Go on, do it.
Do the deed.
Spread your seed.

The children tell stories of when you bleed.

Mon cherie, c'est l'appel du vide.

A certain momentary sadness; the self-inflicted kind.

Usually kept by the owner to give their negative attitude someone to play with.

Something which would easily pass if you just made an effort, and socialised a bit more.

Anything is possible, if you put your mind to it.

It's only you and your attitude.

In the rain
Outside in the rain  
Staring through
the wooden shutters
In almost darkness
Brown wooden shutters
With dust entrusted to them
And he see's the man
see's the man with the dog
The man with the dog staring
With sunken eyes
He watches
He spies
With dead sunken eyes
Sallow eyes
Glassy eyes
And then a grand fear is felt
All over the body  
The man with the dog and the sunken eyes
He listens
He see's through dust entrusted shutters
Looks at him outside
In the rain
In the dark
And suddenly a great feeling of hopelessness comes upon the earth
And does not seem to leave
He does not go away
And the rain pours
And the man with the dog and the sunken eyes stares
And he won't go  
He won't leave him alone
He smiles
And watches
And won't go away
Won't go away
Won't leave
And In the dark
Nothing changes  
the rain does pour
And the man does stare
And he does watch
And life does go on
And nothing changes

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I *** be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell -
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis

Still listening to the same music.

Still writing the same poems with different words.

Still drinking the same drinks,
eating the same foods.

Still wanting to be healthier.

Still wanting to be smarter.

Still wanting to be better.

Still hating the things I hated before;
The things that won't change.

Still not moving,
If so, just barely.

Still here.