A nose job A good job Rhinoplasty Ugly nose Remodels it To fit the face Brings grace Heightens The image What kind Nose job What kind Rhinoplasty For a nose Casting a slur Turning ugly Face society Without Being shameless
I used to think that there were these little bones in my heart, and when they got broken, the doctors would put a bright pink cast on my heart.
But it doesn't work like that.
You can't put a cast on your heart, and even if you could, there isn't a cast big enough to hold every single piece my heart has broken into. There isn't a glue strong enough to put it back together, and keep you from breaking it, yet again.
I had an elderly lady look on me and say "one day you're going to be a little heart-breaker to a bunch of boys." And I'm sure I was before now.
So next time you adorn yourself with such a label as, "Heart-breaker," perhaps you should imagine what it would be like when someone breaks your heart.
The most exquisite truth of all is this: I may be broken. I am not d e s t r o y e d.
I watched as she was cast out of a bolt from the blue. A smile on her lips so beautifully askew. As her feet touched the earth she danced into the light. Like a drifter in the shadows dashing through the night. Her eyes can make you smile hips will make you shake. She is dawn's wishful goddess brought to earth for heaven's sake. Naked as Godiva through my mind she cut like pain. Tearing into the warm summer night bold with brazen fangs. Caught and cast a sail like a ship upon the sea. She swam in the moonlight sweetly. while the night did eagerly recede. Her beauty warms the sunshine filtered through the leaves of trees. That shade her eyes that have seen infinite eternity.
After laying me on the bed His agents were on the task I was taken to the Cath Lab My heart was thoroughly investigated His agents told Him there's no sin inside He made His considered opinion He declared me the winner He had a word of caution for me You have undergone bypass in the past Your heart falls in sensitive class Strictly follow your regimen Take all necessary precautions Lay aside all your fears There's no sin inside you dear Yet you don't qualify for my heavenly Kingdom I need to cast you further on the anvil Making you first a better human You stay on this planet Till further decision, further orders O Lord I bow before You I am grateful for this decision I shall abide by Your every order, every decision!
though he looked calm he was worried all the way as his sons carried him on their broad shoulders.
the dead brahmin, finally smiled as he was laid on the funeral pyre made of finest sandalwood from the forest around.
that was his last wish to his sons, you must use chandan and nothing else. don’t give me to some low-cast corkwood even before sum of my deeds is calculated, i know, on the pyre, it will burn me, to the hell.
cast has created division in indian society for thousands of years, it so deeply rooted that even today it still shows scars of past and deeds of presents
Spin, Mister Fisherman, Throw me a line; A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes
Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly; Dub well your quill, Hook me low, Run me High
‘The reality, however, is that fishing is about the closest you can get to physically experiencing poetry. It is a pursuit based on contemplation and solitude that involves an appreciation of the elements; it is a game of chance, hope, escapism; a step into the murky waters of the unknown. There is little difference between the angler setting forth on a misty dawn and the poet staring at the blank page. Both are hoping for greatness, but will settle for a brief silvery flash of the transcendental brilliance that lies beneath the surface.‘ - Ben Myers
Fishing parlance is a language as complex and arcane as the sport itself. What a happy coincidence to discover that a ‘quill’ in angler-speak refers to a float (or bobber). How ‘bout that? ;)
Student Racing about Scattered here and there Learning all it can Then, somehow Reading a work So inspiring A true keeper of knowledge Hidden among them
Seeking improvement Of works and self But so occupied Barely time for such In a hurricane of stress Pressure and emotion Far beyond itself The student tried A deed so selfish Then reflected A work resembling the moment Easing themselves in part That it was released But horrified Of what could have been
Looking up To their mentor A keeper of knowledge Held in high respects But when seen At the weakest Cast away As one of millions But the student Wished Yearned To be more than one of millions Pleading to be taught To be made an apprentice Alas No more No more