People rushing to work Just another ordinary day Or so it seemed. until The worst imaginable thing happened. Bang smash right into the twin towers Smoke Panic rushing around like crazy Fear Panic Tears Franctic people pushing and shoveling Screaming shouting. People jumping to escape the flames The smell of death Feeling of hopelessness. Firemen caught trapped in the blaze. Suddenly the whole block collapses Gone in a moment.all theses lives. Never forget the souls of September the 11th
It's a sad old ****** Sunday When men walk in suits, With solemn faces in the cold wind Tears flow down the elderly's wrinkled faces And their hands shake Women hold the hands Of their whispering children The long droning speeches are said All is said and all is done The poppies are placed Everyone stands in silence Then walks home in whispers Paper poppies on their coats Waking through Freezing Autumn leaves We walk inside our homes We hear church bells chime Like the ones at the funerals so long ago We take off our coats Leave them around We lie in bed and sleep We get up the next day When all is said and done And life goes on Except not for the dead And not for the ones Who witnessed death
See this is what ****** me off about November 11th. It's a good idea except if you think about it, people just move on. By people, I mean people who will never get the picture of what it's like to see men dying around you, buried in snow and mud. Also sorry for not being around, school has been awful recently. :(
to avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness which near future prospect induces existential angst i confess.
Today (end of rope rhyme rote approximately deux orbitz round the sun), i wanted ta die and bid god riddance grandly going gamesomely gra grave, de deum, and cymbal crash
to Bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually - all the grinding hardships would be gone in a flash how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of mortal freedoms renting psych *** under with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide while n the edge of thirteen - Anorexia nervosa defeated - then as now experience 10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash
lacerating, flagellating, and repeatedly rousing thoughts shin to circle back to why death be not proud when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring in step happy jollity, and levity attempt to make light
of psychological me's mental illness rash whence thru the (then) lvii roam min years as chief garbage taster of trash hurled my way gnome matter
the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash distance to inflict din er of dissonance targeted this mortal for'er abash as soon as he got expelled from the womb, his reddened ears did bash from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward of me late mum sped like dash her, and fast as a comet Prancer doth emulate a con ***** dancer, cuz ova this rude half re: that came a boot from genetic chromosomal dna wash.
It has a new scale of reference vast, vicious and unforgiving death for millions will be anonymous machine gun arbitrary and indiscriminate shelled and shocked, barraged and buried no whole corpse to recognise as human no remains to mourn and grieve just rich blood and bone for Poppies growing strong in the Flanders' fields.
Landscape resculpted to barest bone earth desecrated and destroyed every old tree and young bush uprooted tossed like feathers to the blackened sky debris swirling in the clouds of poison gas and the putrid stench of burning flesh in pyres that smoke and stink for days just fertile ash and dust for Poppies growing strong in the Flanders' fields.
Read at an exhibition of the etchings of Ottto Dix, a soldier fighting for the Germans as a young man in WWI. He was persecuted by the Nazis in WWII Go to National Gallery of Australia website to view his chilling art.
In what at least Seemed anger the Aquarians in the basement Had been perfecting a device. For making sense to us If only briefly and on pain Of incommunication ever after. Now look who's here. Our prodigal Sunset. Just passing through from Isfahan. Filled him by the glass.