"compilation" poems
It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.
When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.
The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.
The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.
Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.
I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?
Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.
Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room
Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries
Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?
Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
'you've felt it, haven't you? those feelings that seem to get so big in your chest, like something is so beautiful it aches.' - Heather Anastasiu
'you have a place in my heart no one else ever could have.' - F. Scott Fitzgerald
'i knew he didn't love me, but i adored him anyway.' - Patti Smith
'i like people with depth, i like people with emotion, i like people with a strong mind, an interesting mind, a twisted mind, and also people that can make me smile.' - Abbey Lee Kershaw
'most days i wish i never met you because then i could sleep at night and i wouldn't have to walk around with the knowledge there was someone like you out there.' - Good Will Hunting
'i have a million things to talk to you about. all i want in this world is you. i want to see you and talk. i want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.' -Haruki Murakami
'i love you in that crazy, stupid, i want to rip your throat out and kiss you at the same time love.
that love where it's so overwhelming i hate you for making me feel so vulnerable.
that love that takes over your mind and i end up thinking about you so much i drive myself into complete and utter insanity.
that love which where i put my heart on my sleeve, took everything you could throw at me and still loved you with the little pieces you left.
the love that i'll tell my kids about, the 'what if' kind of love, the one i'll never forget.
the love of my life.
that's the way i love you.' - Chippylou
'i am holding your name
underneath my tongue
in case you ask me
to make my favorite
sound.' - Stolenwine
'i need to rip your
name off my tongue;
it no longer taste
sweet. - a.w.k.jones
'i keep thinking you already know. i keep thinking i've sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind.' - Iain Thomas
'i guess what scares me the most is knowing that at any moment, you could rip my heart out of my chest, tear it into pieces, throw it on the ground and stomp all over it. and that i'd just pick it up and hand it back to you.'
'i romanticized you
to the point where
the knives you pressed
into my skin
began to look
like cupid's arrows.'
'i'll never be busy enough to not miss you.' - m.k
'i never really liked
my name
much
until i found out
what it tastes like
when you sigh it
into my
mouth'.
'i have tried to let you go and i cannot. i cannot stop thinking of you. i cannot stop dreaming about you.' - Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus
'your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.' - Hafiz, Persian poet, "Your Mother and My Mother"
'she hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years.' - Julia Quinn
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Your not just beautiful.
I see you every time I look up.
The star that shines it's brightest.
Filling my life.
The moon lit like a dream.
And forever I stare.
Listening to the silence.
Awaken by a soft light I know it's you.
I can feel your touch hovering about.
Counting the steps until our arms leave our side.
The possibility of traveling from one sphere to the next.
Our eyes but dots in wait.
The question of rockets and big bangs.
The essence of time interlocked between our fingers.
With no room left to breathe, our rocket becomes continuous.
With you, a compilation of light.
Is there any question to why my arms stretch as far as they do.
I gravitate to you, the most beautiful chaos I've ever seen.
To be the space you fill in infinite devotion.
Your not just beautiful, your astonishingly out of this world.
Our arms no longer by our side. the rocket pierces the stratosphere.
We explode internally
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
Violin sonatas of gloom
Acoustics of desire
Play all at once
A peculiar compilation
An elegy of sorts
For yours truly
Welcome to life
Soak up the unrealised potential
Inflamed with rage
To this day
You walk this earth
With a strong conviction
You owe yourself something
You cannot deliver
Extreme self-expectations
Coupled with perfectionism
The fatal modus operandi
You continue adhering to
Goodluck with standing in the way
Of your own happiness
Thrive in your concentrated negativity
While seeking solace in one-liners
Of absolute ********
You maybe a joke
But you are hilarious
Oh, wait.. the joke wore thin
A dozen punchlines ago
You died 12 summers ago
It’s whatever
One day bitter and wilted
As you sit in a cold impersonal office
You will dream about the ocean
And mourn wasted youth
Today will be yesterday
Today is ruined
Tomorrow is dead.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
I went to see her.
The skinny doctor lady.
She tested my blood.
She tested my mind,
While waiting for the blood test.
Severely depressed.
I knew that, of course.
I have known since I was nine.
Just confirmation.
I told her my pain.
That all-over, horrid pain.
Everywhere. Always.
Fibromyalgia.
Silent, Invisible Pain.
It makes so much sense.
The blood tests came back.
Her drawn-in eyebrows furrowed.
I'm diabetic.
She looked so worried.
I am nearly anemic.
What else could go wrong?
Dejected, she said
I can't have children. Ever.
I am broken now.
Invisible pain.
Emotional. Physical.
No death to stop it.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
I spend my love on you
like pennies tossed into empty fountains of youth -
like loose change loyally saved,
built up in a piggy bank,
a compilation of broken promises you never made
becoming blood clots in my lungs.
I would say they're in my heart
but I can't breathe when I see her.
Tax season is over and my savings continue
to drain -
they sit at your doorstep
waiting to be cashed in
for what I thought was an investment
but has become a liquidation of my entire being.
Empty wallets haven't caught wind of my addiction,
but the pennies on the ground talk.
Found heads down, I give them a voice,
and they, too, drown with the rest.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Collection of characteristics
that the outside world
deems desirable:
empathy,
gentleness,
sensitivity,
the ability to love
deeply, madly.
Yet,
from where I stand,
the view is bleak,
for having a heart that
is big
means that it is
a hundred times more likely
to be punctured.
I wonder
how many times
my soul can
take these blows
before it withers
into
nothingness.
My body aches
of a perceived emptiness
that is
grossly
full of
an echoing,
resounding compilation
of disappointment,
anger,
and despair;
and though I am sad
in the free flowing of
my own bitter words,
I breathe in a jagged breath,
heave a large sigh,
and succumb to my
self-induced
anesthesia
as my big heart
is transplanted
with some smaller,
colder *****
that is not
riddled
with
pain
and
dismay.
I want to be
small,
simple,
average,
for there is nothing
to be desired
in anguish,
and I now
find myself
writhing in
envy of
those who possess
the gift
of
apathy.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Golden shimmers
Bright lights
The finer things in life
Waves crashing
Thoughts mashing
Finding out the unknown
Artist adventures
Musical excavations
Silver stars
Forever scars
Choosing your path
Mistakes made
Forgiving gaze
Monumental discovers
Shooting guns
Bright burning sun
Death of friend
Holding on til the end
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 1:50 AM UTC
Blue is not sure where to find the propeller.
The motor boat sent to scotch the shimmer. The waves
break inside a jar, and the little pieces are swept up by the wind and made into mist.
The Jar is shaken, the titanic sinks,
and the seagulls peck at our eyes.
Covered in barnacles, the new-found fish men
wander onto the sand and get coated,
as in cornmeal,
ready to fry.
Infatuated and floundering
they wander
to water again.
Drinking death hand over fist,
they ring themselves out with simply a twist.
The fish flap their fins so forcefully;
trying to
be flying to
a sea called the sky.
With a crumbled-ed crust they say, “motherboat or bust”,
but the navigation of aviation is a compilation of great frustration
for fishes whose function
is on boats, wrapped up
in those silly greatcoats.
Yet they made it, or so they claim, and with only one flounder or flunder who had made a blunder to blame.
If only old skipper had been a bit quicker, he wouldn't have had such a queer story to claim.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Lately, I've seen poems trending about how no one should fall in love with a poet, nor should they make a poet helplessly fall in love with them. However, something no one has mentioned yet is what occurs too often: stealing from a poet.
When a poet writes a poem, that poem is the perfect combination of metaphors and imagery created by them for you -- a compilation so beautifully intricate that you can get lost by reading merely a few words, overtaken by an empathetic tide that you did not think would come to the corners of your eyes when you sat down and opened your book or tab or paper.
This is the beauty of poems; they express words that many cannot say in any other variation of any way. Ask a poet to describe their emotions and they will beg you for paper and pen, a computer and a keyboard. And these poems eventually combine to become a part of the poet.
The poems a poet writes become a part of themselves.
That being said, it is not okay to take away from a poet what is rightfully theirs. You do not steal from a poet because you are searching for an idea, or because you would like to go trending. Stealing is not poetry. Stealing is not beautiful.
We are a community of people with a love more affable for poetry than for ourselves, and we should all respect all the pieces, because if we do then we are accepting and respecting each other.
So I ask you from the bottom of my heart, do not steal from a poet any longer if you have, or at all if you have not. Your pieces are your own raw emotions, not mine. My pieces are my own raw emotions, not yours.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
i couldn't stop looking at this girl. i glanced down at my black leather jacket, black v-neck, ripped blue jeans, and black boots with the buckles on the side. i popped my collar and set out to find the girl i'd just found. i noticed the lights of this weird indie club i'd somehow ended up in. this music isn't normal "club" music. it's all arctic monkeys. the lyrics of these songs empowered me, i felt as though i had to continue my search for this soul. despite the darkness, i slid on my aviators to protect myself from those blinding lights, and also to give me a hint of mysteriousness. girls love that.
and then there she was.
sipping on what appeared to be a bottle of coke, but i couldn't tell because of the ******* sunglasses i was wearing. she was standing laughing with one of her friends. she had such a different aura to her. i couldn't help but watch as she pulled out one of her organic cigarettes.
"i wanna make her mine." i thought to myself.
the lights reflected off the sweat on the walls as i tried to keep my cool, strutting my way over to her, hoping to get her eyes to lock onto mine. from what i finally saw of her in plain sight, she had love in her eyes and perfect lighting over her; like a camera plus filter. she took drags of that cigarette like some kind of goddess, causing me to get weak at the knees and form a lump in my throat, which i soon managed to somehow swallow. i had to find out who she was. i wanted her more than i'd ever wanted anything, or at least so i recall. i played out the scene in my head - we'd dance, and numerous guys would approach her. it was hard not to. i'd overpower them. "she's with me.", i'd say cooly.
i didn't realize all this fantasizing about my mystery girl had taken me so little time, because by the time i was finished my train of thought, i was standing right in front of her. god, i wanted her so bad. i swear, if i looked at her long enough, she'd steal my soul. the love in her eyes was contradicted by the incredibly **** sparkle in her iris.
"hello there beautiful. you seem to be having a lovely time. you're absolutely breathtaking, i'm forced to believe you are a certified mind blower. what's your name, milady?"
with a turn of her head, a bat of her lashes, and a flash of her perfect smile, she answered me in the most angelic voice i've ever heard.
"arabella."
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
we are not the
embodiment of beauty,
despite the way
your
quips dance with
my vagary,
or how
our bones are trophies
built from the
same bits of shrapnel
from explosions,
forged by hands
who never learned
how to fashion empires
out of anything
but fragments,
no,
we are much more
than beautiful,
we are
isotopic, enigmatic,
we’re magnetic and
eclectic,
we are
the sum of all things,
a compilation, a mosaic,
we are a
memoir of the universe,
we are fate,
we’re algebraic,
we’re the intersection
of two lines
without a destination,
but
when i follow the trail of
freckles
up your spine,
i find the root
of my
elation
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Where the lines blur, and pages end
where I cannot see a future anymore
for us
where the light and darkness come
and pass as time, here it is only grey
inside
There used to be a window where
a sparrow hid at light-crack by the sill
and sang
shrilly in the morning, he would sing
calling in the light of God, he’d sing
for us
The silence has grown thick, shaved ragged
potential, daydreams posed as promises
sharp was the resonation of our love
sharp are vile weapons and words drawn
between us now
Betrayal finds its way upon my tongue
I’d spit it out before it turns to venom
I’d have to say you’re poison to me now
left with nothing but constriction and a
failing heart
Were you my elixir, but a count of days before?
How sweet the lily of the valley’s scent
how pure is her white compilation of
forever restfulness, the peaceful trickery
and death
I’d say it’s time to lay this love to rest
Place flowers at the feet of mounds of earth
seal the wound of expecting hearts, we were
bleeding fluid prayers upon the stones
Attempting to bring the dead
Back to life
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
from robin d. gill's fantastic Rise, Ye Sea Slugs!, a compilation of 1,000 Japanese Haiku on Sea Slugs
because sea slug
has no eyes, the poets
write about them
(eyeless especially seaslug's eyes haiku-in often see)
The Turtle's Translation of a Translation
A sea slug's eyes open
only in Haiku. Slugs
are blind in the water.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
I still think of you
when I hear a song that moves me
And wonder what it would follow
on the tape I wish I could make you.
This is the standing stone
on an emotional landscape
that has changed as fast as technology,
seen music shift from soulfood
to occasional backdrop
and solitary teenage bedrooms morph
to joyful family homes (thank God).
I wouldn't go back -
but here's a song, unexpected, blissful
which can't quite touch me as it should
Because I can't press 'record',
watch the reels go round
and imagine you listening
when the tape crosses the country
and fetches up at your front door.
No more padded envelopes
nor blotted biro liner notes;
no more declarations hidden in plain sight
in ninety minutes of love
I knew no other way to send.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
god stood by me, he hid in my pocket like a piece of amethyst
when i ran he turned into the forest to envelop me
his spirits became soft grasses, scented woods and colorful flower
The elderly woman in her garden in the early morning before the sun rises too high. She never sprays chemicals to get rid of the snails, instead she works and plants for and around them. This garden is to celebrate life, not to take it away. The wooden fence bordering her property is low and unoffensive enough to allow through woodland creatures who are never shooed away for taking a walk or a bite through the herbage. Perhaps she is atoning for a life of death and destruction. Or perhaps she is a saint.
They enjoyed things like making forts out of sticks and blankets and cardboard boxes and dressing up and going to the opera.
Memories, fresh like a wound.
Sometimes something so small. Going to the post office. A slideshow of post offices in my life. The disinfected paper smell, the lines of people waiting to mail a package, the solid colors of the interior, gray, black, white. A scrubby short haired black carpet, well worn.
I turned into a set of wings made out of crayon or colored pencil markings. As if pushed and pulled by the wind I stunned through the air, waving in the sunlight, pencil dashes of red and blue and purple. Like an animation from Reading Rainbow.
Thrown and tossed about like a lightweight wale in the sea. An enormous behemoth of grey and blue leaping like a kitten among the waves. It should be terrifying and would be if its teeth were any larger or sharper and if there was not such a happy gleam in its huge eye.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
Lisa Nelle
had two names
like a pornstar.
She'd put her makeup on and stick all this blackness on
under her eyes
like she was holding night
in bags.
We watched Hey Arnold! DVDs at five in the morning,
and smoked the whole place up.
Sometimes her and Alexis would go in the back room.
Alexis never liked me.
Lisa Nelle had this way of looking at you
where she'd take her eyes
and she'd work her way
down to your stomach.
She could find a star in my intestines,
a dwarf light could warble in my stomach
and she'd see it through my belly button.
She'd pull it out
wings and all
and tell me
that Khalil knew the answers.
Out of this two-ton purse she carried around,
she'd whip out a compilation of Khalil Gibran.
One time she told me how her father
used to pull her hair
and thighs.
She didn't say anything about it again.
When we tripped shrooms,
she took my hands and put them on her neck
and asked me to feel for the nebulas
underneath her skin.
When I read
some of the stuff you send me,
the emails,
texts
or poems,
I can't help but wonder how many words
I now know as a result of you
that I wouldn't know
if I hadn't been looking
around for bud
and someone I knew
that
knew you.
I'm sorry Lisa Nelle,
that things didn't work out with you and Alexis
when they did
with you
and
Sabrosa.
Sometimes I hate myself too.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Got me a dose of my own medicine and I can't stomach the taste.
I spit it out and let the virus run a muck throughout the place.
My mix-tapes are an act of meditation. A phonetic compilation. An auditory trepanation.
With a couple screws loose I'm beginning to know the drill,
And already the hole is on its way to being filled.
Though the void keeps my brain pulsing, still, as my self trepidation is yet to be fulfilled.
Winter is a stone-cold killer. I can feel its icy fingers groping the back of my skull.
Numbing the occipital lobe. Static. Gray. Snow. A visual forebode.
Neurotic overload.
Sparks flying and dying.
Light to dark.
Good to bad.
Duality deceased.
Appoint the next fad.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
4/3/15 6:09am - Missing you is worse than finding out 3 weeks later than the rest of my family that my grandmother has cancer, because my father "forgot" to tell me.
4/4/15 12:37pm - Missing you is like the tv special I watched when I was 8. I won't ever forget those conjoined twins who's operation failed. Or how the one who survived always reached for the other.
4/5/15 12:43pm - My god, missing you is so much harder than I thought it would be and it's been just two days. I've had constant drugs and sunrises. I'm so empty.
4/6/15 2:07pm - Missing you is driving all night to watch the sunrise but being too busy collecting shells you might like on the beach to look up at the sky.
4/7/15 4:11pm - Missing you is wishing I had the guts to jump.
4/19/15 3:59pm - Missing you doesn't make sense anymore but it comes much more naturally then walking or speaking or breathing.
7/6/15 5:09pm - I miss you.
7/15/15 6:46pm - Missing you feels like being told that my mom is leaving my stepdad weeks after it's happened and wondering when she'll admit to leaving me.
8/19/15 12:23am - Every night it all comes down to missing you from the bottom of a bottle or the passenger seat of a strange boys car.
10/1/2015 8:37am - I don't know when I stopped missing you. I guess maybe it was when you ****** my best friend. Or my other best friend. Or my other best friend. Maybe it was when you fell for her. When someone who knew nothing about you, didn't do everything I did for you, who can't even commit to you, was suddenly better for you than I ever was.
I don't know when I stopped missing you, but I miss missing you this morning. I miss missing you.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
To millions, he was an intellectual guide
A source of unconditional love
Indeed Dr Cephas George Msipa was a cherished comrade
For the seekers, he was a treasurer
For those suffering, his words gave them solace and comfort
He was an inspiration
Gone but not forgotten
The nation learnt your departure with shock
To Zimbabwean, you were a social economic and political guide
Without you the nation is left poorer
He was a socioeconomic guru,
A source of unrestricted love
For multitudes he was a dear friend
A friend of unusual depth and innocence
For academic seekers, he was a fortune
For the suffering, he was compassionate
His words gave solace and comfort to several humanitarian organizations
A genuine glimpse of his precious wisdom
Is in the compilation of his academic assistance
In his superlative wisdom was a fountain of guidance,
In curbing violence, fear and anger
Without him,Zimbabwe is left pooer
Our tears may go dry but our memories will never
He was the Godfather of peace,
He is sadly missed along life’s ways,
Quietly remembered every now and then
He is no longer in our life to share realities of life
But in our hearts he is always there
Yes, he is gone but not forgotten
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC
I am a compilation
Of dead factions
Mangled selves
Who did not choose the right turn to
Save themselves.
I am a compilation
Of eyes set ablaze
Upon realization
of their unacknowledged
future
We are not alive if we live off lies.
This is the truth
The reason everyone dies.
Greet me
Speak every syllable of my name
In honor of those still inside
Their corpses.
Remember me.
The could have beens,
Which should have been.
What might have been better if they were?
I am filled with death
And with every word,
My every turn,
I only manage to **** more
Sing to the ones inside
The ones left beind
With no chance of being revived,
For none of you ever did exist.
Only to me.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
with every starry sky,
i still search for the big dipper.
stripping the constellations
searching for something bigger
than the compilation of love
or whatever it was
that we feathered through the sand that night.
that was the last time that we were together
you and i
lonesome
under the moonless sky
seen only by the eyes of God.
guided only by the light
and the might of the stars,
no matter where you are:
with every starry sky,
i still search for the big dipper.
every time our eyes collide
the constellations quiver
every time
you look into my eyes
i see you riding the tides of my skies
sliding along the slopes of my little dipper
abiding the strokes of my heart to beat quicker
searching for something bigger
than the compilation of love
or whatever it was
that we feathered through the sand that night.
that was the last time that we were together.
the weather has shifted many times since then,
it has now been awhile.
yet, still now
the compilation of your smile
is the only pile of shine
that can blind the vastness of my mind
every time
you look at me
i drown in the vastness of the seas
that flood the skies of your eyes
with every starry sky,
i still search for the big dipper.
upon it,
when both our eyes linger
i can feel the shiver
of the astronomical quiver
when i'm guided by the stars,
you never feel quite so far.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Beyond cascading screams in a melodically honed vibration,
Within a fading abyss of infinitesimal separation,
A dreamscape of a constant creation, so vivid by design,
An interesting compilation to the manifestations of my mind,
The psyche demands a certain control and designation,
A tether to the super consciousness without a single deviation.
But as we sail away on waves of cosmic revelation,
To travel the universe for a more profound contemplation not quite Euclidean in nature.
But as a product of Sol, there is a certain elemental configuration,
That fuels the intent of the most colorful dreams,
Bathed in the warmth we call divine,
I have seen solar systems and even far beyond,
But that was only in my mind,
As dreams are harder to navigate when it is difficult to see them straight.
One does not debate such pointless substrate.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
I wonder what chocolate rain would taste like.
Would it fall from chocolate clouds?
And after it dried, would it leave a thick sweet brown coat on the world?
I wonder if my secret love loves me.
Would he ever want to hold me and caress my cheek?
Kiss and touch me as I would him?
I wonder what would happen if I lit the world on fire.
Would anybody notice?
Or think it was a new quirk of nature to ignore?
I wonder if the sun shines more dimly than yesterday.
Would it even be measureable?
I wonder how long we can last, and if an apocalypse would **** us all.
Would there not be a survivor?
Would there not be a fight for life?
I wonder if there is or was a god, and if so, for how long?
Would he create himself?
Could god even have a ***
I wonder if this world is a construct.
Perhaps a mental image stuck in space?
But if so, whose of?
I wonder if a butterfly flapping it's wings in China truly creates geographic ruin here.
And if so, on what scale?
I wonder if what we do in this world truly affects our afterlife, or if that even exists.
Will this compilation, this assembly of words make any impact on anyone's life?
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC