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"chortled" poems
It’s 6:15pm. Peter, Anna, Sophy and I are studying in the common room of our suite. “We need to get serious,” Peter whispered, but there was no subject in the declaration, so I was left confused and uncommitted, “about getting serious,” he clarified. “I’m not sure I can get serious about a guy who doesn’t separate whites and darks in the laundry,” I say, gently. “No,” he said, shaking his head in brief vibration, “we need to get serious about DINNER.” “Oh!” I said, maybe a little too relieved. “Ha!” He chortled, “YOU overthink everything!” He said, nodding his head up and down to prove it was true. “And speaking of laundry,” he continued, seeing me start to open my mouth, “the other night YOU asked me if your pastel purple ******* should go with the whites or darks - so I must be an EXPERT!” I laughed at the idea of his laundry expertise, sailing in from out of the purple like that, it was haywire. “Well,” I said, becoming introspective, “I didn’t know you’d hold onto that question like a grudge,” I said, in quiet, wounded accusation, “from now ON, maybe you should stay as far away from my ******* as possible.” “What are you two grousing about NOW?” Anna asked, looking up from her computer. “You guys are like an old married couple.” “True THAT.” Sophie said, like a judge right before knocking her gavel to finalize a ruling. “We weren’t arguing!” I said, looking around confusedly. I looked at Peter, who was smiling broadly, “Were we?” “Nope,” he said, wrapping his arm around me in a bearhug, “we were flirting.”
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Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 2:43 PM UTC
pastel purple
It’s 6:15pm. Peter, Anna, Sophy and I are studying in the common room of our suite. “We need to get serious,” Peter whispered, but there was no subject in the declaration, so I was left confused and uncommitted, “about getting serious,” he clarified. “I’m not sure I can get serious about a guy who doesn’t separate whites and darks in the laundry,” I say, gently. “No,” he said, shaking his head in brief vibration, “we need to get serious about DINNER.” “Oh!” I said, maybe a little too relieved. “Ha!” He chortled, “YOU overthink everything!” He said, nodding his head up and down to prove it was true. “And speaking of laundry,” he continued, seeing me start to open my mouth, “the other night YOU asked me if your pastel purple ******* should go with the whites or darks - so I must be an EXPERT!” I laughed at the idea of his laundry expertise, sailing in from out of the purple like that, it was haywire. “Well,” I said, becoming introspective, “I didn’t know you’d hold onto that question like a grudge,” I said, in quiet, wounded accusation, “from now ON, maybe you should stay as far away from my ******* as possible.” “What are you two grousing about NOW?” Anna asked, looking up from her computer. “You guys are like an old married couple.” “True THAT.” Sophie said, like a judge right before knocking her gavel to finalize a ruling. “We weren’t arguing!” I said, looking around confusedly. I looked at Peter, who was smiling broadly, “Were we?” “Nope,” he said, wrapping his arm around me in a bearhug, “we were flirting.”
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11
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the maxome foe he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood a while in thought. As in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came. One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack. He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "Has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay! He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
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7.1k
Jabberwocky
Dripping *** she stood there, completely unaware That every man about her had turned around to stare. For in her nubile innocence and when her red lips smiled She was causing utter mayhem as distracted drivers piled. The Postmen stopped delivering, Policemen stood agape, Conductors missed their trolleybus and Superman his cape! …And as she sashayed down the street leaving bedlam in her wake And all the while her red high heels were causing earth to shake, Perambulating gracefully, impossibly demure, She sauntered down the causeway, with a loveliness so pure. Whilst just behind and following, a ravenous hot mob Of nature’s gift to manhood, all slavering at the gob. Quite suddenly with a swish of skirt she swirled about and laughed At the frozen apparition there immobile and aghast. Acutely frozen with embarrassment at having looked so ****** absurd They all dispersed their different ways without a single word. “Bye boys” she chortled, with a devilment in play With flick of skirt and toss of hair she turned and walked away. Ha! Marshalg Laughing to myself at the silly old mating game we play. Pukehana Paradise 14 April 2013
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Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
Lipstick & High Heels
There's something so delicious about getting caught in a summer storm, the chilled water droplets penetrating the outer layers of clothing, soaking the overheated body with unexpected refreshment. I heard all the squeals and screams, cries toward the sky to close its open mouth, to stop spitting down on them as they ran, ducking cars, looking for a rooftop makeshift umbrella. I chortled not so discreetly, extending my arms side to side to catch the droplets on my bare skin. The rain felt so **** as it slid down my forehead, slipping slowly across my lips, sneaking down below, into the crew cut of my shirt. Two blocks away from home, most of the runners had run by, the rest huddling below the entrance to various shops and bars, I walked by, paying the stares no mind, sporting a purported half-crazed look, while I truly exuded exuberance, ebullience, liveliness. The pouring turned to pittering, pattering, gentle kisses from the beads, letting up just as I approached my door, like the universe knew, and it let me dance home in the rain before the sky shut its wide-toothed grin, and the storm was gone.
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Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
Stormy
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought-- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One two! One two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
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Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 8:48 AM UTC
From Through the Looking-Glass, 1871
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
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Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:47 PM UTC
JABBERWOCKY Lewis Carroll (from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
I used to be a mover. I ran, and danced, and climbed trees. If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.   I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass. I did not question, I just did. I used to say things. I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity. I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.   People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen. My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real. I used to laugh more. Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee. It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.   It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room. I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed. I used to get lost in things. In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books. I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there, and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one. I felt so disheartened when I found my way again. I used to create. I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time. It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.   A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster. I believed the only things you own, are the things you make. Now I am uncertain. Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent. Now I only move with a destination in mind.   I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                                     I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.   The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words. Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time. Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed. And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you. But now. Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought. The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company. I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn. I will not sleep tonight.
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Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
I used to be a Mover
I used to be a mover. I ran, and danced, and climbed trees. If I saw somethng I wanted, I reached for it, worked for it, or asked an adult to get it for me.   I would fidget and squirm at the dinner table and in Mass. I did not question, I just did. I used to say things. I sang, rhymed and questioned with impunity. I behaved as though everyone was hanging on my every word.   People were constantly telling me to be quiet.  I made them listen. My voice connected me to the world, it proved I was real. I used to laugh more. Giggled, chortled and chuckled with glee. It was my first reaction to anything new and novel.   It bubbled out of me, tickling my throat as it filled the room. I measured the worth of a day by how much I had laughed. I used to get lost in things. In the fields, in untying knots, in books, especially in books. I deliberately took wrong turnings just to see what was there, and hid under my bed with a book and a torch and spoke to no one. I felt so disheartened when I found my way again. I used to create. I crafted, sketched and wrote for hours at a time. It just poured from my fingertips.  It was only completed when the smile came.   A bright, beaming smile, bursting out of me.  I would burn with furious pride over 8 lines of mispelled rhymes about a purple monster. I believed the only things you own, are the things you make. Now I am uncertain. Tentative, unsure, and above all; Silent. Now I only move with a destination in mind.   I am economical and perfunctory with my movements.                                                                     I don't know how to use words anymore, the language has changed.   The pen feels uncomfortable in my hand, while I agonise over the exact right words. Being lost frightens me, and seems like a waste of time. Creating things (non-edible things) are just extra pieces of baggage you must carry around.  Pointless and deflating, they chew their way into every part of your brain to fester and breed. And people know when you've got poems gnawing your thoughts, and they will instantly distrust you. But now. Right now, as I near the end of this train of thought. The Mover awakens within me.  I smile and crave company. I have a sudden yearning to once again take a wrong turn. I will not sleep tonight.
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39
Unkulunkulu arose from combusting reeds, Conjured snaking kalaidoscopes to colour the bony landscape. He summoned oozing crocodiles, Mud encrusting their jagged rinds whilst the newly vomited sun pummels it to solidity. Then seeds descended from Nzame's hands, Scattering, he watched the devil strive to swallow the sun with his eager muzzle, only thwarted as Kamui’s crow flew down his throat: Kamui and Aionia chortled smoke as he retched. Then, the first peoples. Their frail bodies of earth, chickweed for hair, Willow spines that would bend when they turned old. Sandals sprung into leather squirrels, Tarantulas span cord webs to create the earth-ball, supported by posts to stop it rolling, Steadied, it rotates: a roasting world on a spit.
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Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:46 PM UTC
Myths From Africa
Haunted ghosts host our waking hours during sleep they transport us to places indescribable by human words. The ghosts lean on door posts watching us, remembering their corporeal selves Wanting to be warm blooded again. Orchid scented air announce their presence Morbid thoughts clog our senses Do we remember them? Do we want to remember them? They are dead, long departed Long deported off this realm. Halted thoughts gloat at our minds How those haunted ghosts once chortled, fondled, and dawdled along. Long dead; these ghosts are haunted Not by us the living, but the memories of them we bring.
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Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
Haunted Ghosts
'Twas brillig and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand Long time the manxome foe he sought- So rested he by Tumtum tree And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwocky, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with it's head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves And the mome raths outgrabe. -Lewis Carroll
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Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
The Jabberwocky
*She was a stray spot of Sun in a Winter garden Snow clinging to life in the shaded April - woodland , a precocious Sparrow that chortled - in the Spring morning mist , a naked hardwood - awakened to the curious mountain wind , then disappeared*....
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May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
Deception ...
RECORD: ****** KILLER FROGMAN: TALKING HEArDS . . . He went down the steps and walked backwards into the desert; three-tree places, two-tree. The back door of The Lab Tor open and they foiled out. He cried out. They fell in squacks, they fell crackwards, they tumblrd over The Word into the data. The instruments were empty and they chortled at him, trains-frogrified into a thought and a mind, and he stood . . . his body far away and absent, letting his words do their re-inking tic. Could he hold up a hand, and tell them he had spent ninetbeen thousand years learning this tic and others, tell them of the instruments and the words that had tested them? Not with his mouth. But his read deadhead could tell its own blue taile . [. . You do not thrill with your mouth. One who thrills with their mouth has forgotten the cage of their selfse. You thrill with your throughts. .] -- Stephen King, Frogman . . I realized I was Laughing. I had been crying all along . } -- Roland Deschain, Tacky Frogman's Frogman Magenta: You thrilled them?                 But I thought you shneeded them.                 They shneeded you. Riff Raff: THEY DIDN'T SHNEED ME!                THEY NEVER SHNEEDED ME! STOP: TURN THOUGHT
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Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
The Letter-Ing: thrill'em with laughter
The usual crew down at Mary's Cafe, Slurping coffee over hash browns and eggs, Weather too nice now for comments. Bill clears his throat to say the grass is getting long, And the pastor was out mowing yesterday. "I tried to get my old Sears mower running, But no go," he griped. "Took it to the shop." Tom cleared his throat and looked at Bill. We all knew what was coming. Tom prides himself in handy manning, And waxes on and on to us poor fools. "Did you clean the plug?" "Was your filter clean?" Bill was in the hot seat now, And we were being entertained. "I checked 'em both, that wasn't it," Said Bill. "It don't make sense, 'Cause it was running When I put it in the shed last fall!" Tom chortled then, an expert in his glee... "Well, then it's obvious, Bill! If it was running when you put it in the shed, It's out of gas!" At that point, I burned my mouth, Spit hot coffee on my food, and gasped for air. I wouldn't miss these breakfasts for the world.
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Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
Lawn Mowers in Spring
He fell away with his uffish head all full and he bought what we couldn’t buy him and he didn’t buy what we swallowed whole or at least he sold it back or gave it away for vorpal heresies & novel fascinations And just like we taught him to ride the red a few swipes away from bankruptcy and desolation but welcome and chortled to fail if that’s easier for now than climbing the Tumtum tree or trying to make it in this world well fed - given all to eat and truly loved It’s curious how the rain gyred down today and stopped and came again and stopped because the cadence of his windshield wipers seemed to coincide with the crankier parts: only working when there’s nothing left to wipe We don’t even give two ***** if a Jubjub bird falls dead and he whiffles away, sword between his legs (though that is dangerous) and the beast escapes. He can eat the **** bird for all we care, but for sustenance, not triumph But our son is still lost; he’s frabjously writhing in the tulgey fiber of disappointment unable to slay even the puniest of borogoves His melancholy surpasses all comprehension and he isn’t coming home any time soon He’s not galumphing back. What use is a mimsy rhyme to the famished? How often are we warned, beamishly chastised of the brillig peril of worrying ourselves with feeding the slithy soul when the body burbles, always demands to eat first and is satisfied by no less than the frumious flesh of the fatted calf?
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Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
What Manxome Foes
Gift my Heart Oh diminutive finch. once you chortled gleefully, cutestuck in my happy compliment sky. Do I forgive your migration? You flighty fuzzball! vacating briskly, frigidly the premeditated enclosure perfectly designed for your every need. your obdurate flight left perfect circles of Hollow (spaces eating my gaze, like black holes ravaging stars) No, I am too imbecilic. You left breadcrumbs trailing from the Candy House- and I intend not to be eaten. could not I come, however? [you are a soft word of extra cream and when I think upon you I cannot keep pretending that I would have you stay anymore than I would trade your laugh for any other flecked miracle] Thus I am resolved. I shall be your migration. The knife of your eagle glimpse shall perceive nothing without my invisible acquiescence. your talons shall clutch with the strength of my most bashful beam Oh my reddest-tailed raptor! as you hunt and fish the wildernesses I mustn’t trample, I will draft your flight, But only, my mellow heron, If you promise to leave me a feather, with which to heavy my heart.
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Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
XXI.
8 cops possibly 15 or 16 police officers 1 persona, the 45s scratched and repeating From the south, no From Asia, how Certainly some western flare Sheeeeeesssshhhhh 16 or 17 officers, why is it repeating, Repealed, ok. Idk, one single actual law But several piggy's with lights off Chortled many brave pedalers Just down by the shoe store All of them will fit a persona Try a pear, chew it and sip on some well water I will never smoke indoors, not enough space for the frame But what works, is a story by Dumbo. That dang chewy elephante.
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Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
Works by Dumbo
A pair of lungs walked into a bar and inhaled the tobacco smoke. Moments ago the smoke had risen drunk before stumbling into the pair. The bartender snickered, chortled Which infuriated the lungs. The lungs coughed up some tar. They spat on her face then walked out.
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Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
A Pair of Lungs Walked Into a Bar
‘How quaint,’ remarked Mistress Hora as she turned the afternoon on its head, ‘that you would consider time to be a linear construct.’ ‘Positively post-historic,’ agreed Master O’Clock, nodding his head in perfect synchrony with the orchestra that played inside his ear. Today was Waltzday (or so he had named it), an interminable reminder that atomic metronomes particularly those of Viennese manufacture were not to be trifled with. ‘Be assured, my dears, that this fancy is a passing one and exists only as a fleeting extemporaneous distraction,’ our Mistress continued. The first year students breathed a collective sigh of relief. ‘Now, I want no clumping, no running ahead, and NO helical improvisation. When yesterday’s fish and chips come wrapped in tomorrow’s newspaper it gives our school a most unfortunate reputation.’ The class chortled as one. ‘Most importantly, please remember to take your pocket guide.’ I reached for my bedraggled copy of _The Theory of Chronometrical Fluidity: Compressed Edition_ and wrung the pages out. I had failed badly at applied clepsydrics and my cousin Widget wasn’t letting me forget it. From behind the glass, I spotted her playing a furtive game of Gregorian and by the look on her face February was winning. I blew her a lemniscate to grab her attention. She scowled, looked up from her losing streak and giggled when she saw me spiralling in her direction. ‘Good luck,’ she spiralled back. Miss Hora flexed her wrist and glanced at her temporal transponder. ‘You will be marked on cuneiformity, consistency, and rate of continuance. Now be off with you. Tempus fugit!’ With a flick of her bejangled fingers she opened the S.A.N.D. grates. I held my breath and jumped.
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Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 5:03 PM UTC
Mistress Hora Teaches S.A.N.D. Witches To Spool
‘How quaint,’ remarked Mistress Hora as she turned the afternoon on its head, ‘that you would consider time to be a linear construct.’ ‘Positively post-historic,’ agreed Master O’Clock, nodding his head in perfect synchrony with the orchestra that played inside his ear. Today was Waltzday (or so he had named it), an interminable reminder that atomic metronomes particularly those of Viennese manufacture were not to be trifled with. ‘Be assured, my dears, that this fancy is a passing one and exists only as a fleeting extemporaneous distraction,’ our Mistress continued. The first year students breathed a collective sigh of relief. ‘Now, I want no clumping, no running ahead, and NO helical improvisation. When yesterday’s fish and chips come wrapped in tomorrow’s newspaper it gives our school a most unfortunate reputation.’ The class chortled as one. ‘Most importantly, please remember to take your pocket guide.’ I reached for my bedraggled copy of _The Theory of Chronometrical Fluidity: Compressed Edition_ and wrung the pages out. I had failed badly at applied clepsydrics and my cousin Widget wasn’t letting me forget it. From behind the glass, I spotted her playing a furtive game of Gregorian and by the look on her face February was winning. I blew her a lemniscate to grab her attention. She scowled, looked up from her losing streak and giggled when she saw me spiralling in her direction. ‘Good luck,’ she spiralled back. Miss Hora flexed her wrist and glanced at her temporal transponder. ‘You will be marked on cuneiformity, consistency, and rate of continuance. Now be off with you. Tempus fugit!’ With a flick of her bejangled fingers she opened the S.A.N.D. grates. I held my breath and jumped.
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5
She said she will bring us at the top The only person who encouraged me the most Someone said people changes with time But i refused and didn't believed this line When the judgement day came Standing there with hope i was the only one The result was announced With shock and sorrow i sat down Tears came into my eyes I felt like my heart, my trust all were stolen But i was again standing there with a courage and believe in my heart Leaving all that i heard apart I told her this was not the result that i expected She looked at me and chortled I tried to burst my anger on her But she left She left but i was standing there With a broken heart that can never cared Is all my mistake was that i believed someone This is the reason that why i am in despair
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Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
broken belief
a ****** dint of silence was bulbous in a long fettered common that thrashed calmly hues of slippery wind being largely small the city chortled deeply and it was barely exploding with rapturous clinging a loose sheet of normal night ?
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Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
Untitled
In this never ending tunnel darker than night Is where I found myself after taking flight Those gruesome looking creatures with sulphuric smell Have forced their way into my wishing well Should I call it forced snuck or stolen Fact is I didn't notice the wound till it was swollen Swollen itchy and overflowing with pus That's when I started to make a fuss Or at least I made an attempt For of healing that wound I could only have dreamt The beings teased, chortled and jested If I fussed too much, true colors manifested I couldn't think of an escape plan These were beings and I was just human Their brains are superior and I'm not smart Knowing this left me downcast
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Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC
Untitled
A man named Lonely walked down the soft beach, hand in hand with his wife Vainglory. The opulent sun slowly rested lower and lower on the horizon, Seagulls swooped, children chortled. Sand blew around their ankles and empty pleasantries filled the air. Lonely and Vainglory could talk for hours yet say nothing. Waves flirted with the Earth, and Earth flirted right back, clouding the water with clumps of tumbling sand. Hand in hand they both wandered elsewhere. Bodies together, minds distant. So beautiful Vainglory was. She knew it, he knew it. Every morning Lonely reminded her, telling her, charming her. It was habit. Taking it for granted, smiling blankly, in one ear out the other. Coexistence, habit, kelp. She stepped on the head of a bull kelp, popping under her weight. The acrid smell, buzzing flies, salty air returned him to the present. Still walking. Talking. Looking back, their footprints in the sand danced around each other, light on their toes, skirting the ebbing waves filling them in. As their steps fade, he wonders if they can find their way back. Hand in hand they trod onward. -AM
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Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
A Man Named Lonely
Last night I dreamt that Charles Bukowski chortled at my attempts to be brilliant. He laughed so hard he creased the ominous glow of the moon in two, leaving little light for me to find my way out of the **** dream. I was stuck for hours. Going round and round and round and round. Until suddenly I woke. A thin veil of hope slicing through the blinds, But I did not want to open them. The sick part of me regretted waking up at all.
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Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Dark dreams
We met my sophomore year This I shall never regret, It started when we ran across that field With you on my back, Laughed we did as we chortled with joy Everyone laught....... We did not care My feelings grew for you Our bond grew close, We became best friends Friends forever I still hope, My love grew stronger, As the year grew longer, I helped you up when you were down Decided not you did to push me around, I carried you to class In my arms as you wept, I wiped your tears, This I'll never forget, Then one day you met a girl, You chose her over me That day you destroyed my world Loved you more than a brother I did My love lasted longer than you would have known Yet she took you from me For this I was heartbroke......... I told you off, Hurt you I did, Please know I didn't mean to say All that was said....... And please know Jeremy I'm sorry for what I'd done Will you find it in your heart to forgive me My rising sun......
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Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Jeremy