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Mnemonic devices,
Order entices.
Yet, what drives the daily thirst?
What directs what we hunger for?
Strange tonics,
Concordance appetizes.
But who bottles what they distill?
What facts in feed do we receive?
Rough slough,
Sloppy knowledge.
Mayhaps, where few are not free pastures?
What cages themselves in self-battles?
Petty sows,
Birds that cuckoo.
You feel how you act, and think every day,
How do you schedule, your free time,
The hours to have fun and play,
Exploring something, getting out of the daily grind,
Getting lost in having fun, with no limit on time.
No distractions, hours just to go out and play,
Look for the positives around, no worries, think free,
Stop waiting for negative, news, or bad weather,
To have something to talk about, every day.
As people age, they seem to eliminate, excitement,
Looking for new accomplishments, or anything else,
Out of reach of a cell phone, or the sound, picture, of a TV,
The only way, to discover, your spirit, and soul,
Creating what makes you smile inside, introspection, times alone,
Forget about, that extra hour one late night, that could be the moment,
You discover your purpose in this life, and your inner soul.



                                The original Tom Maxwell ©  3/20/2025 AD
A thought to ponder on, the people  who originally made the rules,
Eat three meals a day, along with eight hours of sleep each day, it did not work, they died a long time ago. Do what works for you
Now, if I have a good idea
Or something that would be beneficial,
Does this mean I am required to share it?
That you are deserving of it
Regardless of my judgements?

If I see you about to do something wrong
Or that I am sure of will be a mistake,
Does that mean I am required to help you?
That you are worthy of it
Regardless of my verdicts?
Nope!
But it does make you a proper ****.
I thought afar, yet never wandered.
Always saw that what I never watched.

For the distant blaze, I brought forth the horizon.
But, the landscapes turned to patchwork swatches all at once.

By Speare you drove your votives,
That which was a work of prose.
By reality, it was as an artist's pose
On a good kind of love.

For a lover is a writer,
Whether with ink & quill
Or lead & wood cylindrical.
For a lover is a writer,
Whether with chisel & stone
Or dynamite & the mountains.

Whether they write in constellations
Or draw in the sand on the beach,
Time it will take us.

For time, it shall take us.

But, in time,
Will there be that which is loving?

What say the scars unseen?

The deep peaks & valleys cut?
That which you etch
Without ever touching it?
"Great!" They said.

"So I'll be you, and you be me?"

"Correct!"

"And you'll be them, and they'll be you?"

"Accurate!"

And so they all swapped their devices,
All took each other's names/profiles,
Saying nothing of what they were actually doing!

"So who will I even be talking to?"

"Don't worry, you'll know it!"

"But how will I understand it as them?"

"Wouldn't you know if you didn't?"
For all the modulations were done by third-party, not on the devices in question! Each created communication was as a crafted message!
"But what of these truths?" Asked Plato of Socrates.

"But what is truth in purest essence?
For what of the material is purely true?
Yet, by the very nature of the immaterial,
What may we ever quantifiably call truth which we ourselves have no alternative way of examining?
In going so far as to ask for an answer, you must already have proof.
What proof is there that there is truth?"
Spoke Socrates.

"Mentor, you ramble."
Spoke Plato.

"Pupil, I rumble!"
Spoke Socrates.
The natural check & balance:
Discussion.
Meal's on you, ace.
Meals of you, ace.
As just but a deck of cards
Among tables of strung-out gamblers;
What's blackjack to a game of craps?
Suppose it's a matter
Of the rules of the sitting chaps,
Though I've never seen drunks wetter.
It's innumerable cards of the same face,
For each is but another portrait of indifference.
It's innumerable dealers of the same things,
For each is closer in similarity than farther in dissension.

To love to play
Is not the same as a play of love.

Yet, to make life a game
Is not the same as the "game" of life itself.
badwords Apr 16
You read my poem,
sighed like a widowed cello,
told me I was
so brave.
So sensitive.
So real.

I said thanks.
You asked if I was free
Friday.

You wanted to know the man
behind the wound.
The author of ache.
The architect of vibes.

So I showed up.

A little unwashed.
A little twitchy.
A patchwork of trauma
in ill-fitting pants.

You blinked.
Twice.

Like I’d just tracked in mud
on the white carpet
of your curated suffering.

You wanted a candlelit meal
with my metaphors.
But I brought the cow.
It shat on the floor.

I tried to explain—
the sadness isn’t a costume.
The pain isn’t prose.
The blood on the page
was mine.

You said,
“I just thought you'd be more… together?”
I said,
“I thought you knew what empathy meant.”

Turns out,
what you really wanted
was artisanal anguish
with the trauma locally sourced
but ethically removed.

You can cry to the soundtrack—
just don’t ask where the violins came from.

Because—

Nobody is amused with a stray cow.
But most people enjoy
a good hamburger.
A bit of cheeky fun and levity.
Love & love not,
Live and not to love;
Death should be better
Were I read the letter
Of forget our stitched knots.

Live & live not,
Love and not to live;
Life could be no worse
Than in longing for that
Which itself draws no breath.
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