What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
(C) Wilfred Owen
Have you ever met someone who won gold in The Suffering Olympics?
She's the woman at work who always has it worse than everyone else, and he's the uncle with a blasé attitude, a balding head and a belly full of baby pork...or maybe they're your friend, a parent, your loving wife or hardworking husband.
Don't you feel just as bad as they do?
Are you sick...enough?
Even pain is a contest that you can't win and you're sick of that, too.
It hurts, but not that much. It could always be worse.
But worse would be death and even then, they'd say they died twice that week.
The only thing you're winning is a silver medal in the race, and now you understand that one second is the difference between winning and losing.
Why are you happy? There will always be someone happier.
Stronger, prettier, wealthier.
How can you enjoy existence when comparisons are the only way to add contrast to your world, that make you feel like you're actually achieving something?
This isn't a sport.
You are not a number on a screen.
You are not an athlete with a bib tattooed on their chest.
There are no awards in this game, honey, there's only you.
And you're enough.
Skinny like a Starbucks drink with zero sugar, zero guilt and full of almond-milk joy.
Skinny like a microwaved meal, perfectly portioned and easy to count.
Skinny like two diet cokes and a cigarette for lunch.
Skinny like Adderall, a high dose for higher grades.
Skinny like late nights and random *** with strangers.
Skinny like virginity.
Skinny like binge-purge-repeat.
Skinny like perfection, like mints and sadness and tight little swimsuits.
Skinny like a disorder.
Skinny like control out of control.
Skinny like a diagnosis.
Skinny like suffering.
Skinny like her.
Age comes with a price.
At first there's student loans to pay, and medical bills soon come your way:
There's marriages and births...
Save some money for the worst of times, spend a nickel or throw a dime.
Insurance and loans to buy a home, between car payments and rental fees;
Donate to your church while praying on your knees.
Our wallets grow thinner with each passing day, working grim and *****, tryin' to find another way:
Just make it through and retire, watch the grand kids grow.
Maybe spend a couple of months down in Mexico.
Soon enough you'll have to leave your line, and realize that real wealth...comes in the form of time.
I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.
Now read from bottom to top.
Simplicity is the best dish:
Easy to prepare and mimic, over and over again. You could make it ten-thousand times and it'll still feed you.
It'll keep you full on those nights when the only thing keeping you warm are thoughts of success; of drowning in cash flows. New clothes and a home right in the middle of a city.
You're too old for that.
Oh, no, you see your friends choking on fine cigars and driving cars that they can barely afford, with kids pushing at their knees.
There's soil under your fingernails, and you can't cook with filthy hands.
So you think. You pray.
Ruminate for years until you decide that it's alright.
Live quick and harsh and ***** because food tastes good and she does, too.