If a burning, exothermic-reactant ball of gas can emit light that travels at 3×10^8 m•s^-1,

Why can't you emit the hope that you experience endothermically even when your ∆H is a negative?

Why do you have to be so selfish as to favour an endothermic reaction instead of being exothermic and being like the sun - shedding your hope onto others?

Since we have chemistry, can we not meet at chemical equilibrium?
e xcited
N ewton
i dentifying
g ravity
m unching
a pples
Perhaps an observation, mine?
A gorgeous formula for force is:
F=dp/dt or F=d(m.v)/dt
By employing mass into velocity.
This formula uses the momentum
To elucidate the force involved
And to deduce the frontage
Of any effect developed
My HP Poem #1625
©Atul Kaushal
My head
lays down over
the strong dynasty
your chest is.

I listen your heart,
reciting far away verses about
some kings without castles
nor titles.

I fall asleep
inside the shelter
of your peaceful kingdom.

Your firmament applies me
a force, equal and opposite,
to the weight of my head,
full of semi precious stones
and keeps me
from falling.
J Valle Nov 2015
Eve shared it and
Condemned human kind.

Newton felt it and
Changed the world's mind.

Snow White tasted it and
Proved love at first sight.

Ewing used it and
Left the world behind.

That is how
I realized
It was me, who
Gave you the power
To change
Or ruin
My life.
N Paul Jun 2015
Squint scurried.
From rooftop to rooftop,
He skipped and he flipped as he
Scrambled amongst the tiles,
The blur of slate was his domain,
As, through the haze of reckless speed,
The slowly revolving City
Did imprint upon his vision.
So that as his sly lids descended
Its outline he admired;
Its screaming centre he desired.

In the end even Squint cannot run forever.
So he will slow, and shade his eyes,
Catch his breath and gaze and sigh.

And when he’s had his fill of the sights and the smog.
Down he slides amongst the pipes
Of better folk; of harder folk,
Of those with Proper Names
Like ‘Welder’ and ‘Melder’
And ‘Roland’ and ‘Fairer’.
Names that came after a ‘Mr’,
A ‘Lord’ or a ‘Sister’.
Names that one Day he would have for his Own.
For in the Glass City, Names were always changin’ hands.

Not much of a Name,
Even for one so young as he
It would seem he would deserve
A Name of much more worth
Than simple, humble ‘Squint’.

But Squint lived up to his Name.
He may look young and full of fun,
But crouch on a wall and you might just
Be appalled to see that not a moment after
Squint is left alone, his eyes will glitter.
And if any Man’s flesh could ever express such malicious scheming,
It was the writhing face of our humble Squint,
Once his eyeballs set to gleaming.
Part 2 of an ongoing series - The Stealing of Names
Follow and get ready for the next instalment, coming soon!
Paul Butters Feb 2015
Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.

Remember Johnny Giles
A player with all the wiles.
In midfield he did scheme:
For Leeds he was a dream.

Nicole Scherzinger,
What a messenger.
A Friend so loyal,
Regally royal.

Oh Nick Clegg,
Why did you have to beg
For a Tory-led Coalition,
Sending the Lib-Dems into Perdition?

(PS) All hail be to great Don Newton,
Always had a winning solution.
Played table tennis with flashing blade,
A Legend that will never fade.

Paul Butters
Love Clerihews!!!
N Paul Jan 2015
Preludium, or, *what has gone before:
A man makes his way, alone,
Through rocky ash and bluff,
His feet a mass of bloody scabs
His throat gruff with rust.
In his savage thirst he sees, delirious,
The City from whence he flees;
The City that stole his Name.

Furious! O righteous hate;
Bubbling! Consuming! Melding with his haze of pain:
Fickle Justice! Intangible Law! Humble Equity!
Alien words for an alien time
That has quickly descended to muck.

But we must leave this Nameless nomad
To his dark visages, for now.
Perhaps we shall return
To plough his tale and groan
To find him drowned in thirst;
In self-pity, the liquid fire.
For now- to the City, we are bound!
And the mind of one so fortunate, as to still call his Name his own.
The Preludium (A sort of 'previously on') to Part 2 of an ongoing series - The Stealing of Names
Follow and get ready for Part 2 in a few days!
N Paul Jan 2015
Hobbling over rock and dust,
The Nameless winces with every weary step.
His soles scorched and torn
By the unaccustomed roughness underfoot
The jagged teeth of a prickly piping earth.

Alone he makes his way
With tiny treads towards the dying dusk.
Fatigue dragging at his limbs
Bowing his neck to leave eyes downcast
And unfocussed; seeing naught but blurs and
The swirling and swaying of the trembling past.

A city:
Grand buildings stretching as one toward the sky;
Great lions waking from their feast and basking
In the brilliance of noonday air.
The bustle of flesh coursing about their purpose
The tight press of bodies all around
And the chatter and the natter and the laughter and the anger.

And then the silence.
The fear and the glares.
The hunger
And a guilty aversion of one’s eyes.

The shattering of glass
The raising with fire and boot.
And the stealing of Names.

And now here he trudges.
With tiny treads and into naked night.
Part 1 of an ongoing series - The Stealing of Names
Follow and get ready for the next instalment in a few days!
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
I love you like the apple
that transgresses from a tree.
It is pulled downward
and away
from calm familiarity.
Into the abyss of earth it crashes,
and is bruised.

And as the skin of all my mirth, will then decay
it shall infuse
with the origin of its origin
the birth by which its birthed,
and thus the end of its beginning,
and there forever stay.

So I shall count my loss as winning,
and ne'er again the two confuse.
What physics class will do to your poetry...
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