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Poetemkin Mar 2019
ʸN ðͧ b̓gʸnn̓ŋͥ Gdͦ cʴͥͤtd̛ ðͧ hͤvͪn̓ nͣd ðͧ rͤÞ.

2. Nͣd ðͧ rͤÞ wͣs wʸÞt̆ frͦm, nͣd vͦdͥ; nͣd drͣkn̓ßͤ wͣs pͧnͦ ðͧ fͤcͥ vͧ ðͧ dpͥ. Nͣd ðͧ Spʸrʸt vͧ Gdͦ mv̐d pͧnͦ ðͧ fͤcͥ vͧ ðͧ wtͣrͤs.

3. Nͣd Gdͦ sͤdͪ, Lͪtͤ ðͤʸr bͥ lʸght: nͣd ðͤʸr wͣs lʸght.

4. Nͣd Gdͦ swͦ ðͧ lʸght, ðtͣ ʸt wͣs gd̑: nͣd Gdͦ dv̓ͣdͥd̓ ðͧ lʸght frmͧ ðͧ drͣkn̓ßͤ.

5. Nͣd Gdͦ cͦlld ðͧ lʸght D, nͣd ðͧ drͣkn̓ßͤ hͥ cͦlld Nʸght. Nͣd ðͧ vͥn̓ŋͥ nͣd ðͧ mrͦn̓ŋͥ wrͤ ðͧ frͤst dͤʸ.
gd  Mar 2014
Hockey skates.
gd Mar 2014
He held my hand today in the most delicate way,     
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my     
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt          
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings        
towards him because his heart did not belong           
in the spaces between my touch - his heart                 
belonged in something as light as air; something      
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered      
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All      
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be           
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -            
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is           
when I knew that even though he did everything    
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he    
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth    
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I      
that needeth not deserve him.

shaqila Dec 2013
Race relations is bad all over the world worse if you live in the GD U.S of A. People here don't give a ****** about other races unless you say something bad about they own race.

1. Blacks got kidnapped by whites from Africa in chains and worked at picking cotton and crops, tending for masters babies while master made more babies ****** black pretty slave women who did not want to have *** with them.

2. Master beat black slaves until they were bleeding or dead until black slaves learned to speak broken english like white southerners.

3. What southerners laugh at how blacks speak but they are the ones who beat black slaves ***** until they learned to mimic how white master spoke broken english.

4. White master tip toed down to slave shacks and ***** and ***** getting black slave women pregnant making bi racial slaves. Light slave pretty ones got to live in the house and let master **** them any time he wanted. Dark slaves babies of master worked with the slaves in the field.

5. Black people can't find their roots thanks to being kidnapped from africa.

6. Some blacks hate darker skin and bleach it like Michael Jackson and Latoya Jackson. Some use lye on hair to make it straight and color it blonde like Boyonce to make herself look more white.

7. Blacks were promised 40 acres and a mule for being stolen from africa but government lied to them and they keep lying to them we have a black president but people still call him a ****** and show him no respect he the president.

Repeating this here part.
Race relations is bad all over the world worse if you live in the GD U.S of A. People here don't give a ****** about other races unless you say something bad about they own race.
AS Feb 2012
The Princess and the Shepherd is a series of corporeal mime pieces, choreographed by father of the genre Etienne Decroux. The two characters dance side by side but separate, engaged in their own personal stories. With the plucking and handing over of a flower, the two characters meet for an instant, two stories converging for a single moment, before the process begins again.

The Princess                                                         ­     The Shepherd

the daughter of the king,                                        went pacing
                                                                ­                    through the

and the child of nobody                                         fields looking for
                                                                ­                    his sheep

left her New York city kingdom                            lost some
                                                                ­                    decades ago

for a                                                                ­            while he was
                                                                ­                    sleeping
                                                                ­                    a                  

Middle eastern wonderland                                  sleep he didn’t
                                                                ­                   choose.

where the                                                              ­   He

musicians play outside,                                        dreamed of kings,

where the forests sing at night                            of ancient stones
where the people cry into walls and                   of words branded in
                                                                ­                   flame

the children                                                         ­    words as
                                                                ­                   much                         

bring gas masks                                                      for him as for his
                                                                ­                   father

to school.                                                          ­        and when he awoke
                                                                ­                   his hair                  

I met her in a room where                                     was singed (like the
                                                                ­                    heat of his

bread was baking                                                     will had cooked
                                                                ­                    his knotted chest
                                                                ­                    grey)                          

and her softness                                                      and­ he rose to his

bubbled up in the yeast, so                                   feet, his strong
                                                                ­                    hands smoking,

I swam past her mote and                                    his congregation
                                                                ­                    dispersed to   
found her room of paintings                                 some far off
                                                                ­                    meadow.                
                     ­                                                               So­ he   

of eye drops                                                            ­  wandered from
                                                                ­                    bloom to bloom   
of old woolen hats.                                                  distracted­,
                                                                ­                    untouched for
                                                                ­                    years                  

I slept in her room every                                        and petals lined in
                                                                ­                    glass cut his

day for a month                                                       palms so deep a

while she                                                              ­    burgundy wine bled
                                                                ­                   out,                  

laid back on her down                                           so he blessed it,  

comforter throne                                                    raised his hands to
                                                                ­                   drink, and his 

her first love on the telephone                             leather-bound arms
                                                                ­                   cried out to Gd.

with her sunglasses on to                                      But in his field
                                                                ­                    stood another
                                                                ­                    flower,  
hide her royal weepy eyes                                      thorns worn thin,
                                                                ­                    hued so                

and a crown of tangled hair,                                  brilliant and sad
                                                                ­                    that he,    
brown as the leaves on the ground,                     seeing royalty
                                                                ­                    approaching,

soft as the light caught                                           chose it from the
                                                                ­                    brush

through smoke in                                                    kissed its petals

the window. Out in the field to                             hesitantly, gently                                

see the seasons change a                                        and handed

Shepherd handed her                                              the Princess      
                                                  ­a Rose

                  and for an instant, the three hung suspended,

                  her hands soft and painted, his perfumed

                  sharing a rose red as kingship, as remorse.

So the Rose went back with the Princess, where her kind and

graceful hands brought it to her people

and it shone its colors bright and moved the peasants to tears with its promise

But as the people gathered to hear its petals sing, the Rose bloomed richly

thinking of the hands of its Shepherd

out looking for his congregation, ready to build a kingdom of his own.
gd  May 2014
gd May 2014
I found myself missing
someone who used to
like all the little things
about me, so I went on
a little scavenger hunt
picking up bobby pins
and crunched up leaves;
a couple old CDs and
a bunch of little words
left unsaid; a tiny music
box and a ton of old
pictures that are the only
pieces left as proof and
all the little things were
laid out and added up
only to disappear in an
instant because they do
not even resemble who I
am anymore —
who am i

Joshua Haines May 2017

We are at the scene, now;
an awesome showing of
                    brute force.
What some are calling the
greatest moment in U.S.
and, some, "An example
of jingoistic propaganda
masquerading as self-

Whatever it is, Tom,
one thing is certain:
we will be here,
covering every second
of this gigantic American

"And we thank you for your fine
reporting, Lisa. Boy, I tell you,
the President is making a huge
mistake with this act."

You have got that right, Tom.
We, as Americans, cannot
allow this to happen. We have
to ask these people if they want
this to happen -- and, then, we
need to enforce, what we consider
progressive and better for their
well-being, to them. These people
are like lost puppies, Tom.
It is our responsibility to make sure
that they do not respect their religion,
their culture, or prehistoric way of life
they have become accustomed to.
If we ignore the issue, of their
third-world existence and third-world
values, then we will have lost as
human beings; and the United States
cannot lose whenever it comes to this.

"Lisa, bathe me in your words,
because nothing has ever felt so
clean and right. You're absolutely,
100% correct: we need to guide
these poor, helpless people and
show them what is right, when
it comes to culture, identity,
among other things."

Agreed, Tom. And thank you.
To make things simple for
the viewer at home, you wouldn't
buy a puppy and expect it to
**** anywhere it wanted?
You have to show it where to ****.
Heck, you have to show it what to
eat, so the **** can be a good ****.
To sum things up, these people have
been pooping incorrectly, for a long time,
and it is our responsibility to show them
the **** inside of us, and how we aren't
going to mix with them, but, instead,
show them how they can get a nice,
firm ******* that we all but
take for granted.

"Couldn't agree more, Lisa.
It is our duty, as Americans,
to help these people who have
been de-humanized, and show
them how to handle this and
the world, especially during
a time like this for them.
And let us not forget,
this is their moment."


Hello folks, and welcome
to the Heat Zone; a place
where snowflakes melt
and where liberals sweat.
I, of course, am your man,
Mad Mike O'Leary and
boy, do we have some
serious stuff to talk about.

Our fabulous leader,
whom we shall respect,
has made our nation great,
as 195 countries --
excluding our's, of course --
citizens now have American flags
drilled into their skulls.
As an act of kindness,  
Our fabulous leader,
has given each of these citizens
the choice of keeping or removing
the flags. Of course, if one were
to try to remove the flag,
a tiny explosive would detonate,
as one can never be too sure
if a citizen would use the flag
as a weapon -- and, of course,
there is no promise that the flag
wouldn't touch the ground,
so Our fabulous leader explained
that flag burning would be an
acceptable method of removing the
flag from this plane of existence.

Here, today, we have political pundit --
or political genius; you decide --
Ryan Tomlinson to discuss this radical
new way of life, we unfortunately have
to endure. Ryan, what are your thoughts
on the controversial method of discarding
the flag: a symbol of our strength, love,
                                          and freedom?

"Well, I'll tell you Mike: you think you're
the mad one, you should ask my wife
about my reaction when I learned about
this atrocious tiny explosive destroying --
yes, destroying -- our great and mighty flag!"

Haha, is that right, Ryan? I bet Nancy got
the Rowdy Ryan I've met on Nickle Shot Night.
What were her thoughts on your reaction --
better, yet, what was your reaction, Ryan?

"Well, I can't tell you exactly how she
reacted to my reaction, because I wasn't
really listening. But, I tell you, ever since
He Who Shall Not Be Named left the office,
Our fabulous leader has had to adopt some of
his wild and, frankly, immoral methods --
which would include the burning of our flag."

You got that right, Ryan. It reminds me of
when my oldest left for college, leaving behind
some beers that little Matthew ended up drinking.
My point is,  He Who Shall Not Be Named
has left some stains that still need to be cleaned up,
but I am confident that Our fabulous leader will
scrub those right up; if Matthew can do it, so can he.
To move on, here's an issue I have
that no one is really talking about, Ryan:
Not only are you detonating this flag -- a
flag that millions of men, God Bless Them,
have fought and died for -- but you're also
covering this symbol of freedom in the
blood and gore and scalp and guts of
these dangerous people who would love
nothing more than to see our symbol destroyed.

"You hit the nail right on the head, Mike!
These people don't understand what it is
like to be an American; to deal with their
oppression and policing of our values.
They already have succeeded in dividing us
when it comes to this whole flag removal
method. You can't reason with these, people.
You can try to offer them a Benjamin;
you can try to give them tickets to Transformers,
but these people will never respect us or our
way of life. And these liberals are right behind them!
I'm not sure what the liberals plans are, right now,
but you can be sure they'll use this whole flag thing
to exploit something. Hell, they're already talking
about how we should teach these people to **** --
what if they get to them, first, and teach them to
**** on the GD flag?! The liberals are helping divide us!
That's what they do!"

You are so, so right, Ryan. This country is full of
the wrong ****; and is going down the toilet.
Well, unfortunately,
we have to go to commercial, but you can bet
your keister that we'll continue this important
discussion that involves your liberty,
your job, and your soldiers.
Mad Mike in the Morning, with special guest,
Ryan Tomlinson -- be right back.
Don't go away.
AS  Jun 2011
for puppy
AS Jun 2011
Somewhere between
there's a star
made out of all the seconds you
cleared on the microwave
just before it was done because
you didn't want
to hear
it beep.
That is where time
goes when it's mad
at its parents, to play
old records and smoke
cheap cigarettes and
complain that its
best friend is dead.
My best friend/is dead/And although she would never sleep in the bed with me/And although she doesn't fit in the dollhouse anymore/I  dreamed she was gone the day before it happened/and dreamed she took a part of my life with her. That
is where
your thoughts go
the first time
don't miss someone as much as you did yesterday. I am not proud/that I am waiting/for tomorrow/you are that star/and I will sit on you and dangle my feet in the water/Meet me/in the Mediterranean/so I can kiss your toes goodbye.

Somewhere between
washing my hands in the morning,
I learned
how to lose things.
David Nelson  Apr 2010
Booger Off
David Nelson Apr 2010
****** Off

I'm feeling rather foul today,
so I ask you to ****** off,
it's not pretty when I get this way,
you just need to ****** off,
please don't get in my face I pray,
you need to just ****** off,
my head gets hard and my heart turns to clay,
it's best if you ****** off,
I'm asking you to please stay away,
why can't you just ****** off,
not sure if I'm sad, but certainly not gay,
won't you please just ****** off,
maybe I need a good roll in the hay,
naw, just won't you please ****** off,
just got crap on my shirt, from a flying Blue Jay,
gotta go inside and get that ****** off,
that's the way it's been going for me this whole GD day,
why won't the world just leave, ****** off,
no blue skies here, just cloudy and gray,
is it a sign for me, to just ****** off,
no, tomorrow will change, at least that's what I say,
then you flip me the bird, and yell ****** off,
now I'm back where I was, I'll hide until May,
no one to tell me, hey ****** off,
like my love who has spurned me, turned me away,
she said it was too much, I must ****** off,
maybe worms for lunch, with a glass of OJ,
then I can do my own ****** off

Gomer LePoet...
gd  Jul 2014
gd Jul 2014
I know
who you

no longer
who you

{a year ago I remember catching my breath, trying to muffle my giggling obviously initiated by you. Those times were good, those times were pure. But they mean absolutely nothing now}
gd  Jan 2014
Four seasons.
gd Jan 2014
It's been so cold lately,
causing blizzards of ice to break some promises.
These snowy endeavours are embroidered with a pure white lost lust,
hidden behind a mirage of warm sunrises,
which remind me of
is where I found you,
hidden away behind a curtain of my carelessness
and amongst the budding flowers, I discovered a hidden gem between your smile.
It glittered like the sun and caressed my ego with flirty innuendoes;
we laughed with our eyes and touched with our voices,
captivated by the city of love whilst captivating each other.
Though, the days grew longer leading to
is where I loved you,
but hadn't known it yet. I ached for your company as if it were air,
filling my lungs with your scent; memorized and mesmerized
just as easily from your bright eyes and small lips.
The long days mimicked the long nights that seemed to keep us inseparable
like how the wind kiss the leaves everyday until they
is where I fell for you -
hard, building up my heart with hope only to bruise it black and blue.
But how ironic could it be that the seasons changed as quickly as your mind?
It's been as cold as the days doomed by early sunsets
which could only mean
is where I lost you,
yet the worst part of all seems to be the frost
knocking at my window every single night
just to remind me that I should have left you
behind in autumn.

Just a massive thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the feedback I received from (m)elody. You guys are all wonderful!
NitaAnn Jun 2014
What do you need right now, Nita?*

Shelter from the storm...that’s what I would like right now, that’s what I need right now, dear therapist. Shelter from the storm.

I don’t doubt my determination to survive and yet here I am crying again. Crying and wishing for some GD shelter from the storm…the therapist does not question my commitment or desire to continue to work through this and someday come out on the other side. At least I don’t think he does.

I can’t find my safe place now…it was such a fragile structure to begin with, made of straw and easily blown away in a storm. But it did exist two years ago. It did. And for the first time in my life I felt understood, safe, ‘real’. My safe place was a place I could be angry and sad, and hopeless. A place I could ask for guidance in the midst of confusion; a place of encouragement and comfort. A place where I could find shelter from the storm.

But I can’t find it now! I feel like I am on the edge of tumbling into oblivion due to my own intransigence and inability to let the therapist back in.(or anybody) And I desperately need him tonight…shelter from the rain, stability in the wind, comfort in the thunder and lightning that is threatening me now.

And what is maddening to me is if the therapist walked up to me right now, with a stadium sized umbrella and said, “Nita, come in and I will give you shelter from the storm.” I still stand in the rain, wind and thunderstorm and decline his umbrella because of my fear he would just wrench it away before the storm was over.

So, here I sit, like a frightened child, on my own little island, surrounded by the storm, crying my eyes out over loss and betrayal…on an endless search for shelter from the storm.

Here I sit arguing with myself!

"Nita, you can't do it alone.  He wants to help you - take the **** umbrella!"  
"No!  I won't take it!  I don't need his **** umbrella!"  
"Fine! You stupid baby! Suffer by yourself then ~ stubborn little *****!"  
"I said take the umbrella!"

Messed up?  That does not even begin to cover it.
gd  Mar 2015
gd Mar 2015
I miss you the most in
the middle of the night
when the  o n l y  thing
that is able to consume
me is the memory of
your lip stains on my
chest and the darkness
surrounding ; the only
thing that is keeping us
con-nec-ted seems to be
the stars, darling. And
they're close to burning

{I look for you in the stars, because I'm hoping you wish on them too}

— The End —