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Forty years after its birth the rebel F-20 is an angel of the sky.
Purple in colour to blind its enemy’s eyes, it has laser weapons
and ******-vectored engines controlled by thought.
This is the craft for mercenaries flown by the daring
and 21st century knights into battle –
they fight for the new republic and the ancient rebel way
against an old royal enemy as deadly as the devil.
Stay sad Feb 22
If you're looking for a reason not to **** yourself tonight, this can be it.

Sometimes, we feel as if nothing matters.
We all do.
So i made a list of a few of my own reasons,
13 Reasons Why
I'm still alive.
And hopefully you'll change your mind.
Those moments you feel happy, and nothing but lucky.
And you wish nothing will ever change.
I will try my best.

Reason 2. Paper Planes.
It sounds very weird; paper planes, but let me explain. Think about the times when you're walkin in a hallway on your way to a test, and you see a friend from a different class who already took it. You look at them and they immediately shout what you have to read, and you shout back the answer from the homework's last question. Or when you're in class, writing a disstrack about the teacher and annoying the **** out of them because the whole class just knew without telling we had to annoy the teacher. So you fold boats, make hats and trow clots of paper. When you have slack lay in class. When you trow paper planes and when everyone gets a F on the math test. When two of your friends want to sit next to you so you finally have a group of 12 people and don't do a **** during class. That feeling of luck, of happiness, of friendship and the feeling of stomach pain from laughing. Like you belong here. That feeling when you just have to smile. It's hard to explain but i hope you get it.
Tarac (for Stone and Kurosawa)
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dugdug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where **** occurred
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...
Nigel Finn Nov 2018
This scrap piece of paper
Could have been a plane
But, instead, it's a poem by me;
Not burnt into vapour,
Folded like a crane,
Or anything else it could be.

This scrap piece of paper,
Now scrap more than ever,
Because I have added these words,
Which now start to taper,
Because I'm not clever
Enough to write of paper birds.

This scrap piece of paper
Has no more left to give
Apart from the next three forced lines;
It won't save the tapir,
Teach you how you should live,
Or help you pay old parking fines.
This poem was (quelle surprise!) originally written on a scrap piece of paper.
nick armbrister Oct 2018
**** Heap
Round and round they go on a merry go round
Chasing one another in high performance warplanes
Trying to blow one another's ******* heads off
Madness over Belgium World War 2 style
**** Messerschmitt 109 and Yankee P-47 Thunderbolt
Armed to the ******* teeth read for war and battle
Just waiting for a shot shoot **** die death!
Here we ******* go guns guns guns!
But he missed and so the dance continues
German and American going round like Devils
Each as good as the other and both expendable
In the high tech no mercy duel where violence rules
Shortly one or both fighter planes will be wrecks
Burning fiercely on the frozen ground
January 1 1945 New Year’s Day battle style
Did you have a good New Year's Eve party?
Your hangover will be the death of you
Making you a second too slow
Then the **** will nail you and claim a new ****
Adding to his list of Allied and Soviet pilots
For he fights not for ****** or the Nazis
But to survive as two dozen of his comrades die
Killed by American guns while hitting their base
This is war where there's no glory just death
Stanley Wilkin Oct 2018
Dive bombers, black wings spread,
satanic angels: Two crows attacked another
broken on the long grass,
consumed by grappling weeds,
unable to fly and imprisoned within
the soft melding soil as if caught
nesting; I watched from afar; a spectator at an accident
unwilling to intervene.
Darting beak, defending itself with desperate
protests: they swooped again and again-
stukas in the old war, squarking demonically
wings flapping like black pistons geared up for death-
again and again they drilled into the world of men
boring down until
in the fading light, head bowed,
the damaged crow surrendered
and vomitted out its last stored-up breath,
shining ebony slashed, in a flurry
of dangling flesh, its life hacked away-blood
dripping from its bill-
hacked away in the cold air,
its brothers, like brothers everywhere,
gorging on its flesh.

By then, I had had enough,
I refused to watch anymore. The bird
a meal for its own kind,
soon just scattered feathers
repositioning the light.
Its darkness, once a threat,
with its suggestion of forboding
now merely signalling innocence,
the victim of misrepresentation.
I left a scene that did not truly
embrace reflection, an unusual
carnival of life and death in a city
that rejected both.
There are...
           Billions of people and
           busy streets in the world
           and you are just a mote
           dancing between them.

There are...
            Thousands of people
            on the train,

there are...
           hundreds of taxi cabs
           and busy cars
           passing by,

there's a lot of
                 city lights
                 and planes,
                 flickering,

you have your
        won, yen or cent
        on those coffee shops.

But
nothing on them,
took you back to me.
b Aug 2018
it is so still here.
until the planes
fly over heard. they dont
scare me like they did
when i was a boy.

but boy could they
put fear in the heart
of a youngster.
i never thought
id miss cowering
in the basement.

home will
spit me out again,
freshly chewed.
still staring at the buildings
like they might topple right over.

i will make the world love me
if its the last thing i do.
i dont care how
but it will.

i refuse to be the boy
in the basement.
scared of noise.
there is no crown fit
for noise.
it wears victory
like a python around
its neck.

and if noise could
die i would **** the
poison from
noise until it is but
a snake for the garden.
harmless and certainly
nothing
to go cower
in the basement for.
Daniel Ruiz Jul 2018
As my eyes,
Observe the sunset,
And the flow of the clouds

I noticed
How much similar
The sky is to the ground

Could it be?
That we make it
Believe
That the sky
Is something so much more
So much more powerful,

But as I look out my airplane
Window
I can see a cold sea of clouds,
Over a painted background
Painted by the sun,
And the colorful rays of light
So it can be enjoyed
By the moon,

Just
To be observed
and defiled
By us

We don’t understand
We really don’t understand
How close the sky
Can be to the ground,

I understood today,
That tearing through
Bodies of water
Be it in the sky,
Or in the sea,

The sunset
Still looks as beautiful
As it did the first
Time I watched it,
Tired,
Probably wishing
It was more colorful

Not knowing
This will be one of
The most gorgeous
Things I’ll see.
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