I'm sorry
He said I'd never say
I've said it before
Just like I'll say it once more
For the reason I lost my way

What's beyond my control
Is beyond my control
I will not apologize for it
I'll say my piece about the sun and the stars
But you're the one who listens to it

I've never met another who twists what I say
In such a way to where I brag about my faults
Maybe the girl is all too aware of her weaknesses
Is it a fault to admit, accept, and embrace
Those things beyond her control?

Some things need not apologizing for

The poet took what he saw
And exposed it in a certain light
Opinions made, I bet this doesn't change a thing
Just affirmation about everything he previously thought

The light was beautiful
Cynical, and a sight some might say
A tad judgmental, a bit unforgiving
I'm sure the poet would never apologize
For contemplating something beyond his control


the first poem ever written about me, thought i'd share
*Also a response to "The Girl With Freckles"

RECORD: SMELLS LIKE CONTENT
FROGMAN: THE BOOKS

Johnny's: If these systems are upheld by Om-neeshent bEndgineers.
                   It's helpful to keep in mind that

I don't need a leader.
There is no one that can lead me.
Only I can do that.
Only I can take myself out
of the populated Data Deserts and Doldrums of Ninetbeen.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.

Johnny's: That helps.
                  It gets pretty wHoley there anyway.
                  And y'know,

For Ninetbeen thousand years,
Brads and Janets had shewed up
and crashed
and data'd on this forbidden planet,
and now a swishstory of moments expected me to clean up after every One.
I have to wash out and flatten my soopy-brains,
and re-account for every drop of used mental toil.

And I have to toe the bill for nuclear taste
and churned memory banks
and blue-tailed toxic sludge effortlessly received
a regeneration before I was torn.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

"The two aims of The Parties,
Brads and Janets,
are to conquer the whole reality of The Word
and to relinquish once and for all
the possibility of independent thought.
crushing our brains as they go."
-- Johnny's and Suzy's

Johnny's: But really,

I just don't want to end without a few angerous thoughts,
I say.
It's nothing anymore to have a beautiful stock body and mind.
You see those Johnnys and Suzys that are completely stock Faery,
right out of a Mother's showroom from 1980 to 2000,
I always think:
“what a chaste.”
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

Suzy's: Oh yeah,
             and don't forget to

STOP: TURN THOUGHT

A SNOW STORM CREATED BY OSAMA BIN LADEN AND RONNIE BIGGS AND TED BUNDY



LAST NIGHT, OSAMA BIN LADEN WANTED TO REALLY ROCK THE WORLD AND CAUSE A REAL BIG SNOWSTORM

WHICH WILL SHAKE UP THE WORLD, YOU SEE PEOPLE ARE FRANTIC IN NEW YORK AND SURROUNDINGS

WHICH HAD TO CLOSE A FEW SCHOOLS AS WELL, AND RONNIE BIGGS AND TED BUNDY SAID, WE ARE

GOING TO GRAB BRIAN ALLAN, WHO IS CRONUS, SO HIE POWERS CAN’T BE USED HERE, YOU SEE

THEY BOUGHT IN MANY HURRICANES AND LOADS OF SNOW, WITH THE SOUND WOULD SCARE EVERYONE,

YOU SEE,OSAMA TED AND RONNIE HAVE BRIAN ALLAN PAUL BERENYI AND ADAM WALSH, TRAPPED

SO THEIR EVIL PLAN TO STOP NEW YORK AND SURROUNDS, FOR A FEW DAYS, YA KNOW ANY BROADWAY SHOWS

ON, WILL BE CANCELLED, AND PEOPLE RUSH TO BUY FOOD, SO EACH AND EVERYONE OF YOU, ARE TRAPPED

AT LEAST FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, AND THOSE SNOW PLOW MEN WILL SUFFER, YOU SEE, LIKE BRIAN ALLAN AND PAUL BERENYI

AND ADAM WALSH, ARE ******* TO THE SUN, KEEPING THE SNOW, DOWN IN THE USA, AND THE SUN IS BLOCKED

PAUL, ADAM AND BRIAN, ALL SCREAMED, HELP, HELP, LET US GO, BUT OSAMA WHO WAS THE RING LEADER SAID

NO PAUL B BRIAN A AND ADAM WALSH, ARE WIRTH US FOREVER, AND THE PEOPLE IN CANBERRA ARE SAYING

LET BRIAN BE OUR LITTLE SKATEGOAT, WE LIKED THAT LITTLE GUY, BUT BRIAN AND PAUL AND ADAM

ARE BEING FORCED TO KEEP THE SUN AWAY SO THE USA CAN COMPLETELY SUFFER,

YOU SEE, US, BAD GUYS, LIKE WE HAVE YOU BOYS WITH US AND WHERE NOT PLANNING TO LET

YOU GO, UNTILL, AT LEAST THIS SNOW, DESTROYS THE LIVES OF EASTERN AMERICA, EVERYONE ON EARTH

WHY IS THIS SNOW, TAKING AFFECT, AND TED BUNDY SAID, I AM NOT LETTING YOU GUYS GO, YOU WILL BE WITH ME

FOREVER, AND EVER AMEN, YOU SEE EVERY BLADE OF SNOW, THAT FALLS AND CAUSES HAVOC, IS THE WORK

OR THESE SPIRITUAL VILLIANS, YOU SEE, BRIAN ALLAN STOPPED YOUTUBE SHOWING KIDS TYING THEMSELVES UP

ON YOUTUBE, AND TED, RONNIE AND OSAMA, HAVE TRAPPED BRIAN, WITH PAUL AND ADAM, AND FLIGHTS ARE BEING CANCELLED AS WELL

EVERYTHING IS BEING SHAKEN, OVER ON THE EASTERN COAST OF AMERICA, AND AS THE VILLIANS FLEM PAST THE SUN

WITH LOADS OF BIG SNOWBALLS, THEY WENT HEH HEH HEH HEH , WE HAVE YOU CRONUS AND YOUR TWO FRIENDS

YOU WILL NEVER ESCAPE, OK, WHILE WE ARE TRYING TO FORCE MORE AND MORE SHOW, AND HOPEFULLY FLOOD

THE ENTIRE EATS AMERICAN CITIES, AND EACH PERSON IN NEW YORK ARE RUNNING AROUND BUYING SUPPLIES

AND BROADWAY IS BEING CLOSED FOR THE DAY, MAYBE LONGER, HOW LONG ARE OSAMA BIN LADEN AND TED BUNDY AND RONNIE BIGGS

GOING TO KEEP BRIAN AND PAUL AND ADAM UP THERE, BLOCKING THE SUN FROM DESTROYING A BIG AMERICAN SNOWSTORM

THEN AFTER TED BUNDY SAID GOODBYE, HE WENT OVER TO BRIAN AND PAUL, AND BASHED THEM WITH A RAY OF VERY HOT LIGHT

FROM A SWORD, THREATENING THEM AS HE SAID, I WILL HAVE YOU KIDS, WITH ME, FOREVER, PAUL AND BRIAN SAID, WE AIN’T KIDS

WE ARE MEN, AND RONNIE BIGGS SAID, YEAH, 2 LITLLE BRATTY KIDS, YOU 2, ARE AND THEN BASHED THEM, AS THEY CAN’T GET

THEIR BODIES, FREE FROM MY CLUTCHES, AND WE ALL SCREAMED, FUCKEN LET US GO, YA BLEEDING LITTLE ****

YOU SEE OSAMA, IS A ****, YOU SEE HIM WITH RONNIE BIGGS AND TED BUNDY, TRAPPING PAUL BRIAN, AND ADAM, AS WELL

AS MANY AMERICANS, WHO CAN’T LEAVE THEIR HOUSE, A KIDNAPPING MADE, THAT POLICE CAN’T STOP, UNLESS THEY WENT

AGAINST THE THEORY OF NATURE, AND OSAMA, TED AND RONNIE YELLS OUT HEH HEH HEH HEH, WE HAVE EVERYONE IN OUR TRAP

HEH HEH HEH HEH AND NOBODY ESCAPES THESE SPIRITUAL VILLIANS, JUST ASK BRIAN ALLAN, PAUL BERENYI AND ADAM WALSH, NOONE

Little blue-eyed girl spent every day loving.
You could almost see the love oozing out of her eyes when she stared into your soul.
Or the happiness radiating through her fingertips when she held your hand.
She was the color yellow.
She was the sunshine and the dandelions, the lemon lollipops and countless smiles.
Little blue-eyed girl loved with all she had in her.
She touched every human soul she knew
Except her own.

Sometimes, little blue-eyed girl forgot about herself.
But she never forgot to call the girl across the street or help the boy with the beautiful hair find a date.
But sometimes she forgot herself.
She wrote less,
Smiled less,
Thought about herself less,
Talked less.

But she cried more.

Suddenly, little blue-eyed girl realized she had forgot how to love herself.
She distantly remembered the days when she looked at herself in the mirror and smiled.
The girl who loved her small hands and her warm smile were like ghosts dancing in her brain.
She remembered the pigtails and the overalls that she had burned when he told her to.
She couldn’t remember when doodling on her arm in class had transitioned into counting down the ticking minutes in anxiety.

Her countless days of self love weren’t countless anymore.
She didn’t even know how to count anymore.
Where did all the love go?

And then she remembered the boy with the floppy hair that she poured her soul into and he batted her away.
Or the girl with thick, raven  curls that told her she was too much to handle, too strange to talk to.
Or the boy with the freckles that drained her of love.
The one who made her keep on giving when she had nothing left to give.
He drained her like a strawberry milkshake and he made sure to slurp up the remains at the bottom so there would be nothing left.

No, little blue-eyed girl didn’t have anxiety or depression.
She didn’t know someone who had committed suicide or had died.
She didn’t have a drinking problem, a drug problem.
Little blue-eyed girl didn’t have an illness that you can put a label on and prescribe medication for.
There was nothing wrong with little blue-eyed girl then.
Was there?


Diagnosis: “she gave more love than she could ever receive”

-Olivia Wirth
8 / 9 / 16

You are doing well things are getting better
Don't compare yourself to others or think you need to live up to their standards
Be thankful for what you have
Work for it making it wirth while
Comeback for more when you fail
Eventually things get easier
If things don't feel right only a matter of time
Good things come to those who wait
It's never late it just happens at the right time
For once I could stand tall
instead of others guilting for what I don't have
Ppl usually talk but now they can't tell me nothing
From being seen as low now treated different
I feel I belong after years of being kept out
New time new environment
everything falls into place

Tell the moon
Forget to sleep
Wrap me up
With your warm embrace
Raindrops on my window pane
I am home
Safe and sound
With tired eyes
I say "C'est l'amour"

fingers intertwined
with laughter combined
nothing keeps me safe
with you beside me underneath the sheets
Our legs intertwined
Whispering casual talks
Merging our minds
With something serene yet so vibrant
You scream in color and that is something
Wirth staying, worth living,
worth breathing.

Have it your way Robert you want distance and to be poor white trash in the streets of Nashville with no health care, no home of your own accept the men'mission and theroom in the inn at 705 Drexel Place. You want to be a Peter Pan, awomanizer, anda want to be musician which has not transpired into anything. You are a vagabond hobo and just because you have a a stretch at Clancy's Cafe does not guarantee yoy a place the lime light' You donot acknowledge m[y little tokens I sent you have it your way. Karma will get you I promise one day. I will not even try  to reason wirth you. I hope and pray you are happy with street ***** you pick up on-line and they find out all about you and kick you to the curb.

My poetry doesn’t come from rainbows.
You don’t just look outside your window one day after a sudden storm and a flood of colors have appeared.
My poetry comes from potholes.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, rain and snow wear and tear my pothole apart.
Sometimes, it gets easier.
Some months there isn’t rain to hurt my heart again.
The pothole remains the same size.
It’s easier for just one day.

My poetry is as raw as it can get.
If I pick up a pen and start writing, I’m not going to lie to the paper.
Just like I wouldn’t like to my best friend, my poetry isn’t fake.
I don’t censor myself, always use appropriate language, or write about the most beautiful things.

My heartstrings are attached to my notebooks.
And if I somehow let you read one of them, I’m attaching you to my heartstrings.

Poetry is like my deep dark secret that I only share with my best friends.
You wouldn’t share your email password or that awkward middle school story with just anyone, would you?

It’s not always the most beautiful, the easiest to say.
But it’s me.

So, hello, friend.
I’m excited to have you here.
I’m Olivia Wirth and welcome to my poetry…

this... this long awaited bottle
of wine; that's for omome,
but not you... if there's going to be
a me and you...
we'd needd a ms. amber...
and some hereafter...
that bouting with the bridge
and bride of hades
and... whatever...
come tomorrowland....
i will not birdge any gaps
or any other interludes...
save those bits that welcome
the last of life and that killing joke...
here, now, the better half of
me... closed circuit worth of a
pundit...

lingo sputnik that one into an equation
for the basis of oasis that
never clamoured to burden the eurotrash
with blur
and pigeon shtiting clarificastions....

manchester chequers...
n'ah n'ah hey jude... ******* worth
of wriggling and teasin'...
  
happy to have made cheese...
says anyone beside...
an alex james...
   gear up to be riddled, moi...
something sharpening in
tone-deaf pain...

no... 4 down-under
3 across a "crew"...
             he's also greaved in
the soloist "moisting up" of suicidal tendencies...
linger me for that spot
leverage: major major of rationed bacon...

you really don't want the kinds
of me crafting a ridicule of
your naked ***... making
tabloid "oops"
of that always appeasing moon
whips and tenures...

two birds with one stone...
except the arithmetic of twenty-two...
and there's a whoop-catch
of the better half of rottten tomorrows
of the intelligent:
hardly an i.q. tester, tester, count...

i come from this affair all..
all ******* dehydrated...
and fixated on a d.n.a. of the wirth
of argumentation for the worths of
tomorrow...

hardly the happy slap...
          we... the governing
lords of salem...
                        that last misendeavour;
culprit, corrupt...
of that what's best salvaged...

mein besitzen!
           az én saját...
                               mano savo!

refresh... the death upon the crucifix
of golgotha...
then again...
that death of being impaled...
to dangle with death in tow...
but then... being impaled...
all that glory-******* the tenets
of homosexuality...
then one is being impaled
via the transcedence of buggery?

it's one thing to dangle on
a crucifix... hands outstreched...
quiet another...
to have ones hands tied
behind one's back...
being impaled...

           na pal z tym skurwysynem!
i will just listen to enough
wading through the glories of
the cossacks mingling with
the crimean tartars before...

                             crucifixion is
hardly the worthy bargain of torture to be...
exemplified...
there are so many, more...
na pal...

   to be impregnated by a quest
of making **** *** normie-proud...
at the crux of where the pelvis ends and the coccyx
begins...
at the point where the birth of the iron maiden
welcomes the weeping willow...
as a response of being
the sulking bride of commerce...

i do pity the emblem of the crucifix...
there's being subject to the pike...
one can be made to suffice in this
instrumentation of torture...
with a leonardo da vinci exegesis...
the limbs extending...
but never quiet so on a pyke...

                          butterflies of all
held hostage high heavens...
as ever... the inglorious stump...
sharpened... a death proclaimed...
two weeks short but then
the interlude... of the agon. of "waiting"...

it's called the highest crucifixion...
the lesser **** forthcoming...
the hands are tied
and the body is made to pivot
on the pelvis come coccyx...

              no angel will come here:
in spite... or repose...

                    i have lost my amibitions
to imagine... thus, this,
this torrent of whimsical expenditures;
bone-breaking
copper nibbling skimming
of loitering examinations of:
the awaited loss of value.

At birth we only know that we will die

It's the only thing written
everything else is adventure
surprise
pain and joy

Let's all know how to live it
braves
wirth hopeful
ever open

Let's be eternal while we live
Our lives are only written in the sand

Be free from life and death!