"amounts" poems
rain
mud and grass
common prayer
good weather
good people
art
and umbrella bags
because who wants to
get wet?
unless it’s with you
I could
I would
jump into the lake
for that rock
sew
cleanse
initials made in sharpie
and unclamp
we run
around the park
the afternoon surrounds us
the woman in the bikini
passes
and we laugh
iced tea
decaf coffee
cake without teeth
and that airstream camper
you always wanted
I could live in your
backyard
I could live somewhere
not here
in silver
prostrated
with my back to the
moon
like dead
like a mummy
like a mirror
and life would make sense
life would be beautiful
like this run
with perfect amounts of sweat
and conversation that runs
waves in the sand
and tells the squirrels
*goodnight, tractor
see you tomorrow*
and the land that billows
is dug up
and chewed
like a goodnight poem
this run with you
takes rest
on my soul
and I crack my ribs
to take the spring’s
twilight
aroma
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
How would you feel if you had someone else in your head?
Another personality that could take over at any minute.
Anyone with DID can tell you that it's not easy.
DID stands for Dissociate Identity Disorder.
This is where a person has more than one personality.
It's caused by trauma that has happened in their lives.
Mostly from childhood to in their teens.
People with DID have "alters".
Alters are the other personalities that come out.
If you only have one, then it is known as Split Personality.
It's actually very interesting and there are signs for it.
Like having black outs and not remembering parts of a day.
Speech and movement become different, along with wardrobe.
And then the personality itself changes, likes and dislikes.
No person with DID is the same.
Everyone has different amounts and different lives.
The only thing that's the same is that they have it.
So if someone goes from being normal to being different.
First see if they are just trying something new.
But if the way they speak and act aren't right.
Then you need to know that something might be wrong.
So if someone says that they have Multiple Personalities.
Or just a Split Personality.
Don't run away and don't call them liars.
Because they are still people and they need their friends.
Besides, once you get to know and understand them.
Then things will seem alright.
It won't seem normal, but it'll be fine.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
We could play with guns like cowboy bebop,
Slay demons like inyunasha,
The blue lights in Tokyo couldn't be anymore beautiful,
Getting a little sensual with small amounts of ******
That's pretty lame,
Kissing me with purple and pink lipstick,
And for that I'll make you anything kawaii,
You could be the crazy chick on fooly cooly,
It wouldnt be bad if you Could do me.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
Sleepmonger,
deathmonger,
with capsules in my palms each night,
eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottles
I make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.
I'm the queen of this condition.
I'm an expert on making the trip
and now they say I'm an addict.
Now they ask why.
WHY!
Don't they know that I promised to die!
I'm keeping in practice.
I'm merely staying in shape.
The pills are a mother, but better,
every color and as good as sour *****
I'm on a diet from death.
Yes, I admit
it has gotten to be a bit of a habit-
blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,
hauled away by the pink, the orange,
the green and the white goodnights.
I'm becoming something of a chemical
mixture.
that's it!
My supply
of tablets
has got to last for years and years.
I like them more than I like me.
It's a kind of marriage.
It's a kind of war where I plant bombs inside
of myself.
Yes
I try
to **** myself in small amounts,
an innocuous occupatin.
Actually I'm hung up on it.
But remember I don't make too much noise.
And frankly no one has to lug me out
and I don't stand there in my winding sheet.
I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightie
eating my eight loaves in a row
and in a certain order as in
the laying on of hands
or the black sacrament.
It's a ceremony
but like any other sport
it's full of rules.
It's like a musical tennis match where
my mouth keeps catching the ball.
Then I lie on; my altar
elevated by the eight chemical kisses.
What a lay me down this is
with two pink, two orange,
two green, two white goodnights.
Fee-fi-fo-fum-
Now I'm borrowed.
Now I'm numb.
12.3k
What puts a smile on my face
is a smile on yours
When we sit and talk
and your problems you pour
I like you even more
when the same you do for me
When you say, "I understand,"
you're the friend of the century
I welcome your presence
because every moment counts
Time with you is like love
taken in large amounts
There's no such thing as too close
You never stray too far
What I really like about ya
is that you know who you are
You never spend your time
trying to convince others
that you are nice and kind
You just let them discover
We know where we stand
Outsiders need not apply
They see not what I do
when looking at your eyes
We connect on a level
different than most
You're my constant guest
I'm proud to be your host
You and me together
is so uncomparable;
what dreams are made of
or a love parable
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Her mound
amounts to
a mouthful of
of the most remarkable
thing I have ever tasted.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 10:01 PM UTC
The stigma that sensitive people are weak needs to diminish.
Just because she feels things down to her bones does not mean she is weak.
She carries everything. Her feelings, other people’s feelings, the world around her as she takes it all in.
* * *
Sensitivity is deemed feeble.
Thick-skinned people are the brave ones, right? They have endured so much that they no longer feel anything. Snide remarks, rude comments, and stressful situations roll off their skin like water during a storm. If it’s already pouring, why worry about each droplet?
* * *
That is the problem, she thought to herself. Are brave people truly brave?
No.
Brave people are the true cowards. Rather than taking their experiences and feeling them, letting them seep into their bones to become the marrow which fuels their bodies, they shut them away; skeletons in a closet.
They have become numb to the baggage they carry at the expense of growing numb to everything else.
* * *
People around her are merely living in this world, she decided, whereas she was absorbing it.
In the spring she lays in the grass, running her fingers through each blade as if it were the Earth’s hair.
When summer nights bring a light breeze, she imagines spirits are hugging her.
In the fall when it rains, she spreads her arms wide and gazes up to the sky, knowing that each water droplet that falls is Mother Nature peppering her skin with kisses.
* * *
Others are too preoccupied making sure their skeletons do not peer out of the closet.
Strength, after all, is the ability to withstand vast amounts of pressure and God knows how much force those skeletons must bear.
* * *
In the middle of the night, her father hears her talking to someone, except there is no response. It is as if she is conversing with herself when in actuality, she is conversing with her skeletons.
After midnight when others have drifted off to sleep, hoping that their skeletons do not come to haunt them, she is wide awake, her closet door open.
She lays in bed and asks her anxiety how it’s day was, laughs at a witty comment that her depression has made about her life, and gives thanks to the insult a bully gave her in the first grade for making her the person she is today.
The things that should weigh her down, she has befriended. They come to visit so often, anyways.
* * *
She wonders how someone who has mastered the art of suppressing their feelings is braver than someone who has mastered the art of acknowledging their feelings.
The strength it takes to keep the closet door shut is immense.
However, it takes an unsurpassable amount of resilience to carry the world in her heart and soul while still having the courage to open her closet without being afraid of the things that could jump out at her.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
My ascent into adulthood was just that, an ascent. It has come slowly with little consistency and massive amounts of determination, stamina, and a reassuring trust in the universe. But the idea of adulthood has slipped its way into my expanding comfort zone with ease, which I think has come from the preparation I received throughout my childhood. The importance of perseverance and hard work in achieving anything at all was beyond emphasized in the parenting techniques of my immigrant mother and father. They sent the babies straight from their unemployed bellies into the best forms of higher education they could find because
My achieving of adulthood was more of just a gradual shift in mentality and perspective that developed into my addiction to change and new experiences, distaste for dependence, and denial of my previous nostalgic tendencies.
With more maturity also came a more logical understanding of the world around me. The more I understood the working ways of my surroundings, physical and psychological, the better I could feel my drive to achieve. The achievement I sought was not economic or career oriented in any aspect. It was based off of my ceaseless search for something new or for the rad or for the gnar or for swagger or for living a life that could inspire a minimum of 3 people including myself. The seed of this search was planted in me during my childhood by my five older siblings who all held within their bellies a fire of the same breed.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
Man do I love taco's
Asian taco's
Hispanic taco's
Creole taco's
Russian taco's
Middle Eastern taco's
Persian taco's
Caucasian taco's
Latin taco's
Endless amounts of taco's to eat
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
Mum had been gone a couple of months, six I think… (An ordinary day, feeling hollow but doing OK) …when I realised I could get rid of the sofa.
I thought it was ugly, she thought it was a bargain. A sofa’s not a keepsake and it was certainly no heirloom. I’d not inflict it on my kids. I got rid.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. Even if it meant keeping the sofa.
Redecorated. Bought a new telly. Spent frivolous amounts of cash on scatter cushions. She disliked scatter cushions. I thought they were cosy.
My little boy drew on one of the cushions. On purpose. I was about to smack the back of his legs… (Mum would have, she smacked me when I was little) … I stopped.
I never wanted to. Had known all along, somehow forgotten.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. But she would not smack my children.
Mum had been gone a year… (Planting bulbs, feeling conspicuous carrying a shovel ‘round the churchyard) …and I missed her.
It was as hot as the day she died. There was no breeze up on that hill, no cloud. Beautiful views stretched right out to the sea.
My little boy had grown, he helped carry water and dig holes. My baby was learning to walk, she wobbled on uneven turf between the headstones. I wanted Mum to see.
If I could’ve had her back then? I would’ve done. No question.
Mum had been gone three years… (Bulbs were doing OK. There was nothing left to plant that rabbits wouldn't nibble) …and I realised it was time to move on.
I kept the ghosts quiet while agents showed people round. The house sold. We moved away. A warm, terraced place in a small town by the sea. Dad died.
Mum has been gone eight years and I miss her.
Looking out from the Downs across cliff-top and sea, the churchyard seems nothing more than a soft-grey fleck on the green edge of town.
If I could bring her back now? Everything’s changed.
Ghosts exist. They sit in empty chairs and speak kettle-whistle. Wishing us well.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
one is slightly bound
a congestion of sorts
nothing is evacuating
from a certain passage
the
act
that
is
done
on
the
toilet
seat
proves to be hard
sufficient amounts of roughage
have not passed
through one's entrails
one cannot excrete
all
possible
treatments
have
been
tested
by one
yet
the
binding
cannot
be
undone
hence the number two
sits unmoved
in one's tail
a feed of grains and fruit
in the morn
shall clear the obstruction
before dusk
to
have
a
poo
poo
is
all
one
wishes
to
do
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Creep in the night
Resists as they might
to their bodies invites
to reap what they like
Prisoners of flesh
until their souls delight
His big black **** between her thighs
Her tight white ***** squeezes and he sighs
He wants to turn her out without a doubt
Teach her what real loving is all about
She screams out loud
he covers her mouth
The climb max raises
as the pressure amounts
Daddy doing it right
laying the pipe so deep
It may never come out
The pleasures out of sight
She’s so wet from being tight
He’s hitting her spots like a spot light
From the look on her face the pleasure is out of sight
He uncovers her mouth and she screams for her life...
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 5:53 PM UTC
i. "Why did the number of parking tickets spike
when Persephone was carried off to the underworld?
Demeter wasn't working."
She liked greek mythology puns.
It was a good thing I was creative.
ii. Truth or Dare, I asked her what
was the best decision she's ever made.
she answered with, "In 7th grade I named my puppy Achilles,
so when I saw him I could say, 'Achilles, heel!'"
iii. It took me two weeks to realise that
when we held hands, I wasn't really
holding her hand, but a chainsaw,
ready to slash through anything that stood in our way like
Hercules chopping off the Hydra's head.
I was immortal.
iv. August eleventh; 9 PM
we watched for the meteor shower.
I connected the freckles splayed upon her knee,
told her they looked like the constellation of Cassiopeia.
"Be Sirius" she jested.
v. She had a bad habit
of smoking at the beach and I
Wondered if she knew that with
every single flick of ash into the water,
Poseidon was cursing her to the River Styx.
vi. Headaches visited her often, I joked that
maybe she was getting ready to birth
a Goddess from her cranium. She
did not find it clever.
vii. You could say we became like Aphrodite and
Hephaestus. I, longing for her. She,
lusting after another. A synonym for her
headaches would be me.
viii. Apparently if you hack off a Hydra head, two
would grow to replace it. Knowing this sooner
probably would have saved me from numerous
amounts of Kleenex and chocolate.
ix. She left me a note on the dresser,
"Fun fact: Medusa's favourite cheese was
Gorgon-zola. PS - you remind me
of Medusa, please remember to brush your hair."
She reminds of Medusa as well, I do not doubt that if we
meet again, her eyes would still turn me into
stone.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
Have you ever felt...
That feeling?
Where you're so empty you can actually fall inside the void which consumes you,
When you're so broken that whenever someone touches you they pull back hissing,
When you are so lonely you call out to the birds which paint the sky-in hope that they will sit on you shoulder,
Have you ever felt it? That feeling?
That horrible slimy whisper wordlessly chanting "You are useless"
Well I have.
And it is crap.
But one day you'll wake up and a small drop will fall Into that void
**Day by day
Night by night
Hour by hour
Second by second**
And it may not seem like much
But it amounts to a lot in the end
Until that feeling you feel
Is nothing more
Than subtle laughter
Coming from you.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Filaments fixed on your eyes all night
and the possibility of a chance, of an opportunity,
that I’ll be able to talk to you,
because the club lights are blue
stretched like animal hide across your own hide:
complexion clear cheeks still rouged
though tidal club glow is still blue.
It’s pathetic, worse than any diabetic
with their HumaPen Memoir insulin
length of pen, recording the time
and date
and precise amount of pain
they inject from the last 16 doses.
My pen is my keyboard and records
miserable times
and forgotten dates in cafes
and precise amounts of pain,
though this diabetic is a pathetic poet
and he knows it.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.
sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.
mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...
these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.
hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.
still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
The place was dangerous as hell; we had no business being there. It was a complex, composed of four immense structures, looming on the bluffs between Lake Michigan and a ghost town. I'm not sure which side of the fence brought forth more eeriness - the sight of four massive industrial skeletons was indeed an eerie one, but within the village that must endure it's haunting presence persists a dwindling heartbeat... and together they produced a heightened effect of slow decay - and that was what drew me in.
The place was magnificent day or night.
By day, we'd explore the groundworks while the light allowed us to admire the massive machinery, which by then had accumulated copious amounts of corrosion. All those dead giants, never to function again. In the spring time, beams of light would penetrate the ceiling above, caving in from years of stress sans stress tests. Even when the light was not shining through, one could make out where the beams have been because in their wake they left a trail of life. Up to that point in my life I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever seen - a thousand tons of old machinery, and a stubborn sunbeam poking through, incubating it's au natural industrialized chia pet.
By night, we would ascend to the rooftops of these four story horror stories and gaze up at the stars. Sometimes, when our ***** were feeling particularly swelled, we'd venture across the rooftops as if in some post-apocalyptic videogame. And sometimes when we were feeling a bit rebellious and artistic, we'd bring along some cans of spray paint and redecorate to our desire. Oh, and another reason the place reeked of death was surely due to it being a glue factory... wherein horses were killed in order to gain access to their foot-stuff. I was told by an unfortunate local that they'd bury the unwanted horse parts in big pits back behind the place... this man had told me that he fell into one while wandering around back there - nearly died trying to get out.
We knew the place was soon to be leveled, but we did not know when. Eventually I ended up moving out of state for a while, and alas, upon my return my childhood fascination was no more. shrugs... So it goes.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
In the short story, "The Rocking-Horse Winner" written by D.H. Lawrence, the young boy, Paul, associates luck with wealth and bets large amounts of money on the soon-to-be winning horses. His family is extremely wealthy but can barely afford to keep up to their title. What is one thing that society does not know yet the children do about the mother? They know that their mother does not love her own children. She gives them everything they need and want except for one thing. And that one thing they do need is love. One knows love by the look in their eyes. It is much more difficult to lie with eyes than with words and actions. She is materialistic and adores money and extravagance. I think we all agree that the mother is oblivious to her situation. How are we not like the mother? The truth is, we are exactly like the mother. She doesn't realize that love is not a number, money or products but that love is looking into one's eyes and showing true affection. We are in complete illusion that wealth leads to happiness. We think the same thoughts when the more we have, the more successful we may be however in reality, it is false. A perfect example is Black Friday. Companies, businesses and customers all decided to cut the Thanksgiving holiday to purchase more "stuff" to make them "happy". They decided to cut the time to spend with family, friends and relatives to spend for themselves and others. Who is the villain in the story? Most believe villains are a something or a someone who prevents the "good guy" from achieving their goal, also known as an antagonist, however the villain in this story cannot be seen, touched, smelled or even tasted. It can only be spoken and heard of. It is an imaginative villain. It is merely the manipulation of the mind of the misconception that luck is associated with wealth. This begins the entire issue with obsession and materialism. I'm sure we all agree that luck is something that happens to you without you possibly deserving or expecting it. But what is luck when others are given it? For example, if a random stranger gives your friend $100, another $1,000, but gave you only $20. Would you still feel lucky? Well, in all honesty it all depends on our circumstances, which then determine our values. Shouldn't it be reversed where our values determine our circumstances?
In the end, over the many years of bets and deference, Paul has been riding his rocking horse to find the true winner and to find luck.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
AALI DIWALI
Excitement already there is in the atmosphere, our very air!!!
Goodies, gifts, flowers, lights we wish to, with dear ones, now share.
As citizens good, let's also exhibit some environment friendly care.
Banish Chinese items, I will, because I care for my India n also dare !
Use let us earthen Diyas, decorated in hand; Beautiful ones, beyond compare !
Candles Beautiful can be made or bought n decorated in a bright way.
Colourful Rangoli let us make with organic compounds, indigenous n rare.
Designs, with colours innumerous, one can create if one has a flair.
Same way, why pay so much to buy torn jeans, buy let's a decent traditional pair.
Traditional dresses so colourful are and look pretty n (no wrong meaning) gay.
Pizza, pasta, pastries boycott; try laddu, chakri or Khaja jo mawa se hei bhare.
Instead of flowers, gift Bamboo or money plants or other saplings; what say ?
Gift let us, things made in India. From China, let's willingly sway away !
"Aali Diwali" but create let us noise n smoke less. we must on this, an emphasis lay.
Innovative one can be, using imagination vivid to cute gifts make; n less amounts pay.
No WA, try and visit Grandparents, Mama, Kaka, Aatya, Maushi, is all I have to say !!!
HAPPY WALI DIWALI.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
Stupidity is a virus infecting and injecting large amounts of people at a time. He moves through minds with impeccable speed. Some people, no matter the treatments they receive will never recover. For is an Exodus with has the power to ****** masses. He is a force with the ability abolish revolutions and silence movements. Stupidity is chronic, never truly going away, always lurking in shadows waiting to attack. He is a survivor against all odds. Stupidity is perpetually kicking and screaming, fighting to remain the echo of humanity. Refusing to be ignored and never promising to stay quiet. Stupidity lives on amongst Gods and Kings, continuing to rule with an iron fist.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
And love is really important,
even if just for one night.
It can chase away your biggest fears,
it can get your through your toughest fight.
Don't let society make you feel cheap
for only needing love in small, temporary amounts.
Your value as a person
isn't derived from your *** partner count.
Don't let them make you feel ***** or small,
because some of us need this to survive.
The night of love we get from strangers,
we use just to stay alive.
Because relationships can be messy,
and hearts are so easily broken.
But through nights of whisky and hotel rooms,
we find words of peace that were never spoken.
And some of us don't have hearts,
as they were stolen long ago.
From men called "Dad"
and men in suits,
and men who we've never known.
And maybe the word **** makes the people feel okay.
This type of labeling has been going on since the Biblical days.
Maybe it makes them feel better about their own sinful ways.
Maybe when the Earth crumbles, they'll have a price to pay.
Because they don't know what it's like to be empty for so long,
That the thought of being full terrifies you.
They don't know that you'd rather be wrong,
than risk the pain that being right can put you through.
But I do, my dear.
For I am one of you.
I've felt closer to heaven in the arms of strangers
than I ever have kneeling on a pew.
I know what you dream of, darling.
I know that you dream of lasting and healing love.
I know that you feel prisoner by your demons,
I know you hope for a sign from above.
Don't let the world bother you much.
I understand you; I know you're doing your best.
For now, it's okay to find comfort in a stranger's touch,
to let love fall from your mouth.
To let pain flow from of your chest.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
AALI DIWALI
Excitement already there is in the atmosphere, our very air!!!
Goodies, gifts, flowers, lights we wish to, with dear ones, now share.
As citizens good, let's also exhibit some environment friendly care.
Banish Chinese items, I will, because I care for my India n also dare !
Use let us earthen Diyas, decorated in hand; Beautiful ones, beyond compare !
Candles Beautiful can be made or bought n decorated in a bright way.
Colourful Rangoli let us make with organic compounds, indigenous n rare.
Designs, with colours innumerous, one can create if one has a flair.
Same way, why pay so much to buy torn jeans, buy let's a decent traditional pair.
Traditional dresses so colourful are and look pretty n (no wrong meaning) gay.
Pizza, pasta, pastries boycott; try laddu, chakri or Khaja jo mawa se hei bhare.
Instead of flowers, gift Bamboo or money plants or other saplings; what say ?
Gift let us, things made in India. From China, let's willingly sway away !
"Aali Diwali" but create let us noise n smoke less. we must on this, an emphasis lay.
Innovative one can be, using imagination vivid to cute gifts make; n less amounts pay.
No WA, try and visit Grandparents, Mama, Kaka, Aatya, Maushi, is all I have to say !!!
HAPPY WALI DIWALI.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
Welcome to the con! The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.
He's no doctor. And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful
thing in this diatribe of mine). He used the doctor moniker to
sell more books!
That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green
Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,
Sam I Am.
It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"
how to sell book disguised as children's literature.
And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a
sale. He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***
"Would you eat them in a box? Would
you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
them with a goat. Would you eat them on a
boat". Would you eat green eggs and ham,
would you eat them Sam I Am?
Dr. Seuss
And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.
I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more
than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's
seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that
Sam I Am is pushing so hard. Here are some of the ingredients
he may or may not have found.
Ham -- 30 grams of sugar (questionable )
-- 15 grams of caffeine (untested)
Green eggs -- Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
-- Handfuls of ******* (rumored)
As you can see, It's not an exact science.
People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to
warn you that your food has gone bad.
But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green
eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it. Maybe the books lesson
is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or
never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and
evil in the book. I have to think that way. Because after all -- I'm
Willoughby !!
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
This is a story of a very loving girl who let her love take her all over the world. A man once convinced her that she was unworthy, and when he threw her out, she left in a hurry. She never looked back and scurried through the states until she found home at her families gates.
Once that man hurt her, she wanted to help others. She gave nothing but love and she nurtured as a mother. Some people accepted the love that she gave and they seemed to love her back so she decided to stay.
The girl fell in love with being loved and got carried away. She ran around experiencing love - every second, each day. Eventually she got herself into a pickle; her heart was strong but her mind, very fickle. She could never belong to only one because she felt she should be there for everyone.
After all of the people that came and went, she never once forgot the time that was spent. The stories, those moments, the love that was shared; she gave out so much love that her heart became bare. She endured great amounts of emotional ware, with some physical injuries that gave doctors a scare. She became very careless with everyone soon and discarded them after they'd been in her bedroom.
Please don't be mislead, the ending is bad, it's another love story with an ending quite sad. After all of the loving and hurting was done, she took a step back to see what she'd become. Much to her dismay she was seemingly **** for the lovers she loved once, had all come undone.
An ugly society, to which she'd finally succumb, molded her into the person from which all this begun. Who knows if you're reading or listening now, but she wants you to know what you've done. Take a bow.
kd
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC