poem about beans. Okay well not about beans exactly, but rather rings made out of beans. Well actually they were made out of strings beans, but that’s not the point. The point is I’m trying to write this poem. So here I am thinking about little bean rings and how much I love this girl and that’s when it hits me, that’s when I realize

Two string beans, grow up to be rings, what an odd life for such a plant.

I love you

The stars are long gone,
They've fled far away.
What's left is just lighting,
But I think we'll still stay.

We are unafraid,
As we lay here so still.
This night will be ours,
It's destinies will.

So keep back the rains,
From the watery sky.
This night is now ours,
Please don't question why.

Time comes to a close,
It crept up so fast,
I hope to see you again,
This won't be out last.

Trains of thought we ride,
With no direction.
No time for memories,
Or mild reflection.

Ridding on we go,
Letting off hot steam.
Wishing alway time,
And forgetting to dream.

We miss every field,
Every meadow and flower.
We just chug along,
Heads down, full power.

May these tracks never end,
And our minds shuffle so.
May our souls be in route,
Where ever we go.

The mischief minds of men,
Haunted by their thoughts and ideas;
stuck in their ambitions,
And the search for perfection.

This utopia they seek,
Is nothing more than a shadow;
Comprehensible by the eye,
But unreachable for the soul.

Nevertheless the mind pushes on,
The trail getting ever so long;
It is here we are lost,
It is here we will die.