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 Jun 2014 Pushing Daisies
Styles
People that are fake are shallow; and should drown.
 Jun 2014 Pushing Daisies
nivek
so many quietly getting on doing good
never shouting or advertising
looking for recognition or recompense
These are the saints of today
they live among us
And there is the saint who gets up everyday
goes to their work doing the best job they can
Yes these also are the saints of today
And we could go on and on about the family
who live and love each member to a fault
And the person walked by everyday
Yes the saints are many and manifold in their ways
Becoming

Elegant

Around

Upholding

Trust.

­I
ndescribable

Fantasy

Undeniably

Lovely.




­Longing

Openness,

Virtuous

Excitement.
Ultracrepidarian Definition: Of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge.
Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)

All through the night the wind grew worse
It nearly made the vicar curse
The top had fallen off the steeple
Just missing him (and other people)

It blew on man, it blew on beast
It blew on nun, it blew on priest
It blew the wig off Auntie *****-
But most of all, it blew on Granny!
Dear Adam,
Guess what?
All I have of you is an iPod.
It's filled with your songs
It's filled with your thoughts.

I was in your room
i peered insid a box
I was hoping to find something
but you didn't keep much
Not your ****
or your pipe
or your old secrets

I don't understand maybe we wanted to keep it.
I see nothing of you
this is not your room
you didn't live here, I can't tell
It smells like you and your picture is all over
Your blue painted walls
the room is getting older,
There was a bag of razor blades but I don't know what they're form.
I felt kind o awkward in there sitting with your mom
maybe i wanted to kiss you
before you left
or tell you  you were cute
you knew nothing of my heart
and I knew so much from yours
Im torn.
Being in this room makes me squirm and feel all wrong
you left us in the middle
of a new found fairy tale.

You were no prince and I was no princess
but I didn't want that all quite yet.
I wanted you to know, all the things I wrote ini my heart
but you being here to hold my hand and ill say thats a start.


Sometimes I think you'll come around
you'll say you didn't go
you'll say you panicked and got lost
but really it was a joke.
I know its not true
I know I'll never see you
They found your body
They found your car
you were still hot
because you went so far.

now I'm here with your ashes in my bag,
feeling absolutely mad
knowing that I didn't help,
that you cried for me and I couldn't do
what i needed to.

You are gone and i am here,
Ill spead you out here and there.
your dust will flow for a thousand miles
ill float you in the sea
ill flow you in my favorite rose bush
and under your planted tree.

It's funny how it ends so fast,
how people can be gone.
How drugs can make your mind possessed by heartless hopeless thoughts.

It's wired how I can't hold you,
or tell you how I feel.
I wish i could have yelled at you enough for you to stay here...
some feeble tunes the ears catch
hushed dialogues overheard
in the shadows a lighted patch
windborne caught one word

you they haunt daylong chase
nibble your thoughts and tease
not revealed from greyish haze
yet keep your mind in leash!

what are they you wonder aloud
shadows in wispy outline
all those naggers hidden in shroud
you feel but can't define

day and night they gnaw inside
a lump of mass sans sense
drag you low climb you tide
fly you unseen distance!

with them within life you roam
spelled in all you do
why your mind they make their home
you haven't the slightest clue

only a few you can hold in hands
purge with the flows of ink
most them die stillborn strands
to a depth quietly sink!
Worship in vanity the thread count in linen
Sacred vestments of Gucci Inquisition
Crimson is the season
She called it blood orange
I simply saw blood
Diamonds in her ears
Stole the glory from the stars
Dull brown eyes hide
Below saturated blue
Lenses to hide her shame
That she wasn’t born a princess
Perhaps prince charming awaits
In another dive bar
Holding a whiskey sour
(Shrugs)

I am not quite sure
it's just something 'bout poetry that gets me goin'

Is it

(Left hand swerves to the left as if bearing the weight of a concept held)

The flexibility one has
to pick and press, pinch and pound language
into a poetic product  manipulated from play-do, so to speak?

Or is it

(Right hand turns to the right as if bearing the weight of an object held)

The ability one has
to etch every event ever experienced
onto paper, an elaborate biography, so to speak?

(Hands come together)

Maybe both
(shrugs)
Maybe neither
(shrugs)
Just decided to play with the visual aspect ( not sure if I did that) and the Alliteration
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