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highschool was never for me
and I guess here is too

for real I was fighting
don't I deserve someone who's fighting too
I'm tired of getting tired

It's ok to make a
mistake.

It's a
mistake
not to try.


Ken Pepiton Oct 5
Allow means much more than most children think, and, since most adults, mature adamkind, learned the meaning of allow while being children themselves, it stands to reason,
we must agree to acknowledging an adult-rated meaning, an
original thought-true meaning, exists, and the embedded etymology.com clip causes verity to be established
And agreed. But skip the clip. This is most likely a paper book if I am still in it, and I am.

Got that? If not, get it. Ye'll nae go fear fershur. (never far for sure)

There is tinkly music behind this in the published version, I don't know how to do that yet, but it is being done.
The Orthodox Heretic is done that way with background noise playing as it were a role.

I am casting for the character "background noise" no more than a minute long and two inches tall.

What is allowed here is good. This realm is blessed. Good from day six. Yet,
You cannot imagine, yet. Telling my story from where I am, here, required "Rasselin' m' own weasels"

To get here. I had to stomp m'own snakes, in other words.
So, while you be, as you are, here, be having fun with no pain nor shame nor want

Think you can. You can.
Thank you, Waddie Piper, that little golden book that never leaves me, you know what I mean? I think I can. I think I can. And I know I read that book before I saw Dumbo.
You know what I mean.

And that is always Ray Charles, you know what I mean slow mind slow tongue fast ears
Hear the question from the stage to the nose bleed seats,
You know what I mean?

What is allowed here is good. This realm is blessed. Good from day six.

What is allowed here is good. This realm is blessed. Good from day six.
I am
So
Glad. Ye got a handle on that while back, eh? Good to see.

Old word that, glad. It'll gleam
If'n ye shine it on yer britches knees
Like a sword furbished,
A rod
And it is given to be furbished
That it may be handled:

Com prehension with gripping as a hand may
Grip a handle

You can handle that. It's the truth.
What else is there?

Post-mortal man is now man, you know?
What we are now is what we are;
Refurbished shined on by most.
Ignore, that's what shining on is
As used just then.

Now I can tell you to shine on and on and on
While we all ignore you and laugh at your
Efforting

Take it easy. The pieces have been falling
Long before now. Some how now we
Comprehend on purpose.

Hang on to that thought
Saturday, February 04, 2017
12:01 PM
I don't want to be too early
and I hate to be too late
so show me, baby,
the risk that I should take.
can I TRY
. . . Better . . .
Is it something real?
Because I don't feel it
It's a word repeated so many times in a row that it has lost its meaning
. . .
thesa Sep 24
<>
i never thought
that was possible

but here i am
still trying to catch the breath
i lost when my eyes met yours
Our beginning , like new life
was pure.

So far away are the days that like the horizon seemed filled with eternal promises to face
side by side.

First as friends,
then as frolicking fools
too blind to see the roads sharp fork
that would divide like a deep chasm.

Still, we rushed forward
on passions temporary fuel
hitting the first bump,
soon to be trapped in a cycle
of blissful agony,
like new life growing only to wilt
in the unceasing cold to come.

But, as a dead flower leaves a seed,
So did we leave scars,
that tells a tale to carry each of us
with the other as we move on.
Perhaps,
A lesson learned or a wound
to be examined on colder days,
that like the markers along
a journey
guides us going forward.

So as dents display the wisdom our once
fresh bodies did develope on our trip,

We learned to seek out bumps to avoid
and though we drive different roads
In opposite seasons,
peace floods me as
the passing road markers
down memory lane become
like the grave stone on that forking road
where I layed each wilted petal
of the flower on the dash
to rest along the road on that autumn trip.
Love like a fresh flower on the dash of ones first car, where freedom is found, wilts in the sun as we drive forward on our paths, someday we may pull over in a beautiful field and pick a new flower after the petals from our first love have completely fallen off and we are ready to lay then go rest in an unmarked grave
Keiko Tei Sep 20
His name was Johnny. His close friends and family liked to call him, little johnny.

This story is about little johnny, with his report card nearing, he wanted to throw one last Hail Mary.

He tried his best and paid attention. He did all but one math question.

On the night before the big day, he knew that this was it. He fell asleep from fatigue, before everything he learned could even hit...

Next morning, little johnny feeling proud of his effort, went off to school feeling great from his rest.

Unfortunately for little johnny, the results show...that in the end he still failed his math test.

This is a story of little johnny, and his mediocre report card.
Pt.1

I plan to write one for every time I am reminded that it's just as important to acknowledge your existence as "normal" and "mediocre" as it is to believe that you are "special" and "unique".

The truth is that no one has read stories about people who fail, fail, and fail again, without really obtaining success in the end.
William Troup Sep 19
Money mourns memories
   where wars would wait!
   Hunger hurt humbled
      me midway!

Money mowed morrows
   where willows would weep!
   Blue beach beautiful,
      she still swayed!

Money moved mountains
   through turning tides!
   Wonder will welcome
      me midday!

Moments mourned money
   with waving winds!
   Blush blinked beauty
      mirrors ... midway?
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