Never trust trigger happy love birds. There’s nothing worse then those quick bullet, one shot lovers.
They never shoot straight, always tilted slightly to the left, and each shot is fired with just as little precaution as the next. These wayward birds take to every successful hit with big star-ward eyes. Eyes so wide it breaks your heart. Eyes filled with such pride, they’re as sinful as innocence herself.

    These birds fly rather high in the silver-lined sky, letting romance blur their vision. Undisturbed by whispered warnings and signs that follow them so close. They’ll twitter and tweet that their love knows no such repose. Then those very same star-lit eyes watch the ground comes crashing, knocking them from the clouds. Leaving bullet holes where wings should be and shards of stars in once bright eyes.

    Then they’ll look at you in such a way that you can’t help but clean their wounds. These poor birds will tell you, like they mean it every time, they really thought that was their last shot. They really thought they had found their bird of a feather, their one in a million in where millions fly. However all is well, you’ll soon see. As soon as their healed, they’ll fly straight back to where they’ll always be. Eyes wayward, star-ward and set on that sky. With the trigger and bullet, perfectly aligned.

                                 You just have to hope that this time, they won’t hit you.

"Oh, my sweet bode,"
Said the ladies' favoured son.
It's a sweet surrendered code,
For the forsaken shoddy one.

"Go away from me quickly"
he whispers with weary haste
the plague made the ladies sickly
For the forsaken shoddy waste.

"I refuse to willfully reply,"
Were his lover's listed words.
T'was a refusal to comply,
For the forsaken shoddy swords.

"I now stand poorly inflicted"
He choked with tempered love
His worst fear now depicted
For the forsaken shoddy above.

*in calibration with Miss Anndette Wanderlilly

Ginger twine wrapped tightly round his finger.
A slight smile across his even tighter lips.
Wound around his liquid thoughts
His twiney figers grasp the drinking glass
filled to the brim with sweet, sweet ice tea
Its rich brown shade mocking the color of the sky

It is here, in this place, where lemon lovers meet
You easily pinpoint the kind of souls they carry,
Simply by the shade of their sweet iced tea
And they carry that ginger twine, tightly wound
They carry that coil everywhere they go

Many ask if it is a symbol, or subliminally literal?
A invitation, or a silent and quiet warning?
But its just that ginger twine and sweet ice tea
I too, carry them everywhere with me
Golden in the sun, red in the mid-light
Circular and quite rough with deep rouge ridges
they're placebos of purpose simply right, simply true

If you wish to comprehend,shutdown all distraction
Then you will be here now and here you will stay
Humbly accept your ginger twine and ice tea
for that, my friend, is exactly happened to be me
and the way every sip slides down my thought
It tastes of determination, solitude, and hope
Oh how I love that ginger twine and sweet ice tea

Ginger twine wrapped tightly round her finger.
A slight smile across her even tighter lips.
Wound around her liquid thoughts
Her twiney figers grasp the drinking glass
filled to the brim with sweet, sweet ice tea
her rich brown shade mocking the color of the sky


Ginger Twine and Sweet Ice Tea
Wrapped tightly around me

I cannot explain the record of my own thoughts
Because a true loving heart rarely ever beats
And a true harmonic harmony rarely ever sings
of those who have died, and those who are long dead

I cannot condone any of my own apologies
Because liars never lie, simply misconstrue the truth
And writers never write, simply misconstrue the words
of those who have died, and those who are long dead

I cannot express any more of my own condolences
Because a funeral is not the proper mourning of the loss
And a wedding is not the proper symbol of the bond
Of those who have died, and those who are long dead

I cannot grasp the false sense of my own sanctity
Because artists always disregard the eyes of creativity
And Optimists always peek through the eyes of negativity
Of those who have died, and those who are long dead

By Asha Hopkins

It must be the music talking,
but i think I'm falling in love with you
I think its the way the falsettos got me swinging
the way the altos got me singing
I cant help but fall in love with you

The soprano told me about you
With it's sweet scandalous tune
Then the bass caught wind
hummed a few bars ,and told me your name

And I guess the band heard too,
Must've whispered to you
Because the harmonies playing my head
trying to convince me, your falling in love with me too.

I loved the narcissist
The object of selfish beauty
Engulfed so deeply in herself
No suitors did she see.

I loved the narcissist
But no lovers did she meet
Engulfed so deeply in herself
through the mirror could she see?

I loved the narcissist
The way her beauty gleams
Engulfed so deeply in herself
she was too blinded to see.

I loved the narcissist
her eyes so vague and deep
Engulfed so deeply in herself
The narcissist was me.

Stupidity is a virus infecting and injecting large amounts of people at a time. He moves through minds with impeccable speed. Some people, no matter the treatments they receive will never recover. For is an Exodus with has the power to ****** masses. He is a force with the ability abolish revolutions and silence movements. Stupidity is chronic, never truly going away, always lurking in shadows waiting to attack. He is a survivor against all odds. Stupidity is perpetually kicking and screaming, fighting to remain the echo of humanity. Refusing to be ignored and never promising to stay quiet. Stupidity lives on amongst Gods and Kings, continuing to rule with an iron fist.

What shame Goliath's family must have felt.
Imagine the honor that shame chased away.
Just that morning, a kiss was left on his mother's cheek
Sealed with his promise, of an easy victory

"So small," He thought, as he looked down to David's face
"I will defeat him!" he boasted while bloated with a wide grin
But little man, with little rocks fostered no doubt.
And with that little chance, and one shot, he released his rocks

And down came the prideful giant, befallen to death on impact
Down came his power, his stature, and his fight
His corpse, marked forever, with the bruising of David's hands
It was said it will glow defiantly even in the darkness of hell

The news would soon return to his Mother's table
She will hear that her son, Powerful and feared
Her beloved, once so mighty and superior
Had been defeated by a child with little rocks, and too much faith.

The babble fish speaks words quite quick
His sly tongue moves with a click
Such elaborate stories he spins out
And none leave you with a trace of doubt
Some speak of joy some speak of woe
And yet we all believe in this spectacular show

He is so convincing, and so pristine
His rhythms and rhymes, visions of a dream
For each word spoken writes your fate
He becomes the candidate for your state
Such grace it is when he kisses your guppies heads
Oh what grace it is when he sold your guppies to the feds

But we’ve trusted the babble fish for so long
Why would he write lies where promises belong?
Oh we trusted him with a heart of pure gold
Yes we trusted him with our eyes, so old
But that’s just it isn’t it, the story to tell?
It is a well-made charade, it’s a spell

For those who trust the babble fish
Always happen to find their lives amiss
Blinded by truth, they never come out
They’ve lost their brains, it’s without a doubt
Their hero’s façade is dead and gone
And still the babble fish, babbles on.

A complicated dance
With steps so smooth
Dresses wisp through the air
And men bow so low

Each movement entices me
Each sight enchants me
How they breathe in time
How the rhythm sings

But I hear the violins cry
I hear the cello weep
I hear the flutes sob
And the harps are choking

The melody is forced form them
Gracefulness has been stolen
Chained by bows and fingers
They’re denied the right to hum

They whisper tales of sorrow
From the moment the carver finished
It was as a father once kind
Abandoning his very children

And into our world
They have been forced
To play us sweet music
That will one day make them horse

I hear many emotions disguised as words
These spoken feeling are dried then stuffed
all their glorious masculinity, now compacted
and their complexity is now rather compressed
emotions grinded into flat and blank thoughts


Sometimes i don't believe in words,
The way force themselves in and out .
For they falter when trying to explain colors,
Shades and tones always lack proper description.
Rarely do words capture that exact bend in light.


Nor that exact bend of your long neck,
foreign sensations my fingers once knew.
Words lack terms for the roughness of your face,
lack measurements for the smoothness of your lips.
And paragraphs won’t explain the feeling in my chest.


Nor can they explain the hollowness within my heart
When I could tell no one the secrets of my grief.
Only so many words can be used in a dying breath,
And Last words are usually much later said.
what did she wish to tell us on her death bed?


Nor can words covey those underlying emotions,
who tend to not speak too well for themselves
See, feelings tend to simply mumble and stumble
By sending mixed signals and double meaning
They ramble until the phrase is finally complete


But it is said that words are like a dusty window
They are like a man’s beloved yet cracked spyglass
Although words appear to be not quite clear,
And often find themselves fumbling desperately to be heard
They offer a outlet for our souls, otherwise left unspoken.