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as of right now its 100% official
i am paying 6 billion personally for the rio grande wall
jewels-precious metals-benjamins-pesos
one thing we can beg to ask ourself
free the deserving
inept to the fact but i need secret service
i need incognito
i need silent protection
i swear to all above the lord
the wall will be build im buying it right now
wake up get ready an open my government
i ask for nothing in return
ask yourself
spread love
i love you its all going to be ok very soon
trust in my check-book
1 thousand billion account
blake Jan 22
one hundred days and nights
i want to spend with you
my love, my friend,
i want nothing more
than to see you grow
and become the man
i always knew you could be

right now it seems pointless
that you're stuck inside this loop
but don't fret, my friend, as t is helping you.

one hundred poems and songs
i grant and give to you
as you are my love
and my world belongs to you
Jim Davis Dec 2018
Take a slow look round
See what you can see
See all is a lie
Truth lies with your heart
Trust your heart to know
You must live the life
You are meant to live
And die much too soon
With the thought of me
As your best sweet hope

©  2018  Jim Davis
Just found this in my old notes!  Don’t remember writing it, but I am getting old!  Not meant as an ego trip but as a celebration of love!
Aduain Nov 2018
Generals and Admirals,
making the decisions
On squaddies lives and welfare
Creating the divisions
These combat explanations
The dictionary assigns
The following descriptions
Only the words benign.

A fight between armed forces,
Or, Take action to reduce;
The need for family losses?
Or more souls abuse?
Down among the soldiers
Is there anything more obtuse?
Stood by an adolescent shoulder,
Death in hands to use.

Brigadiers and Field Marshalls creed,
Battles must be won!
With no time for a private’s need
Or their families at home.
One day, with waiting over
Lovers may return,
Some that is, the others
Died in Hades, so listen, learn!

They died, and in their passing
Our freedom they allowed
Take heed, do not stop asking
Be heard and scream out loud,
To those we must make listen
To historical loud spoor
where fields of blood still glisten,
Please! Let peace endure….
I remember telling everyone
I would live until I am a hundred
I would keep each moments
I would keep each of the smiles
I would keep each of the words
That only gave me positive vibes
I would remember the lonely nights
And the tears that I have cried
I would take them as a lesson
To value myself first before others
I would be wiser in the next lifetime
If I was given a chance to live again
Then maybe things would get better Pieces of my heart won't be cluttered
If I could just took what I've learn
From my life that I lived in a hundred
100 years
War war No one likes war
The mud the rats the food is raw
The whistle will go then over the top
Through the guns through the wire
Then in to the trenches to disappear
The mud will not let all go through
Some will cry out and down they will go
Oh god why is war so
Or will one day children play in street
Like heaven and not like today
Or will man fight on till there is no one left
A gun cracks out and down I go
Oh god may I be the last to die this way.
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
I don't believe in 'untruths.'
Lies are lies; point blank.
Mystic Ink Plus May 2018
I’m 100% past.
100% present.
100% future.


I can hear you
I’m the one,
Who can be the best
Even if
I just have the rest.


I’m the one
Who can see, ancestor’s blood of purity
Even in evil.

I’m, the TIME
The PAST, the PRESENT and the FUTURE.
Genre: Inspirational
Theme: [Reflections]
We are the same past what make us stronger. We are the same future, an equation of Past and Present, together.
Panda Jan 2018
I'm revealing a truth
I'm what you call a fake
I can deceive on a dime
Don't know how I got this way
I lie about gender
I lie about age
I lie to my friends
When I say I'm OK
My tongue is a snake
When my mind relapses
Since my body uses humans
To entertain and entraps
I don't know why I do
I do things and do not think
I didn't think it was in me
I guess my thoughts need to sink
But I'm tired of my ways
Of being the evil Queen
I've written a hundred poems
Yet my soul has remained sickly
Vedanti Jan 2018
Dear Papa,
Yesterday I saw something that I didn’t understand.
They were walking a little ahead of me.
But walking isn't the right word,
because there were two people
and only two feet.
It sounds like a math problem,
But nothing added up in my head.
It sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
But unlike the story you told me the other day,
there was no strong king or sly demon.
I saw, however, one ***** underfed boy of eight
dragging his crippled mother across the street.
Adhunik Shravan bal.
A Lilliputian on a Herculean task.
I couldn't decipher her age.
When you're that poor, does age matter?
Do they keep count of the days that pass by
when their aim is to survive just one?
Do they have a mirror to look into
and count the wrinkles on their face?
What does age matter to an eight year old boy
who, instead of attending school,
is hauling his handicapped mother across the road
on a seating board with wheels?
When I was that age, papa,
you bought me a skateboard
that was the exact leaf green
from my 50 colours oil pastels set.
I couldn't see the colour of their clothes.
There was the dark of the night,
yellow of the street lights
and everything was in sepia
like the picture you showed me
of your childhood.
You once told me you were raised in poverty too, papa.
Are there different kinds of poverty?
Did you get toys to play with
or were your clothes in sepia too?
I told you this sounds like a math problem, papa,
And here’s what doesn't add up.
Isn't a parent supposed to hold their child's hand
and show them how to cross the road?
I remember holding your hand,
looking left-right-left
and matching my steps
with your strides.
Fast, but never run.
Who taught him, papa?
Did he have his own papa to teach him?
How did he learn to walk fast enough
and pull hard enough
so that he and his mom made it across the road in time?
How did he find the strength if he was underfed?
He truly reminds me of Shravan bal,
because who else would carry his mother
across such distances.
I told you it sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
and now that I think about it, it really does.
Maybe this little boy is a young king.
Maybe he brings his vetal back home every day.
Maybe he hears her talk about her day.
And maybe, papa,
when he succeeds every night,
she saves him from an evil tantric.
An evil tantric called hunger.
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