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Randy Johnson Nov 2015
You're moving in with your girlfriend and many people have congratulated you.
You've asked me to do the same but that is something I can't and won't do.
I won't congratulate you because you and your girlfriend will be living in sin.
I won't condone premarital ***, don't ask for my congratulations ever again.
Yes, I have old-fashioned morals that you consider to be out of date.
I won't congratulate you because you're doing something that God hates.
Kiera Nov 2014
A sea of nettles and nails that scream their injustice at you
People who seem like they've shaken off their prickly outsides and their hatred
Turning to congratulate them
Embrace them
Before you find the truth beneath their pillowy covering
Nails can be blunted and nettles can be softened but they remain below your surface,
Waiting for the right moment to be sharpened and grow back their stings

I see your injustice and I raise you my peace
It hurts to tear out your nails and to burn off those nettles
But oh god does it hurt more to walk your tender, soft body through that forest of pain
This poem is for the women in sweatshops making shirts with "feminist" written on them and wondering if their owners think of them
This poem is those who see their idols revealing they're not what they should be and feeling that deep deep loss

This poem is because I'm tired of trying to change the world when it hurts this **** much
Hello, everyone! This is one of the weirdest sites: or your money back! We have ZIM, neopets, music, and much, much, more. E-mail us for questions, comments, complaints and information. Why not click on the Very Weird Stuff link to see more, or click on the music link? We have halloween and christmas pictures on the NeoPics link. Cheese is not a wild thing!!!!!!!!! Now I have decided to go for a world record. I will try to make the longest web page ever, made completely out of text! Won't that be fun? I will just type, and type, and never, ever use copy and paste. Wow...I really must be bored. Just goes to show what boredom can do to you. Any way, that's it for now. Wait, no it isn't, I still have to keep going, and going, and going. Because I do. THE REST OF THE STUFF I TYPE WILL BE COMPLETLY IN CAPS JUST BECAUSE I CAN. THAT IS ALL. SEEYA! Hi, I'm back. So far this is nowhere near the world record. I think. I don't exactly know where it is...oh, well. I'll just have to do the very best that I can. No one is really coming here, anyway. So it doesn't matter. By the way, TAB is a worthwhile, community-service organization. The form link is to a 100% fake TAB registration form that you can fill out just for laughs. I can't believe I'm bothering to do this. I have very low expectations of my site. None ever comes here, I could do this all day long and I still wouldn't have any more hits. This is just a pointless excursive in spelling errors and grammatical imprecision. May your day be shiney! The following is an extremely weird poem-thingy that I wrote when I was in a relatively weird mood:
never mind that noise my dear can anyone pass the cheese only if you say pretty please oh, boy do I have to sneeze. why must everyone always rhyme, why I’m a poet and don’t I know it? what I fear comes right after here not this life or the next will I ever be able to pass the test? we’re stuck in here, (alone my dear) and we’ll problem never get out so don’t start to shout. it’s dark and I want to go home is where the heart was where is it now? we’ll never know but oh crap it’s starting to snow and it’s time to show and tell about the well that you found last summer at camp when it was damp it was near the ramp oh god why must this be I liked that tree but now it’s gone, farewell so long I’ll miss you as long as you write but then I’m afraid to say good-night. my dear there’s nothing to fear that’s only a box that’s made of blocks next to the wagon that looks like a dragon why are you shaking it’s your fear that is making you shiver and act all a quiver. don’t you know that you only need be afraid of fear and never anything here and certainly not a post that acts like a ghost?
See, very weird. At least it fills up my word quota for the day. Not that I exactly have a word quota for the day. It just sounded very professional to say it. Anyway, I still don't think that anyone is actually coming here. You'd have to be an absolute loser (or really bored) to come here. I'd probley come here, but that isn't much of a surprise. After all, I've been to the Really Really Big Button That Doesn't Do Anything website over 50 times. Pathetic. But, whatever. As long as I'm happy, right. Humor the crazy person, okay? Oh, guess what? According to someone you problem don't know, this is the second most pointless website ever! Next to the Really Big Button, of course. I feel special. Come on everyone, group hug. Okay, now I'm starting to scare myself...I'm gonna quit for today. Seeya. Now I'm back. Is this getting confusing to you? Too bad. Now I want you to go to http://quiz.ravenblack.net/blood.pl?biter=eon" If you do this I'll get points in the game. Come on all you non-existing people! Help me! You know you want to! It's a worthy cause! Honestly, the more time I waste playing the game, the less time I'll work on this site and the less stuff you gotta read. Although why you'd be here if you didn't want to read is beyond me. Maybe you're lost. Okay, if you want to get out, click the little refresh button, okay? Good...what? You say it didn't let you out? Oh, well. You must be caught in a time warp. Keep pressing it. Maybe you'll break free. What's that. The little counter at the bottom keeps going up? Never mind. That's just how many times you have to click before you can leave. Good-bye.

Hey, I'm once again: back. I don't suppose you fell for that little thing about the refresh button. After all, you're a responsible, intelligent person who apparently has a lot of time on your hands. Well, you can't possibly have more time than I do. I mean, after all, I made this site. You're only browsing it. And most people don't even come here. Not even my friends...sniffle The just ignore this poor, pathetic little page. All they do is fill out the TAB form and leave. I think. Maybe they're here right now! HI! HOW ARE YOU DOING? I'M FINE! THANKS FOR COMING! YES, I'M YELLING! Who am I kidding. This page won't get a single hit, unless I bribe people...now that has possibilities. Okay, fill out the TAB form, so I have proof that you bothered to come here and...uh...I'll...uh...send you a sandwich? Please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery. I'm bored. I'm gonna go hug a moose. MOOSE! I love-d you moose! Hey, I'm back again! Yea...waits for applause okay! Now I want all you loyal fans...cricket chirps to go to the link to see what I'm like. I took a whole bunch of personality quizzes and posted them there. I'm an evil villain, kitty and a freakazoid so far. And I only took the quiz once, too. Spooky how accurate they are...anyway, I command you to go! I'm going. I'm back. I'm gonna start counting how many times I say back. Let's see: 1...2...3...4...5! Wow. I must really be desperate for something to do. I now officially have proof that someone has been here! It was one of my friends. Apparently this page really is getting long, because my friend said something to that effect. Maybe. Anyway, moving on! I'm just basically typing nothing. Just like all those reports people have to do. You know? With a specific number of words. They start out with half that number, and then just fill in words until they have the right amount. I salute those people. You're great tradition is being carried out here, on the second most pointless site ever! Well. Maybe eventually some weird, bored person will wander onto my site on accident and be mildly entertained be my site until they wander onto a live video feed of a coffee maker. Or maybe not. I only know that I'm entertaining me, which was my original goal. So. I've done what I've set out to accomplish. Yea, me! I'm so special. You see, most people, they don't like reading or writing. So if you're not most people, you've made it down this far without skipping, skimming or getting the spark notes version. (Which I think does not exist) My point is, if you've bothered to read this, then, (like me) you probley have also read the ketchup bottle so many times that you have it down verbatim. Look verbatim up. It's a word. But, you should know that, since you like reading. Or maybe you're just skimming. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with reading food labels. You might be asked a question about them on a quiz show. And now, for the million-dollar question: How many calories are there in a single serving of Mustard? I can just see it now...It could be called Know-Your-Food. Or You are What you Eat. It'd probley be as popular as those game shows that no one's ever heard of. Speaking of food, what's up with pie? There's strawberry pie, apple, pumpkin and so many others, but there is no grape pie! I know. I'm just as upset about this unfortunate lack of development in the pie division. Think about it. Grapes are used to make jelly, jam, juice and raisins. What makes them undesirable for pie? Would they dry into raisins? Couldn't you just stick some jelly in a piecrust and bake it? It just doesn't make any sense. Another thing that bothers me is ***** grinders. You know, the foreign guys with the bellhop hats and the little music thingy and the cute little monkey with the bellhop hat who collects the money? Okay. They're basically begging on the street. How did they ever afford an *****-thingy? Wouldn't it make more sense to get a kazoo, if you're broke? And if they're so poor, what possessed them to buy a monkey? I mean, I don't think I could afford a monkey, and I'm not exactly on the streets. Obviously I at least have a computer...so, back to the ***** grinders. I would have sold the monkey and the ***** and been able to eat for at least a year. Or, if I was weirder than I am, I could at least **** the monkey with the ***** and eat it. Why on earth did they keep the monkey? It must have cost a fortune to feed...not to mention the mess. That's just one of those many facts of life that are better left mysteries. Especially since no one but me would ask the question. I better go. I think I hear a monkey...Okay...now I'm back. That's the sixth time I've said back! I realize that this longest text ever must be very boring and not worth anyone's time. But I'd like to take this time to thank the 2 and 1/2 people in the entire universe who have bothered to read this entire thing. I'm not exactly sure who they are, but: thanks! Right now, my spacebar is malfunctioning...that's not good...I have to press it two or three times just to insert a freaking space. Maybe the evil little faeries with the sharp little teeth have put their evil faerie dust on my computer. Or maybe not. This is too frustrating. Goodbye for now...Now I'm back. And still frustrated. But for a different reason. Today I had the misfortune of playing a Treasure Planet game on neopets.com It was terrible. Apparently the point of the game was to get your character to shout "Whoo-Hoo!" as many times as possible before you splattered your brains on the rocks, all the while listening to a soundtrack that is similar to a dying ceiling fan. Of course, when I started out I accidentally hit the rocks approximately three million times. Halfway though I used my four remaining brain-cells to decide that the game was dumb. So my goal changed from surviving to laughing evilly while my character died. So the game naturally did everything it could to preserve my life. The stupid game is still going on and I refuse to quit because I want my points. My character is actually dodging the stupid rocks better now then when I controlled him. I hate irony. Seeya. Okay. Now I'm back again. Today I added an update page, which is basically a less chaotic, outlined version of this without all the ranting. It's more like techno talk about arrays and how much I **** and whether or not the Braves will win this year. Okay, the whole braves thing is made up. But everything else I've said so far is true. I think. Maybe I should start on a boring disclaimer...Eh-hem. All contents of this site were designed for entertainment purposes only. Any use thereof that is not stated in the above mentioned statement would make the author, hereby referred to as Patron Saint of Paper Clips, very angry. Should you violate the purpose of this site: i.e. become not entertained, the Patron Saint of Paper Clips will be forced to take drastic measures. This is specified in Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook. Ooooo…that’s a great idea! I’m gonna start quoting from the Flaming Chicken Handbook! Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook states that the Patron Saint of Paper Clips (that’s me) is allowed to cause vague, pain like sensations while the offending person (or alien life form, dog, etc.) isn’t paying attention. Now I have a purpose in life! To make up quotes from the non-existent Flaming Chicken Handbook, which I’m sure you have a copy of. No? Too bad. It’s in the mail, I promise! Now I must take my leave…and remember. Cheese is watching. Okay...I'm back...I think that eventually half of this thing will consist of the word back over and over again...that's just weird. Which fits the motif of the rest of the site. There's even a money back guarantee. Isn’t' that nice? See? Now no one can ever say that I don't take care of my viewers. Especially since I don't have viewers. I have readers. Wait...I really don't even know if anyone bothers to read this. Even if I put it in a less chaotic, more user-friendly format people would still ignore this because it involves: reading. Yes. Sad to admit, but the majority of people would rather read the summary at the back of a book rather than the whole book itself. What has the world come to? It's pathetic. Especially since I'm bothering to write all this. It's not fair! Why can't I have more readers?! All the other internet writers have nothing on me, except they're better at advertising, having a central theme/plot and basically more talented. Whereas I'm more into the whole ranting and raving stage right now. Plus, I am horrible at spelling. Which is bad. Thank the powers that be for spell-check. The single greatest invention of the computer gods. I'm getting bored, so I think I'm done for the day. May your day be shiney! I'm back again! And I feel weird! I found at that yet another one of my friends is reading this. Creepy. Just how much time do they have on their hands. Perhaps their just trying to be nice. I can just see it now...an organization devoted not to feeding the hungry, or peace, or love or whatever, but to giving recognition to all those poor, pathetic, unpopular websites. I wonder what it's name would be. Don't Ignore Sites? Would it be called DIS? Isn't that like a slang term for an insult? Would that be considered poetic justice, or just a nice coincidence? And why do I even care? I'll tell you why. Because I have nothing else to do right now. I could be playing neopets, but ever since my bad experience with Treasure Planet, I don't feel like it. Oh, by the way, I noticed that whenever I use spell-check, my stupid computer turns the word probley into to word problem. To prevent this, I did nothing. So, it is now up to you, the imaginary reader, to decide whether I mean probley or problem...it's almost like a game! But without the bad sound track. And I promise not to force you to live when you would rather die. Moving on, I have nothing else to say, but don't feel like quitting just yet. I'm like the little engine that could. Or maybe the Energizer Bunny. I just keep going, and going and going. Or I could be like that annoying guy on T.V. who keeps asking if you can hear him. If my site manages to last a decade, my readers snicker will probley wonder what I'm talking about. My answer is simple. It doesn't matter. I'm just rambling. Which means that it doesn't matter if you understand anything I say. Doesn't that make you feel better? I bet it does. Wow. Look how long this has gotten. I even impress myself. Who would have thought I have this much free time? And I congratulate any reader who has gotten this far. Ooooooo! You must check out the fortunes section of the random stuff page! I've just gotten an idea for some more, original, fortunes...I gotta go!(may the moose be with you) And now I am back. I swear. If iI fill out the fake tab form I'm gonna have to put back as my favorite word...I already have filled it out, though. Would it be cheating to fill it out again? Only if I had multiple personalities. Or would it be cheating if I didn't have multiple personalities? The world may never know. Just like how many licks it takes to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop. Would it vary? The number of licks, I mean. Someone could have super-disolving spit, or watery-spit. Or what if you took big ol' slobbery licks? Does the commercial take that into account? No. It doesn't. And let me tell you, it's an outrage. It deludes all of American's sweet, innocent, candy-loving children into thinking that a cartoon owl is smarter than they are! "Mr. Owl, can you tell us how many licks does it take to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop?" Or whatever. And "Mr. Owl" replies "One...Twoo...Three! Chomp" And he bites it. That teaches our youth that it's okay to agree to help someone, and then ruin their experiment. Well...it's not. I am going to start a protest group. Teens Against Cartoon Owls. We could call ourselves TACO! I love the little tacos, I love them good! That is a direct quote from GIR, co-star and comic-relief on INVADER ZIM
I hateth th' song of th' grass outside;
and t'eir blades t'at swing about my feet
like fire. How unfeeling all of which are-
did t'ey really think I wouldst ever be tantalised
by t'eir sickly magic? Such a gross one-
demanding, rapacious, parasitic!
Even I am fed up with t'eir proposals,
and ideas t'at t'ey fervently throw
in th' hope t'at t'ey canst corrupt my dreams,
my feelings-ah, yes, my sincere feelings,
and secure, t'ough imaginary, dreams.
Oh, and my comfortable desire as well!
My rosy desire-which at times canst tiringly
petrify me-ah, unbelievable, is it not? Th' fact
t'at I am so satiatingly, and daringly, petrified
by my own desire-and reproved by th' one
whom I am astonished at, praise, and admire;
How pitiful I am! How horrific and tragic!
I hath knitted my sorry without caution,
I was too immersed in vivid glances
and disguises and mock admiration.
Perhaps it hath been my mistake!
Eyes t'at blindly saw,
ears t'at wrongly judged!
Lies t'at I forsook,
tensions t'at I undertook!
Oh, how credulous I am-to vice!
Mock me, detest me, strangle me!
Stop my sullen heart from breathing-
as I hath, I hath spurned my darling-
oh, I hath lost my love!
How sorrowful, tearful-and painful!
And how I hath lost my breath; for cannot I stop
my feet from swimming and tapping
in t'is fraudulent air, gothic and transient
With poems t'at no matter how mad,
but nearly as thoughtful and eloquent,
I shalt still remain doleful and sad,
for my love for him is indeedst thorough-
and imminent; No matter how absurd he fancies
I am, and how he looketh at me oftentimes
with twigs of governing dexterity;
but most of all, shame.
I hath no shape now.
I hath lost, and raked away,
my elaborate conscience;
I hath corrupted my conciseness,
I hath wounded my sanguinity,
originality, and thoughts even, of my poetic
soul-of my poetic bluntness and sometimes
rigid, creativity.
I am an utter failure.
I am a mad creature; I am maddened by love,
I am frightened by virtue, I despise and reject
truth. I hath no sibling in t'is world of humanity,
ah-yes, no more sibling, indeedst,
neither any more puzzles of fate
t'at I ought to host, and solve;
I deserve nothing but fading and fading away
and give up my soul, my human soul-
to being a slave to disgrace
and cordial nothingness.
I belongst not, to t'is whole human world;
T'is is not my region, for I canst, here-
smell everything sacrificed for one another
and rings of delightful and blessed laughter
which I loathe, with all th' sonnets and auguries
of my laconic heart. Oh, I am misery!
I am evil, evil misery!
I, myself, equal tragedy; I am a devil,
a feminine and laurel-like devil-
just like how I look,
but tormented I am inside,
as a cursed being by nature and God Almighty
for never I shalt be bound to any love;
and engaged to any hands
in my left years and in th' afterlife outright.
I shalt have never any marriage within me,
any marriage worthy of talks, parties,
neither anything my wan heart desires;
like sweets with no sweetness,
or dances with no music.
No human love should ever
be properly conducted by me,
I am incapable of embodying
a unity, I am destined to be with me.
To be with me only-ah, as sad as it is,
as vague as how it sounds, or it might be.
O, and how I should love, emptiness!
Any loss should thus be romantic to me:
Just how death already is;
my husband is death,
and my chamber is his grave.
I shalt, night and day, sing to th' leaves
on his tomb,
ah-as t'ey are alive to me!
Yes, my darling reader! To me, t'ey are living souls,
t'ey open t'eir mouths and sing to me
Whenever I approach 'em with my red
bucket of flowers; lilies t'ey eat, ah-
how romantic t'ey look, with tongues
slithering joyfully over th' baked loaves I proffer!
T'eir smell of rotting flesh my hug,
meanwhile t'eir deadness my kisses!
T'eir greyness, and paleness-my cherry,
and t'eir red-blood heath my berry!
So glad shalt I becometh, and shimmer shalt my hair-
and be quenched my buoyant hunger-
beneath th' sun, with my hands, t'at hath
been aborted for long, robbed of whose divine functions
Laid in such epic, and abundant rejections
Brought into life again, and its surreal breath
But t'is time realistic, t'ough which happiness
shalt be mortal, as I perfectly, and tidily knoweth
and as I flippeth my head around
And duly openeth my eyes, I shalt again
be sitting in th' same impeccable nowhereness,
nowhere about th' dead lake, with its white-furred
swans, ghost-like at t'is hour of night-
Wherein for th' rest of my years should I dwell,
with no ability and desired tranquility
t'at canst once more guarantee
my security to escape.
T'ere's no door-yes, no door, indeedst,
to flee from th' gruesome trees,
t'eir putrid breath solitary and reeks of tears,
whilst t'eir tangled leaves smell strongly
of vulgarity and hate.
I hate as well-th' foliage amongst 'em,
grotesque and fiendish art whose dreamy visages,
with sticking tails wiping and squeaking
about my eyes, t'ough as I glance through
thy heavens, Lord, gleam like watery roses
before t'eir petals swell, fall, and die.
Oh-so creepy and melancholy t'ese feelings are,
but granted to me I knoweth not how,
as to why allowed not I am,
to becomest a more agreeable mistress
to a human-a human t'at even in solitude
breathes th' same air, and feels all th' same
indolent as me, by th' tedious,
ye' cathartic, morn.
Ah, and shalt I miss my lover once more
And t'is time even more persistently t'an before,
For every single of his breath is my sonnet,
and every word he utters my play.
He is th' salvation, and mere justification
I should not for ever forget,
just like how I should cherish
every sound second; every brand-new day.
My heart is deeply rooted in him;
no matter how defunct-
and defected it may seem,
as well as how futile, as t'is selfish world
hath-with anger and jealousy, deemed.
How I feel envy towards t'ose lucky ones,
with lovers and ringlets about t'eir palms,
so jealous t'at I cringe towards my own fate,
and my inability to escape which.
How unfair t'is world is sometimes-to me!
Ah, but I shalt argue further not;
I shalt make t'is exhaustive story short-
I am like a nasty kid trapped in th' dark,
without knowing in which way I should linger,
'fore making my way out and surpass her.
She is a curse-indeedst, a curse to me,
t'ough at th' moment she is a cure-but to him,
but she is all to forever remain a bad dream,
which he should but better quit,
she shalt subdue my light,
and so cheat him out of his wit.
She is an angel to him at night,
but at noon he sees her not,
she is an elegant, but mischievous auroch
with ineffectual, ye' doll-like and plastic auras
She is deceit, she is litter, she is mockery;
She hath all but an indignant, ****** beauty
She does not even hath a life, nor
a journey of destiny
She hath not any trace of warmth, or grace,
and most of th' time, at night
It is her agelessness t'at plays,
she ages but she falsely tricks him-my love,
into her lusted, exasperating eagerness;
t'ough colourless is her soul, now,
from committing too much of yon sin
She still knoweth not of her unkindness,
and thinks t'at everything canst be bought
by beauty, and t'at neither love nor passion
canst afford her any real happiness.

Ah, my love, I am hung about
by t'is prolific suspense;
My heart feels repugnant in its wait;
uncertain about everything thou hath said
As thou wert gentle but mean to me;
despite my kindness, ye' mistaken shortcomings
as I stood by th' railings th' other day, next to thee.
Ah, thee, please hear my apologies!
Oh, thee, my life and my midday sun,
a song t'at I sing-in my bed and on my pillow,
last week, yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
I am, however, to him forever a childlike prodigy-
shalt never he believeth in my tales,
ah, his faith is not in me,
but I in him.
How despicable!
But foolishly I still love him,
even over t'is overly weighing injustice
on my heart-
ah, still I love him, I love him!
I love him too badly and madly,
I love him too keenly, but wholly passionately.
I love him with all my heart and body!
Oh, Kozarev, I love thee!
I love thee only!
For love hath no more weight, neither justice
within it, if it is given not by thee;
I was born and raised to be thine,
as how thou wert created
and painted and crafted-by God Almighty,
to be mine. As I sit here I canst savagely feel, oh,
how painfully I feel-yon emptiness,
t'is insoluble, inseparable solitude
filled not with thy air, glancing at
th' deafening thunder, rusty rainbows
With thee not by my side.
I fallest asleep, as dusk preaches
and announces its arrival,
But asleep into a burdened nightmare,
too many fears and screams heightened in it,
ah, I am about to fallest from smart rocks
into th' boiling tides of fire beneath my feet.
I wake into th' imprudent smile of th' moon,
and her coquettish hands and feet
t'at conquer th' night so cold.
She is about to scold me away again,
'fore I slap her cheeks and send her back
to sleep, weeping.
I return to my wooden bench, and weep
all over again, as without thee still I am,
barefooted and thinly clothed amongst
th' dull stars at a killing cold night.
Th' rainbow is still th' rainbow,
but it is now filled with horror,
for I am not with thee, Kozarev!
Oh, Kozarev, th' darling of my heart,
th' mere, mere darling of my silent heart,
even th' heavens art still less handsome
t'an thy images-growing and fading
and growing and fading about me
Like a defiant chain, thou art my naughty prince,
but th' most decorous one, indeed;
thou art th' gift t'at I'th so heartily prayed for
and supplicated for-over what I should regard
as th' longest months of my life.
O, Kozarev, thou art my boy,
and which boy in th' world
who does not want to
play hide-and-seek in th' garden-
like we didst, last Monday?
Thou art my poem,
and thus worth all th' stories
within which. Thou art genial,
cautious, and beneficent. Thou art
vital-o, vital to me, my love!
I still blush with madness at th' remembrance
of thy voice, and giggle with joy and tears
over yon picture of thee; I canst ever forget thee
not, and sure as I am, t'at never in my life
I shalt be able to love, nor care for another;
thou art mine, Kozarev, thou art mine!
Thou art mine only, my sweet!
And ah, Kozarev, thou knoweth, my darling,
t'at the rainbow is longer beautiful
tonight; and as haughtiness surfaces again
from th' cynical undergrowth beneath,
I am afraid t'at t'eir fairness and brightness
shalt fade-just like thy love, which was back then
so glad and tender, but gets warmer not;
as we greet every inevitable day
and tend to t'eir needs,
like those obedient clouds
to th' appalling rain, in th' sky.

Ah, but nowest look-look at thee! Thy innocence,
t'at was but so delicate and sweet-
like t'ose bare, ye' green-clustered bushes yonder,
is now in exile, yes, deep exile, my love!
I congratulate thee on which, yes, I do!
I honestly do! For thy joy and gladness
doth mean everything to me,
'ven t'ough it means th' rudest,
th' eeriest of life; t'at I shalt'th ever seen!
But should I do so? T'at is a question
I canst stop questioning myself not.
Should I? Should I let thee go
and t'us myself suffer here
from th' absence
of my own true love-
and any ot'er future miracles
in my life?
I think not!
Ah, and not t'at there'd be
any ot'er mirages in my love,
for all hath been, and shalt always be-
united in thee! O, in thee, only, Kozarev!
For I am certain I love thee,
and so hysterically love thee only,
even amongst th' floods-ah, yes,
t'ese ambiguous piles of flooding pains,
disgusting as blood, but demure,
and clear as my own heartbeat;
I love and want thee only,
as how I dreameth of,
and careth for thee every night,
t'ough just in my dream,
and in life yet not!
Ah, Kozarev, I am thy star,
just like thou art mine-already,
I am fated and bound to thee,
and thou to me.
Thou art not an illusion,
neither a picture of my imagination.
Thou art real, Kozarev,
thou art real-and forever
shalt be real to me;
thou art th' blood,
t'at floweth through my veins,
thou art th' man,
t'at conquereth my heart-and hands,
thou art everything,
thou art more t'an my poem
and my delicate sonnet,
thou art more t'an my life
or my ever dearest friend.

Probably 'tis all neither a poem,
nor a matter of daydreams;
perhaps still I needst to find him,
t'ough it may bringst me anot'er curse,
and throwest me away
and into anot'er gloom.
Ah, Kozarev, thou-who shalt never
be reading t'is poem, much less write one
Unlike thou wert to me back t'en;
Thou art still as comely as th' sun;
Thou art still th' man t'at I want.
Even whenst all my age is done;
and my future days shalt be gone.
Jade Musso Apr 2014
I have been cheated on. He shares me with her. She is a pretty little girl. She has pretty little outfits of purple and pink and green and she always smells clean. He is gentle to her, with his touch and his lips. He smiles when she’s sweet and he laughs when she’s rough. If I hurt him, he lets me go; if she hurts him, he blames himself. She’s very good at breaking the ice when he wants a new friend and in a matter of time he is sharing her with them but he would never share me. He buys her lavish gifts of stained glass and painted ceramics. He spends all his money on her and his pocket is empty for me. I watch my diet while he shares all the sweets in the world with her. (It must be a passionate way to make love.) He tries to hide her from me, but I can smell her perfume in his hair and I can smell her scented gloss on his lips, and I know when his eyes are twinkling from something more than me. When it is the three of us, he always picks her first and he’ll pick her again and again until she’s all worn out. Some people may think she’s no good, she’s a poison, he should break it off, but others congratulate him for scoring such a beauty. That smile she brings to his face and everyone else’s who breathes her in. I have always been second but he is my first. I do not share him with her, though I think I should. If I want to fit in, if I want to be happy, if I want him to love me more. She’ll never break his heart.
October Aug 2018
today is your birthday
I hope you know that if I could
if I could say it
I would say happy birthday
but I cant
I can't congratulate you on another year
but I hope there's cake
and candles too
like the ones I used to do
but that's over
however, your day is not
so take a shot
"cheers to 28"
today is his birthday. the (ex)love of my life's birthday. but i'll never tell him happy birthday and he'll never know i wrote this.
Hello, everyone! This is one of the weirdest sites: or your money back! We have ZIM, neopets, music, and much, much, more. E-mail us for questions, comments, complaints and information. Why not click on the Very Weird Stuff link to see more, or click on the music link? We have halloween and christmas pictures on the NeoPics link. Cheese is not a wild thing!!!!!!!!! Now I have decided to go for a world record. I will try to make the longest web page ever, made completely out of text! Won't that be fun? I will just type, and type, and never, ever use copy and paste. Wow...I really must be bored. Just goes to show what boredom can do to you. Any way, that's it for now. Wait, no it isn't, I still have to keep going, and going, and going. Because I do. THE REST OF THE STUFF I TYPE WILL BE COMPLETLY IN CAPS JUST BECAUSE I CAN. THAT IS ALL. SEEYA! Hi, I'm back. So far this is nowhere near the world record. I think. I don't exactly know where it is...oh, well. I'll just have to do the very best that I can. No one is really coming here, anyway. So it doesn't matter. By the way, TAB is a worthwhile, community-service organization. The form link is to a 100% fake TAB registration form that you can fill out just for laughs. I can't believe I'm bothering to do this. I have very low expectations of my site. None ever comes here, I could do this all day long and I still wouldn't have any more hits. This is just a pointless excursive in spelling errors and grammatical imprecision. May your day be shiney! The following is an extremely weird poem-thingy that I wrote when I was in a relatively weird mood:
never mind that noise my dear can anyone pass the cheese only if you say pretty please oh, boy do I have to sneeze. why must everyone always rhyme, why I’m a poet and don’t I know it? what I fear comes right after here not this life or the next will I ever be able to pass the test? we’re stuck in here, (alone my dear) and we’ll problem never get out so don’t start to shout. it’s dark and I want to go home is where the heart was where is it now? we’ll never know but oh crap it’s starting to snow and it’s time to show and tell about the well that you found last summer at camp when it was damp it was near the ramp oh god why must this be I liked that tree but now it’s gone, farewell so long I’ll miss you as long as you write but then I’m afraid to say good-night. my dear there’s nothing to fear that’s only a box that’s made of blocks next to the wagon that looks like a dragon why are you shaking it’s your fear that is making you shiver and act all a quiver. don’t you know that you only need be afraid of fear and never anything here and certainly not a post that acts like a ghost?
See, very weird. At least it fills up my word quota for the day. Not that I exactly have a word quota for the day. It just sounded very professional to say it. Anyway, I still don't think that anyone is actually coming here. You'd have to be an absolute loser (or really bored) to come here. I'd probley come here, but that isn't much of a surprise. After all, I've been to the Really Really Big Button That Doesn't Do Anything website over 50 times. Pathetic. But, whatever. As long as I'm happy, right. Humor the crazy person, okay? Oh, guess what? According to someone you problem don't know, this is the second most pointless website ever! Next to the Really Big Button, of course. I feel special. Come on everyone, group hug. Okay, now I'm starting to scare myself...I'm gonna quit for today. Seeya. Now I'm back. Is this getting confusing to you? Too bad. Now I want you to go to http://quiz.ravenblack.net/blood.pl?biter=eon" If you do this I'll get points in the game. Come on all you non-existing people! Help me! You know you want to! It's a worthy cause! Honestly, the more time I waste playing the game, the less time I'll work on this site and the less stuff you gotta read. Although why you'd be here if you didn't want to read is beyond me. Maybe you're lost. Okay, if you want to get out, click the little refresh button, okay? Good...what? You say it didn't let you out? Oh, well. You must be caught in a time warp. Keep pressing it. Maybe you'll break free. What's that. The little counter at the bottom keeps going up? Never mind. That's just how many times you have to click before you can leave. Good-bye.

Hey, I'm once again: back. I don't suppose you fell for that little thing about the refresh button. After all, you're a responsible, intelligent person who apparently has a lot of time on your hands. Well, you can't possibly have more time than I do. I mean, after all, I made this site. You're only browsing it. And most people don't even come here. Not even my friends...sniffle The just ignore this poor, pathetic little page. All they do is fill out the TAB form and leave. I think. Maybe they're here right now! HI! HOW ARE YOU DOING? I'M FINE! THANKS FOR COMING! YES, I'M YELLING! Who am I kidding. This page won't get a single hit, unless I bribe people...now that has possibilities. Okay, fill out the TAB form, so I have proof that you bothered to come here and...uh...I'll...uh...send you a sandwich? Please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery. I'm bored. I'm gonna go hug a moose. MOOSE! I love-d you moose! Hey, I'm back again! Yea...waits for applause okay! Now I want all you loyal fans...cricket chirps to go to the link to see what I'm like. I took a whole bunch of personality quizzes and posted them there. I'm an evil villain, kitty and a freakazoid so far. And I only took the quiz once, too. Spooky how accurate they are...anyway, I command you to go! I'm going. I'm back. I'm gonna start counting how many times I say back. Let's see: 1...2...3...4...5! Wow. I must really be desperate for something to do. I now officially have proof that someone has been here! It was one of my friends. Apparently this page really is getting long, because my friend said something to that effect. Maybe. Anyway, moving on! I'm just basically typing nothing. Just like all those reports people have to do. You know? With a specific number of words. They start out with half that number, and then just fill in words until they have the right amount. I salute those people. You're great tradition is being carried out here, on the second most pointless site ever! Well. Maybe eventually some weird, bored person will wander onto my site on accident and be mildly entertained be my site until they wander onto a live video feed of a coffee maker. Or maybe not. I only know that I'm entertaining me, which was my original goal. So. I've done what I've set out to accomplish. Yea, me! I'm so special. You see, most people, they don't like reading or writing. So if you're not most people, you've made it down this far without skipping, skimming or getting the spark notes version. (Which I think does not exist) My point is, if you've bothered to read this, then, (like me) you probley have also read the ketchup bottle so many times that you have it down verbatim. Look verbatim up. It's a word. But, you should know that, since you like reading. Or maybe you're just skimming. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with reading food labels. You might be asked a question about them on a quiz show. And now, for the million-dollar question: How many calories are there in a single serving of Mustard? I can just see it now...It could be called Know-Your-Food. Or You are What you Eat. It'd probley be as popular as those game shows that no one's ever heard of. Speaking of food, what's up with pie? There's strawberry pie, apple, pumpkin and so many others, but there is no grape pie! I know. I'm just as upset about this unfortunate lack of development in the pie division. Think about it. Grapes are used to make jelly, jam, juice and raisins. What makes them undesirable for pie? Would they dry into raisins? Couldn't you just stick some jelly in a piecrust and bake it? It just doesn't make any sense. Another thing that bothers me is ***** grinders. You know, the foreign guys with the bellhop hats and the little music thingy and the cute little monkey with the bellhop hat who collects the money? Okay. They're basically begging on the street. How did they ever afford an *****-thingy? Wouldn't it make more sense to get a kazoo, if you're broke? And if they're so poor, what possessed them to buy a monkey? I mean, I don't think I could afford a monkey, and I'm not exactly on the streets. Obviously I at least have a computer...so, back to the ***** grinders. I would have sold the monkey and the ***** and been able to eat for at least a year. Or, if I was weirder than I am, I could at least **** the monkey with the ***** and eat it. Why on earth did they keep the monkey? It must have cost a fortune to feed...not to mention the mess. That's just one of those many facts of life that are better left mysteries. Especially since no one but me would ask the question. I better go. I think I hear a monkey...Okay...now I'm back. That's the sixth time I've said back! I realize that this longest text ever must be very boring and not worth anyone's time. But I'd like to take this time to thank the 2 and 1/2 people in the entire universe who have bothered to read this entire thing. I'm not exactly sure who they are, but: thanks! Right now, my spacebar is malfunctioning...that's not good...I have to press it two or three times just to insert a freaking space. Maybe the evil little faeries with the sharp little teeth have put their evil faerie dust on my computer. Or maybe not. This is too frustrating. Goodbye for now...Now I'm back. And still frustrated. But for a different reason. Today I had the misfortune of playing a Treasure Planet game on neopets.com It was terrible. Apparently the point of the game was to get your character to shout "Whoo-Hoo!" as many times as possible before you splattered your brains on the rocks, all the while listening to a soundtrack that is similar to a dying ceiling fan. Of course, when I started out I accidentally hit the rocks approximately three million times. Halfway though I used my four remaining brain-cells to decide that the game was dumb. So my goal changed from surviving to laughing evilly while my character died. So the game naturally did everything it could to preserve my life. The stupid game is still going on and I refuse to quit because I want my points. My character is actually dodging the stupid rocks better now then when I controlled him. I hate irony. Seeya. Okay. Now I'm back again. Today I added an update page, which is basically a less chaotic, outlined version of this without all the ranting. It's more like techno talk about arrays and how much I **** and whether or not the Braves will win this year. Okay, the whole braves thing is made up. But everything else I've said so far is true. I think. Maybe I should start on a boring disclaimer...Eh-hem. All contents of this site were designed for entertainment purposes only. Any use thereof that is not stated in the above mentioned statement would make the author, hereby referred to as Patron Saint of Paper Clips, very angry. Should you violate the purpose of this site: i.e. become not entertained, the Patron Saint of Paper Clips will be forced to take drastic measures. This is specified in Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook. Ooooo…that’s a great idea! I’m gonna start quoting from the Flaming Chicken Handbook! Code: 343 of the Flaming Chicken Handbook states that the Patron Saint of Paper Clips (that’s me) is allowed to cause vague, pain like sensations while the offending person (or alien life form, dog, etc.) isn’t paying attention. Now I have a purpose in life! To make up quotes from the non-existent Flaming Chicken Handbook, which I’m sure you have a copy of. No? Too bad. It’s in the mail, I promise! Now I must take my leave…and remember. Cheese is watching. Okay...I'm back...I think that eventually half of this thing will consist of the word back over and over again...that's just weird. Which fits the motif of the rest of the site. There's even a money back guarantee. Isn’t' that nice? See? Now no one can ever say that I don't take care of my viewers. Especially since I don't have viewers. I have readers. Wait...I really don't even know if anyone bothers to read this. Even if I put it in a less chaotic, more user-friendly format people would still ignore this because it involves: reading. Yes. Sad to admit, but the majority of people would rather read the summary at the back of a book rather than the whole book itself. What has the world come to? It's pathetic. Especially since I'm bothering to write all this. It's not fair! Why can't I have more readers?! All the other internet writers have nothing on me, except they're better at advertising, having a central theme/plot and basically more talented. Whereas I'm more into the whole ranting and raving stage right now. Plus, I am horrible at spelling. Which is bad. Thank the powers that be for spell-check. The single greatest invention of the computer gods. I'm getting bored, so I think I'm done for the day. May your day be shiney! I'm back again! And I feel weird! I found at that yet another one of my friends is reading this. Creepy. Just how much time do they have on their hands. Perhaps their just trying to be nice. I can just see it now...an organization devoted not to feeding the hungry, or peace, or love or whatever, but to giving recognition to all those poor, pathetic, unpopular websites. I wonder what it's name would be. Don't Ignore Sites? Would it be called DIS? Isn't that like a slang term for an insult? Would that be considered poetic justice, or just a nice coincidence? And why do I even care? I'll tell you why. Because I have nothing else to do right now. I could be playing neopets, but ever since my bad experience with Treasure Planet, I don't feel like it. Oh, by the way, I noticed that whenever I use spell-check, my stupid computer turns the word probley into to word problem. To prevent this, I did nothing. So, it is now up to you, the imaginary reader, to decide whether I mean probley or problem...it's almost like a game! But without the bad sound track. And I promise not to force you to live when you would rather die. Moving on, I have nothing else to say, but don't feel like quitting just yet. I'm like the little engine that could. Or maybe the Energizer Bunny. I just keep going, and going and going. Or I could be like that annoying guy on T.V. who keeps asking if you can hear him. If my site manages to last a decade, my readers snicker will probley wonder what I'm talking about. My answer is simple. It doesn't matter. I'm just rambling. Which means that it doesn't matter if you understand anything I say. Doesn't that make you feel better? I bet it does. Wow. Look how long this has gotten. I even impress myself. Who would have thought I have this much free time? And I congratulate any reader who has gotten this far. Ooooooo! You must check out the fortunes section of the random stuff page! I've just gotten an idea for some more, original, fortunes...I gotta go!(may the moose be with you) And now I am back. I swear. If iI fill out the fake tab form I'm gonna have to put back as my favorite word...I already have filled it out, though. Would it be cheating to fill it out again? Only if I had multiple personalities. Or would it be cheating if I didn't have multiple personalities? The world may never know. Just like how many licks it takes to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop. Would it vary? The number of licks, I mean. Someone could have super-disolving spit, or watery-spit. Or what if you took big ol' slobbery licks? Does the commercial take that into account? No. It doesn't. And let me tell you, it's an outrage. It deludes all of American's sweet, innocent, candy-loving children into thinking that a cartoon owl is smarter than they are! "Mr. Owl, can you tell us how many licks does it take to get to the bottom of a tootsie pop?" Or whatever. And "Mr. Owl" replies "One...Twoo...Three! Chomp" And he bites it. That teaches our youth that it's okay to agree to help someone, and then ruin their experiment. Well...it's not. I am going to start a protest group. Teens Against Cartoon Owls. We could call ourselves TACO! I love the little tacos, I love them good! That is a direct quote from GIR, co-star and comic-relief on INVADER ZIM. Hmmmm.
Ignatius Hosiana May 2016
I'm so lucky to be from the pearl of Africa
where democracy is just but a name
where independence was given but with chains
where a thousand busk in the millions' pains
I'm so lucky to be from a country where reigns total freedom of speech
as long as you're not a member of the opposition
a country where freedom of speech only lasts until the speech is made
if only you could ask the hundreds incarcerated,most are dead
for what? for not not realising the freedom doesn't count after speech
I'm lucky to be from a country that gives no **** about human rights
especially these meaningless developments
like right to internet, what a sweet place to live
no Whatsapp, no Facebook nor twitter and why?
Tomorrow is the swearing in of our new old President...
not that age is important, after all it's just a number
tomorrow we usher in a very comprehensive government
one which has managed to stretch its tentacles across three decades
tomorrow we will see fat bellied millionaires
on screens of those who can afford televisions
congratulate our president who's filled with enthusiasm
to rule a poor mass who voted for their corruption free bellies
and thus social media could be used to bomb our young innocent leader
black mambas beautify our streets while jet fighters ornamentally
buzz across the blue skies, as if Osama has resurrected in Kampala
to the visitors, we are not at war...those are salutes to our most cherished one
the visionary, the most trusted, the compassionate
the one who wouldn't hurt a fly or swat a mosquito
we can't take any chances, just tune your channels tomorrow
for first hand glimpse of the merry and youthful dances
social media is a destruction yet our president deserves all ears
in the sky, on the streets from the hopeless unemployed
tomorrow we speak not of change but change without change
tomorrow we usher in steady progress for another five years
tomorrow we start to smile and wipe the tears
for tomorrow we acknowledge the old man is here to stay
I hear even the Zimbabwean tortoise is in the country
ready to congratulate his associate...these boys fought for their countries
they freed us from crucibles into their heavenly hades...
we should appreciate they have sacrificed too much...
tomorrow is public holiday, forward to conservative past we match
back from the beautiful future we don't deserve
tomorrow like helpless dogs we bow to our master's collar
tomorrow we bury our hopes for change and feed on this yellow muck
the swamp of greed, we can't risk defiance, we're stuck
we're like the long horned cattle of the west
for tomorrow the fat ticks start to **** and ****
but I wonder, for how long, for how long will we just talk?
when will we do more than just silently sob?
I bleed for my country or a country I once thought was mine
I bleed the taxes, the ruthless beatings, the tear gas
I bleed like a slave being whipped by these fatigued caravans
I bleed despair and melancholy and wander
like a headless chicken,for how long though? I wonder!
I bleed for God and my Country
for Uganda, I bleed...
I've cried reading this after writing...
it hurts loving my country...
Aaron LaLux Mar 2018
This whole country is a crime seen,
3rd Eye’s blurry need some Visine,
driving home with one headlight,
can’t see straight hit the high beams,

feeling like a Wallflower that’s lost all power,
praying for peace while they continue fighting,
and I know I can’t stop all the violence,
but that won’t stop me from trying,

can’t get through to the new school,
try memes,
can’t get the truth through to these dudes,
they keep denying,

I mean what does it mean,
when a black kid’s not even safe in his own yard,
assassinated in his grandmother’s backyard,
story retold by the grandma of Stephon Clark,
trained killers hunted him down and ****** him,
maybe he would’ve survived if his skin was a little less dark,
maybe to see the light first we need a spark,
trying to keep it together even though things seem to be falling apart,

the use of deadly force is often excessive,
but penalties on the killers are rarely enforced,
as if a police officer’s badge is a license to ****,
it’s not any less savage because they’re in uniform,

what does that say of our society,
when boys getting killed my men is the norm,
and us kids are sick of it more than a little bit,
school shootings cop shooting what’s going on,

and where are our leaders at times like this,
I mean shout out to Emma Gonzalez,
I respect her heart and congratulate her courage,
but why do adults have to learn from kids,

where are our role models,
where is the love,
global warming it’s heating up,
still kids get killed in cold blood,

this is not a front,

I’m not fronting,
I’m not faking,
I’m whole foods,
they’re all bacon,

fat no protein,
facts no smoke dreams,
fact is these pros need practice,
because this whole country’s a crime scene,

every day another cover up,
got cameras on every block,
still when a kid gets shot,
it seems like the body cams are always covered up,

how can it be 2018,
where we’re constantly under surveillance,
yet we never see the footage of cops,
when they shoot civilians,

and I’m trying to stay patient,
but I’m running out a patience,

and it’s not just cops killing kids,
kids are killing kids too,
but most people don’t even want to hear about it,
let alone actually get up and move,

wanna know how many people have been killed by guns,
millions and millions in the United States alone,
and no one is safe not even a 22 year old kid,
siting in the backyard of his grandmother’s home,

this whole place is a Danger Zone,

this whole country is a crime seen,
3rd Eye’s blurry need some Visine,
driving home with one headlight,
can’t see straight hit the high beams,

feeling like a Wallflower that’s lost all power,
praying for peace while they continue fighting,
and I know I can’t stop all the violence,
but that won’t stop me from trying…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

New Book FREE Here: www.scribd.com/document/367036005
Celeste DiLullo Sep 2012
5 minutes.
I sit on the water. The water’s surface is calm and quiet.
While the strokes continue, I look at the person sitting in front of me.
I can only see their back, but I’ve become used to it.

4 minutes.
The coxswain is calling starts.
There’s only a few minutes left, but I cannot keep time.
Everything’s happening so fast.

3 minutes.
The judges call for the boats to line up.
Gracefully, we glide across the water.
Smooth and kept.
Our balance leans the boat port-side, but it is soon restored thorough the echoing voice of our coxswain.

2 minutes.
We’re in our lane. I now take in the presence of the other boats.
They look fierce and prepared, then I look back into our boat.
We need to stand just as strong.
We are strong, if not stronger.
I remember that, because there’s no backing down.
I will not show fear.

1 minute.
Coxswain tells us to sit at three-quarters slide.
The point is adjusted and voices become silent.
I am reminded of every day I worked at practice.
Down to the last hour.
Down to the last minute.
My concentration becomes keener.
I take my final reassuring breaths.
I am fearless.
I am strong.
I am a rower.

0 minutes.
“All boats, ready.”
I dip my oar in a bit deeper. The silence is almost frightening.
My nerves are on a thin thread.
I breathe deeply. There’s no turning back.
“Go!”
“Three-quarters, half, three-quarters, full, full.”
“Power 10! Let’s do this! That’s 10! 9!”
Only three sounds can be heard.
The placement and swing of our blades against the boat.
The coxswain’s encouragement.
My ragged breaths.

I don’t dare look away.
“Keep the pressure, girls! We can beat Oakland! They’re a boat-length ahead! Bring me up to their 8 seat!”
I disregard the alarms going off in my body.
I exert all of my energy. I’m feeling lighter.
“We’re gaining on them! Get me to their 7 seat!”
Time is nothing to me.
I cannot think, only do.
My sole thought is my technique.

“Ladies, we’re walking them! Bring me to their 3 seat!”
I don’t doubt my coxswain’s words, but I am tempted to look to the side.
Our boat leans starboard for a stroke, but jolts back in balance with the next stroke.
My body begs for a rest, even a let-up.
But that’s exactly what the other teams want.
A chance.
A single chance to dominate us.
But I won’t give in.
Not now, not ever.
“We are even with Oakland! We’re in the last 500, girls! Don’t let them catch up!”

The last 500…?
But we have gone so far.
I won’t give up!
“Ladies, power 10 in 2! That’s 1! 2! That’s 10! 9!”
This is the last chance…to show them everything.
My will.
My strength.
My resolution.
The time is now!

Suddenly, added adrenaline runs through my body.
My breaths become more ragged and I feel a bit high.
I don’t let up.
The horn goes off, signaling our finish.
I lose the will to move.
Our coxswain tells us to paddle, but relearning how to breathe seemed more important to me.
Regardless of the silent screams of pain in my body, I obey my coxswain’s order.
We wane off after a while and once all boats cross the finish, we congratulate the other clubs.
I’m becoming tired; my body is crying, but we’ve succeeded.

Everyone worked hard.
We shared everything.
Endurance.
Hardship.
Strength.
Courage.
Friendship.
C­onfidence.
And there’s only one way to show how strong we really are.

We row.
And that’s all there is to it.
Coxswain: The boss of a row boat
Starts: A warm-up exercise for rowers to begin a race correctly

I wrote this poem when I was in the Los Gatos Rowing Club. This is poem was my farewell speech as I graduated.
Gretchie Speckin Feb 2015
We sat across the table
and I couldn't look away
from all his tattoos.

Without thinking,
I stretched out my hand
and extended my finger.

I began to trace
the arcade tickets that ran
the length of his arm.
He grew up with his grandfather
and they spent hours in his arcade.
His grandfather was his first best friend,
so the tickets they won were his first tattoo.

I could feel his smile grow.
He loved his tattoos
and now I did, too.

He left a mark on my life.
Just like the ink
on his skin.

I see him everywhere.
I can't tell if he tattooed himself
in my mind or under my eyes.

There's no escaping
or replacing him.
There's just no one like him.

He had a kind of goodness
that could be seen
in the smile that
would burn into the back of my mind,
haunting me for years.

He was just dorky enough
to get a laugh out of me
when I had the weight of the
world on my chest.

If you're lucky enough
to even know him,
he'll put a tattoo in you, too.

Whether you want it or not,
you will never forget him.
Trust me, I've tried.

He comes out of nowhere
and he helps you.
He asks for help
just as much as you.

It's just enough
to make you think
that he needs you, too.

God knows he was what I needed.
I needed him like
an alcoholic needs his whisky.
He was my whisky.

His finger tips
had a different kind of ink
and he was part of me with every touch.
I swear he had needles
in the tips of his fingers.
His touch always stung,
and now I will never
forget that sting
that is now stuck
in the parts of me he touched.

All the hugs,
the intentional and unintentional ways
that we touched.
They left their mark,
their pain-riddled stain on me.

The stains of him were left
with memories and stories
and they were attached
to songs that I can no longer listen to
and places I can no longer visit.

He came into my life so quick
and he left just as fast.
I think about him often.

I dream about him often.
It's like he stops in now and then
to catch up in chat in my sleep.

He took a part of me
with him when he left.
But his memories remain
and I don't want them.

I think about the goals he had
and I hope he achieves them.
I just wish I could be the one
that gets to congratulate him.

He will be leaving in August
and I will probably never see
or talk to him again.
But I will never be able
to forget him.

He is the one tattoo
I wish I could remove.
Arsène Dec 2017
Life Coalesced
Envision the rest
Depressed or distressed
Worried less, I invest
May regress or finesse
Life's congruent mess

Mold your self, immaculate
Clear hate and evoke fate
Inspire, create and congratulate

Persevere when near,
Whilst you conquer fear
Happiness untamed
Dreams unattained
Mature and grow wise
In front of your eyes
passion for diction
I have fallen into the snare of love; whether or not I wish it, I must love; and strugglingly, whether or not my heart desires to taste it, I have to go through it. I have tried, certainly, with beads of weird sweat, to crawl along its muddy channel; a muddy channel adorned only with tears and grievousness, but still I have failed to pass it. I have failed to pass my heart onto it, my poor little heart; and relieve it with comfort love might just ever have.

How I once desired to call thee, hath now ceremoniously gone; my stomach flips and churns itself like a whirling streak of poor butter being invaded by endless chains of ***** charms. My heart is plain, bleak, and can only whisper to me the pain it feels; my heart has beats still, but neither air nor breath. Its air has been radiantly tossed away; and superseded by a chance of madness it had always averted--at least before the very incident took place. It is now, thus, pale and has no shimmer nor glitter on its surface; its tale is as bare as a thin wintry raspberry branch might be. Ah, Immortal, my Friday morning; my Saturday evening; my Sunday afternoon. Immortal; with his faded grey hat strolling comfortably alongside a smiling me; our love was growing mutually on a warm Saturday morning. I told thereof, some minuscule bits of anecdote-like poetry; and his laugh afterwards warmed up all the butterflies that had hitherto laid down lazily around the grounds on their coloured stomachs. Immortal with his arduous bag hoisted onto his sturdy shoulders; and greeted me softly, with a rough morning voice; as he padded down the stairs--smelling like honey and trees and a flying bumblebee. Immortal with his love settling onto his voice; his shaky lips as he uttered a verse he remembered from a novel he had (unsuccessfully) tried to read. Immortal with his reddish lips, and innocent brownish glances--as he walked down the stairs. Immortal with my love encircling every swing of his steps; Immortal with my little heart within him. Immortal my dearest darling; his treasures were always brown--at least twice a week, and the smell of his perfumed blossom-like shampoo clinging all too gently onto the way down his white neck, and waist.

Immortal in his black garments in last year's cold weather; and with a witty smile so meaningful that he was once like a candle to my darkened heart. Immortal and his bored face that always entertained my heart; and his anxiety about immaculate workloads that made everything but funnier than they already were. Ah, Immortal, Immortal, Immortal; my very own Immortal. Though thou might be Immortal no more, in thy mind; thou really art still my Immortal in every sense; and I can still but feel thy presence even from a very far distance. Immortal, thou art my blood; my jugular veins, and the definition of my very heartbeat! Immortal, how I am a fool to have confessed this; thou might remember me no more; but for thou knoweth--thou art my prince still, of whom I feel the humblest streak of pride; and for whom I shall still wipe my showering tears. Ah, Immortal! One day I had just emerged from my room with a jug of warm water, and a flavour of strange poetry in my literary mind; and my Immortal greeted me with a stamp of melancholy smile as he always does when he retreats from work. He looked tired but not submissive; he had a rain of spirit still--for the remaining ingress and egress of the raucous Monday evening. I was, indeed, explosively exhausted from my head all the way to my feet--and a lurid chat with him slowly melted my stern visage and restored its gleams. Ah, Immortal; my lover, my shiny petal; the missing wing of my eastern soul; my European moon. He is from Sofia; as how its chaotic--yet elaborative auras always danced around his face. The charms of Sofia were even better scented in his breath; he was always prophetic about the skies and the red-skinned suns of the summer. He thoughtfully suggested that I write of 'em; he breathed his relief and exhaustion only into my hands, how he trusted me and depended himself on me like a selfish little lad! On other occasions laughed with a pair of red cheeks--is aromatic and handsome my lover, indeed he is! My poor, poor lover; for the world hath now defined its triumph over him; and thus its terrifically evil proses his very regions. Ah, my darling, if only still-I could save, save, and save thee! Ah, 'em--doth thou, by any chance, hold any remembrance of 'em still? Our blessed, blessed offspring--and they but shall be nurtured and overjoyed and delightfully pampered, as the very special fruits of our love. The love that both of our souls enjoy; the love that our sides agree on. Your fatherliness is in our son; and just as how I am, our daughter shall enlighten our home with her poems; ah, dear, dear little giggles t'at would be ours, and verily ours only! Ah, Immortal, if only thou but knew--how panoramic my wifely love would be!

Immortal, my darling; my purplish sun; my picturesque sky; my starlet dream. Even the oceans across our splendid earth are not vacant, and innocent, as thy eyes; thy words are like a calming river whose odour once shrieked gently onto my ears. Every breath thou maketh is my poem; and thus in every single poem, or verse I write--there dwells a vast bulk of thy charms. Thou art alive still--in my lungs; in my humorous soul; thou art the eve to my nights; the leaf to my mornings. Even the only leaf that shall stay firm when autumn finally arrives. But unfortunately shall it arrives with dire terms; for shall it have revenge--due to its savagely desperate needs for reclaiming its once lost freedom. Ah, its freedom, that was consumed away by the compounded fires of the summer. Then, still there shall be no-one to replace thee, even about the adequate hills and valleys outside; I could find thee not this jubilant afternoon. Oh, how unceremonious! And how malicious my love is, for thee! And our song is, for thou knoweth, resembles the one echoing in yon marvelous Raphaelite painting; my hair sings of your love; just as my poetry speaks of thy bounteousness. Thou art not Him; but still--thou art more bountiful to my heart, than to all our frail counterparts may seem!

And by this I am still your little girl; I shall play with my bike and congratulate thee on crafting off the last bits of my poetry. Like in a nursery once, though I doth remember it thoroughly not; I played with my dolls and later created a bride and groom out of them; I shall perhaps play with them again and make the remembrance of our now astray marriage, this time, their illusionary sanctuary. Ah, Immortal, this love might be virtual--and thus not by any chance effectual; but do remember, in thy severed heart, that it was once real; and that it was, long ago, deeply heartfelt and actual. Immortal, the king of my moon; the very last spark of my charms, I hope thou wilt know one day--how I selflessly loved--and love thee still, purely and artistically, just as how I loveth His other creations and my beautiful poetry; and that I shall still supplicate that you be the first, and last mate in my arms-- for my love is sacred, humid, and eternal; and I want thee thus, to be my only immortal.

I love thee; and thee only, querida. Obicham te, obicham te, obicham te.
Molly Rosen Nov 2013
"because the media lives for-"
"******?"
"i was going to say controversy."

when a woman loves her body,
congratulate her.
when a woman is proud of her talent,
congratulate her.
when a woman embraces who she is,
congratulate her.

when someone tells a woman she is wrong,
scold them.
when someone rips off their clothes,
scold them.
whens someone throws clothes on their body,
scold them.

when a woman goes to the grocery store,
when she wears the same clothes twice,
gains weight,
loses weight,
when a woman has a child,
turn your head,
leave her alone.
I wrote this in like four minutes in speech class because people were ******* me off. Sorry for the rant-ishness of it or whatever.
Joseph Murphy Feb 2013
Scandinavian badger sitting in the tree, I can't believe we met, it must be desti-ny.
I look up to the sky and see two clouds fighting, for some unusual reason I don't find it frightening.
Instead as I look up at the angry cloud, all I feel is proud, that its even aloud that this fluffy white sky sheep can be so well endowed.
With all the strength I can muster, I swim thru the lake of custard.
There I meet a female goat- "I'll clean all your biscuits if you just share your picnic"?
"I wish I could but I don't think I can risk it".
As I approach the shore, I meet a male horse. He says he's having a mare.
I don't know whether to commiserate or congratulate. I stroll off wandering what he meant and if I even care
I meet a male cow, or am I talking bull?
Who knows if half this story is even a quarter true.
Andrea Diaz Dec 2011
Come With Me
And you’ll see,
            A world of pure imagination,

Can’t you see?
            This world of glee~?
Just come with me…*
  
Yet,
I wonder how I can go into a world of pure imagination without having one foot in the grave.
I wonder when I can taste the chocolate waterfall without having the salty after taste of a child’s sweat and tears.
Please Mr. ***** Wonka, please,
Tell me how I can visit your world of imagination without hitting that eternal slumber button

We all know how harsh reality can be,
Especially when we log onto Youtube and we see,
Blonde girl ranting on Asians in the Library
Or even when we turn on the tele,
We see a 3 year old just got molested in the Dollar Tree
Or even when you walk out your front door and see
Some humans beating up some other humans
Ya see its easier to live in a made up world where everyone is treated the same
Its easier to pretend that the lies are what’s true and ignore the rest.

Don’t you see what a bunch of lies can do to harm the truthful words?
I’m sorry Mr. ***** Wonka,
         But that whole world of pure imagination is unable for me to reach
            For the world of reality is what is holding me behind,
                        No matter how hard I try to escape its wrath.
And that chocolate waterfall you have is filled with the sweat and tears from children who were forced to make it
How can we walk on the world of pure imagination without killing ourselves in the process?
How can we turn this reality of ours into something that was made for dreaming?

And its funny when they say,
At the end of the rainbow~
                        There's a *** of gold~
But didn't you know the *** of gold is tainted with Humanity's Greed?
Why do you think humans look for a leprechaun?
    So they can fill their fat pockets with their precious gold
Why do you think Christian churches teach you about the 7 deadly sins?
   Its because that's what humans are.
We take what isn't ours in order to satisfy our Greed.
We Envy other's for the objects they have.
We Lust for the things that we are unable to obtain
We unleash our Wraith on our own kind!
We take too much Pride on hurting others,
We feed on the sorrow and blood in order to be Gluttonous
And we are too much of a Sloth to do anything about it.

    We too are living beings,
       Yet we are the only ones who "love" to cause harm to others.
We are the ones who can walk on two limbs and use the other two to cause destruction and mass mayhem!
We take what isn't ours and use it for our own profit,
Even worse,
We have the ***** to believe in a Jesus Christ that can come and save us
Right after we have taken out another life

We have the nerve to call ourselves human
We are the so called God's creation
Yet we put shame on him for the way we've been
We put shame on ourselves for blood lusting
When we protest against suicides and deaths
We put shame on ourselves for being greedy
When we protest against the government selling our children's future to save a petty penny
If we were to label most of Humanity's Population
It would be labeled Capitalist Humanity

And at this time, I'd like to write a letter
Dearest Capitalist Humanity,
I'd like to congratulate you on causing the most genocides Mother Nature has ever seen
I'd like to congratulate you for playing with monopolies
In order for you to grow your big companies
Causing the gap between the rich and the poor to get wider and wider

Thank you for killing off your own kin
And I'm not talking about people of the same ethnicity I am talking about people of the same HUMAN RACE

I am talking about the person you just killed yesterday because he was wearing a different color, because he was a different color from you because HE WAS DIFFERENT FROM YOU

Thank you for re-writing history to make it look like you were the hero when in fact you were the villain hiding behind the mask
Thank you for forcing children into the work labor
Thank you for taking what isn't yours
AND THANK YOU for destroying this once beautiful home Mother Nature has given to you

Dearest Humanity,
Thank you for everything.
Marleny Sep 2014
I have a right to be hostile.
I have a right to place blame
to a person who has hurt me
in the "Lord's name".

I have a right to hate
when my people are scared.
You are supposed to serve and protect
and yet, your weapons are aimed where?

I have a right to shout
in the face of your ignorance.
Because just me being alive
is a ******* political statement.

Being a decent human
is not something to congratulate.
Be decent because that is human,
not because you must compensate.

Don't force me into a box
and say I cannot escape.
**** the paths of this forked road
I choose my own fate.

Adding pressure to silence
will only turn us into diamonds,
because in our hard-earned victory
we'll sparkle and be shinin'.

There are too many of our voices,
we're impatient, that much is clear.
We're angry not because we want to be,
but because we refuse to live in fear.
Bell works Jan 2014
It's hard to shake that feeling you get after you've done something you never thought you could do.

After the gritting of teeth and continuous self motivation, but before the elation and self satisfaction that comes with hindsight.

The stomach loosens and the jaw relaxes, you come back down to normality gradually enough to be caught in a limbo.

Where you're by no means changed, or cured, or better, but you're not quite yourself either.

Just a medium ground, more pensive than happy or any other kind of emotion.

And we're left to stumble around trying to decide whether to congratulate yourselves or regret your actions.
thejohnags Aug 2018
you're no trouble, no goner,
you're just playing the wrong beat.
you're no elephant in the room,
you're just dancing the wrong move.  

they got your photo for display
they must've mistaken your face.
if you think you're dead today,
it's just the start of the race.  

so get up, get up, get up
no broken bones must stop you now.
heads up, heads up, heads up
it's time to press play again.  

go and wear your crown,
go and see the crowd,
let them know that you're around,
make them kneel to the ground,
you're the king of this town.

do they know the pearly whites hide underneath the yellow stains?
do they know that every villain is the star of his own **** play? 
do they even realize you fought your battles for them?
even realize they just sit when you stand up for them?
but they get the glory,
not even feeling sorry.  

it's funny how your story is getting out of control.
you think that you are winning, but then you lost your throne.
you congratulate them on your big, fake smile,
and then you comfort yourself when you sleep at night.

'*** for a second you thought you have everything:
got a pocket full of money, got the man of your dreams,
got a blanket for a cold, hard night, got the stars,
got the job that you want, got a seat in the park  

but then everything's gone when you wake up the next day
you're looking for a bed, but you have slept on the floor, hey,  
where are your clothes? why does your face wear blue?
there ain't no writings on the wall, but if there's one, it came true.  

there's a special place for the non-believers
i didn't say in hell, but you get the picture.
how are you gonna pull yourself together when the world pushes you down all the time?
When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Telemachus bound on his sandals and took a strong spear that suited
his hands, for he wanted to go into the city. “Old friend,” said he to
the swineherd, “I will now go to the town and show myself to my
mother, for she will never leave off grieving till she has seen me. As
for this unfortunate stranger, take him to the town and let him beg
there of any one who will give him a drink and a piece of bread. I
have trouble enough of my own, and cannot be burdened with other
people. If this makes him angry so much the worse for him, but I
like to say what I mean.”
  Then Ulysses said, “Sir, I do not want to stay here; a beggar can
always do better in town than country, for any one who likes can
give him something. I am too old to care about remaining here at the
beck and call of a master. Therefore let this man do as you have
just told him, and take me to the town as soon as I have had a warm by
the fire, and the day has got a little heat in it. My clothes are
wretchedly thin, and this frosty morning I shall be perished with
cold, for you say the city is some way off.”
  On this Telemachus strode off through the yards, brooding his
revenge upon the When he reached home he stood his spear against a
bearing-post of the cloister, crossed the stone floor of the
cloister itself, and went inside.
  Nurse Euryclea saw him long before any one else did. She was putting
the fleeces on to the seats, and she burst out crying as she ran up to
him; all the other maids came up too, and covered his head and
shoulders with their kisses. Penelope came out of her room looking
like Diana or Venus, and wept as she flung her arms about her son. She
kissed his forehead and both his beautiful eyes, “Light of my eyes,”
she cried as she spoke fondly to him, “so you are come home again; I
made sure I was never going to see you any more. To think of your
having gone off to Pylos without saying anything about it or obtaining
my consent. But come, tell me what you saw.”
  “Do not scold me, mother,’ answered Telemachus, “nor vex me,
seeing what a narrow escape I have had, but wash your face, change
your dress, go upstairs with your maids, and promise full and
sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if Jove will only grant us our
revenge upon the suitors. I must now go to the place of assembly to
invite a stranger who has come back with me from Pylos. I sent him
on with my crew, and told Piraeus to take him home and look after
him till I could come for him myself.”
  She heeded her son’s words, washed her face, changed her dress,
and vowed full and sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if they
would only vouchsafe her revenge upon the suitors.
  Telemachus went through, and out of, the cloisters spear in hand-
not alone, for his two fleet dogs went with him. Minerva endowed him
with a presence of such divine comeliness that all marvelled at him as
he went by, and the suitors gathered round him with fair words in
their mouths and malice in their hearts; but he avoided them, and went
to sit with Mentor, Antiphus, and Halitherses, old friends of his
father’s house, and they made him tell them all that had happened to
him. Then Piraeus came up with Theoclymenus, whom he had escorted
through the town to the place of assembly, whereon Telemachus at
once joined them. Piraeus was first to speak: “Telemachus,” said he,
“I wish you would send some of your women to my house to take awa
the presents Menelaus gave you.”
  “We do not know, Piraeus,” answered Telemachus, “what may happen. If
the suitors **** me in my own house and divide my property among them,
I would rather you had the presents than that any of those people
should get hold of them. If on the other hand I manage to **** them, I
shall be much obliged if you will kindly bring me my presents.”
  With these words he took Theoclymenus to his own house. When they
got there they laid their cloaks on the benches and seats, went into
the baths, and washed themselves. When the maids had washed and
anointed them, and had given them cloaks and shirts, they took their
seats at table. A maid servant then brought them water in a
beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to
wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper
servant brought them bread and offered them many good things of what
there was in the house. Opposite them sat Penelope, reclining on a
couch by one of the bearing-posts of the cloister, and spinning.
Then they laid their hands on the good things that were before them,
and as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Penelope said:
  “Telemachus, I shall go upstairs and lie down on that sad couch,
which I have not ceased to water with my tears, from the day Ulysses
set out for Troy with the sons of Atreus. You failed, however, to make
it clear to me before the suitors came back to the house, whether or
no you had been able to hear anything about the return of your
father.”
  “I will tell you then truth,” replied her son. “We went to Pylos and
saw Nestor, who took me to his house and treated me as hospitably as
though I were a son of his own who had just returned after a long
absence; so also did his sons; but he said he had not heard a word
from any human being about Ulysses, whether he was alive or dead. He
sent me, therefore, with a chariot and horses to Menelaus. There I saw
Helen, for whose sake so many, both Argives and Trojans, were in
heaven’s wisdom doomed to suffer. Menelaus asked me what it was that
had brought me to Lacedaemon, and I told him the whole truth,
whereon he said, ‘So, then, these cowards would usurp a brave man’s
bed? A hind might as well lay her new-born young in the lair of a
lion, and then go off to feed in the forest or in some grassy dell.
The lion, when he comes back to his lair, will make short work with
the pair of them, and so will Ulysses with these suitors. By father
Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, if Ulysses is still the man that he was
when he wrestled with Philomeleides in ******, and threw him so
heavily that all the Greeks cheered him—if he is still such, and were
to come near these suitors, they would have a short shrift and a sorry
wedding. As regards your question, however, I will not prevaricate nor
deceive you, but what the old man of the sea told me, so much will I
tell you in full. He said he could see Ulysses on an island
sorrowing bitterly in the house of the nymph Calypso, who was
keeping him prisoner, and he could not reach his home, for he had no
ships nor sailors to take him over the sea.’ This was what Menelaus
told me, and when I had heard his story I came away; the gods then
gave me a fair wind and soon brought me safe home again.”
  With these words he moved the heart of Penelope. Then Theoclymenus
said to her:
  “Madam, wife of Ulysses, Telemachus does not understand these
things; listen therefore to me, for I can divine them surely, and will
hide nothing from you. May Jove the king of heaven be my witness,
and the rites of hospitality, with that hearth of Ulysses to which I
now come, that Ulysses himself is even now in Ithaca, and, either
going about the country or staying in one place, is enquiring into all
these evil deeds and preparing a day of reckoning for the suitors. I
saw an omen when I was on the ship which meant this, and I told
Telemachus about it.”
  “May it be even so,” answered Penelope; “if your words come true,
you shall have such gifts and such good will from me that all who
see you shall congratulate you.”
  Thus did they converse. Meanwhile the suitors were throwing discs,
or aiming with spears at a mark on the levelled ground in front of the
house, and behaving with all their old insolence. But when it was
now time for dinner, and the flock of sheep and goats had come into
the town from all the country round, with their shepherds as usual,
then Medon, who was their favourite servant, and who waited upon
them at table, said, “Now then, my young masters, you have had
enough sport, so come inside that we may get dinner ready. Dinner is
not a bad thing, at dinner time.”
  They left their sports as he told them, and when they were within
the house, they laid their cloaks on the benches and seats inside, and
then sacrificed some sheep, goats, pigs, and a heifer, all of them fat
and well grown. Thus they made ready for their meal. In the meantime
Ulysses and the swineherd were about starting for the town, and the
swineherd said, “Stranger, I suppose you still want to go to town
to-day, as my master said you were to do; for my own part I should
have liked you to stay here as a station hand, but I must do as my
master tells me, or he will scold me later on, and a scolding from
one’s master is a very serious thing. Let us then be off, for it is
now broad day; it will be night again directly and then you will
find it colder.”
  “I know, and understand you,” replied Ulysses; “you need say no
more. Let us be going, but if you have a stick ready cut, let me
have it to walk with, for you say the road is a very rough one.”
  As he spoke he threw his shabby old tattered wallet over his
shoulders, by the cord from which it hung, and Eumaeus gave him a
stick to his liking. The two then started, leaving the station in
charge of the dogs and herdsmen who remained behind; the swineherd led
the way and his master followed after, looking like some broken-down
old ***** as he leaned upon his staff, and his clothes were all in
rags. When they had got over the rough steep ground and were nearing
the city, they reached the fountain from which the citizens drew their
water. This had been made by Ithacus, Neritus, and Polyctor. There was
a grove of water-loving poplars planted in a circle all round it,
and the clear cold water came down to it from a rock high up, while
above the fountain there was an altar to the nymphs, at which all
wayfarers used to sacrifice. Here Melanthius son of Dolius overtook
them as he was driving down some goats, the best in his flock, for the
suitors’ dinner, and there were two shepherds with him. When he saw
Eumaeus and Ulysses he reviled them with outrageous and unseemly
language, which made Ulysses very angry.
  “There you go,” cried he, “and a precious pair you are. See how
heaven brings birds of the same feather to one another. Where, pray,
master swineherd, are you taking this poor miserable object? It
would make any one sick to see such a creature at table. A fellow like
this never won a prize for anything in his life, but will go about
rubbing his shoulders against every man’s door post, and begging,
not for swords and cauldrons like a man, but only for a few scraps not
worth begging for. If you would give him to me for a hand on my
station, he might do to clean out the folds, or bring a bit of sweet
feed to the kids, and he could fatten his thighs as much as he pleased
on whey; but he has taken to bad ways and will not go about any kind
of work; he will do nothing but beg victuals all the town over, to
feed his insatiable belly. I say, therefore and it shall surely be—if
he goes near Ulysses’ house he will get his head broken by the
stools they will fling at him, till they turn him out.”
  On this, as he passed, he gave Ulysses a kick on the hip out of pure
wantonness, but Ulysses stood firm, and did not budge from the path.
For a moment he doubted whether or no to fly at Melanthius and ****
him with his staff, or fling him to the ground and beat his brains
out; he resolved, however, to endure it and keep himself in check, but
the swineherd looked straight at Melanthius and rebuked him, lifting
up his hands and praying to heaven as he did so.
  “Fountain nymphs,” he cried, “children of Jove, if ever Ulysses
burned you thigh bones covered with fat whether of lambs or kids,
grant my prayer that heaven may send him home. He would soon put an
end to the swaggering threats with which such men as you go about
insulting people-gadding all over the town while your flocks are going
to ruin through bad shepherding.”
  Then Melanthius the goatherd answered, “You ill-conditioned cur,
what are you talking about? Some day or other I will put you on
board ship and take you to a foreign country, where I can sell you and
pocket the money you will fetch. I wish I were as sure that Apollo
would strike Telemachus dead this very day, or that the suitors
would **** him, as I am that Ulysses will never come home again.”
  With this he left them to come on at their leisure, while he went
quickly forward and soon reached the house of his master. When he
got there he went in and took his seat among the suitors opposite
Eurymachus, who liked him better than any of the others. The
servants brought him a portion of meat, and an upper woman servant set
bread before him that he might eat. Presently Ulysses and the
swineherd came up to the house and stood by it, amid a sound of music,
for Phemius was just beginning to sing to the suitors. Then Ulysses
took hold of the swineherd’s hand, and said:
  “Eumaeus, this house of Ulysses is a very fine place. No matter
how far you go you will find few like it. One building keeps following
on after another. The outer court has a wall with battlements all
round it; the doors are double folding, and of good workmanship; it
would be a hard matter to take it by force of arms. I perceive, too,
that there are many people banqueting within it, for there is a
smell of roast meat, and I hear a sound of music, which the gods
have made to go along with feasting.”
  Then Eumaeus said, “You have perceived aright, as indeed you
generally do; but let us think what will be our best course. Will
you go inside first and join the suitors, leaving me here behind
you, or will you wait here and let me go in first? But do not wait
long, or some one may you loitering about outside, and throw something
at you. Consider this matter I pray you.”
  And Ulysses answered, “I understand and heed. Go in first and
leave me here where I am. I am quite used to being beaten and having
things thrown at me. I have been so much buffeted about in war and
by sea that I am case-hardened, and this too may go with the rest. But
a man cannot hide away the cravings of a hungry belly; this is an
enemy which gives much trouble to all men; it is because of this
that ships are fitted out to sail the seas, and to make war upon other
people.”
  As they were thus talking, a dog that had been lying asleep raised
his head and pricked up his ears. This was Argos, whom Ulysses had
bred before setting out for Troy, but he had never had any work out of
him. In the old days he used to be taken out by the young men when
they went hunting wild goats, or deer, or hares, but now that his
master was gone he was lying neglected on the heaps of mule and cow
dung that lay in front of the stable doors till the men should come
and draw it away to manure the great close; and he was full of
fleas. As soon as he saw Ulysses standing there, he dropped his ears
and wagged his tail, but he could not get close up to his master. When
Ulysses saw the dog on the other side of the yard, dashed a tear
from his eyes without Eumaeus seeing it, and said:
  “Eumaeus, what a noble hound that is over yonder on the manure heap:
his build is splendid; is he as fine a fellow as he looks, or is he
only one of those dogs that come begging about a table, and are kept
merely for show?”
  “This hound,” answered Eumaeus, “belonged to him who has died in a
far country. If he were what he was when Ulysses left for Troy, he
would soon show you what he could do. There was not a wild beast in
the forest that could get away from him when he was once on its
tracks. But now he has fallen on evil times, for his master is dead
and gone, and the women take no care of him. Servants never do their
work when their master’s hand is no longer over them, for Jove takes
half the goodness out of a man when he makes a slave of him.”
  As he spoke he went inside the buildings to the cloister where the
suitors were, but Argos died as soon as he had recognized his master.
  Telemachus saw
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and would i ever get embroil myself in a morning of: coffee,
croissant and a newspaper? i find it strange how newspapers
are printed for workers - sold in the morning,
and read in the hazy hours before the mind
catches up with the body at noon
lead to nothing but village sentimentalism -
and dupe sensationalism -
they really know when to baptise them:
a few weeks into their lives (most never
object to confirmation, i, for one, started inquiring
about the Gnostic cults, and said: nah, you'll
alright without me) -
baptism is a bit like newspapers:
i really didn't ask for it... sorry, i was in diapers,
i knew that i'd be wearing diapers
if i went to my confirmation by the Bishop
of Chelmsford - imagine what a cardinal
could do to me... but that's what newspapers
are, they are written in reasonable comfort,
i don't mean the sort of journalism
akin to all the president's men -
that's valiant... i mean the opinions sections,
i read a newspaper and think of only one thing:
****! i threw away something i actually
need in the recycling pile of garbage...
so you go back to the bag and sift through it...
which is what it's all about:
newspapers pulverise the half-awake readers
on the tube... making newspapers free is also
a tactic... i read newspapers, about this time,
nearing midnight... i've spent the entire day
occupying myself with colours, squares and clouds,
i leave my desire to see phonetic encoding a - z
till last, when i can relax, and actually recycle
all the opinions of the day...
shamefully, others pick up a newspaper,
early in the morning, and just nod, agree, nod, agree,
pigeon on parade... makes it easier to earn
a few more disciples when half of them (if not all)
are still trying to remember a dream at 7 a.m.,
all the opinions sections are fabulous!
mental health matters... like **** it does:
you're saying a box inside that storage room that's
your brain aches like broken arm...
you go to a doctor, and he replies: it's all in your head...
well, d'uh, metaphysical health was always clumsy
with what became spaghetti entanglement
for philosophers - the one never translates into
another as honing in on, and synonymous -
but that's life... but the two were never supposed to
be at odd, or, quiet simply: parallel -
after all, thinking, if a limb or an *****,
is more than what the automation of the brain is:
receptor to nervous stimuli - if there's an *****
such as a mind, and it's verb optimum is sick...
it's like seeing the desperation of someone doing
cartwheels on a tightrope, while deciding a next
chess move playing someone down below,
and smoking a pipe - thought, in the end,
is a dilemma where to many verbs are associated with it:
it's so spatial in that it tries to encompass a near
exponential number of ? / hmm hiccups -
                              as it does encompassing a near exponential
number of ! / eureka hiccups -
the German Chancellor and the fourth cottage -
and the opinion: nacktarschuzdeckenwunsch
(the desire to cover their own naked backsides) -
ah, newspapers and the morning,
whoever reads a newspaper in the morning is a sheep...
who doesn't even thinks that comics didn't slowly evolve
to be comics? they are pristine Geminis -
i wouldn't read a newspaper in the morning,
because i know most of these articles are written in
the afternoon, notably the opinion sections,
by people donning kimonos, drinking wine
and smoking Magritte's phrasing of: not a pipe.
i can't treat them as trash either... i call them
midnight literature... after i've spent the day not
looking at phonetic encoding symbols,
i finally zoom in, revise my eyes and ease into a crescendo
of appreciating newspapers, for whatever they're worth,
which, according to the Thursday's edition of the times:
£1.40 - but reading newspapers in the morning
is horrid - too much world, too much care,
too much moral acting - too much conversation...
the world is too big, and i'm too small...
so i do what the writers of these articles read:
although i have a stronger solvent to read their preaching
parody of Mt. Sinai - but what i found, apart from that,
well... couldn't poetry steal something from
the journalistic medium? in the way art is appreciated
without critics? shouldn't poetry be the only medium
of art where other art mediums are appreciated?
for example, i find that when i'm hearing the clicking
of the keyboard, and there's a record in the background
i have a full meal in front of me,
i forgot how good tubeway army's album replicas
is... as a second course meal... nothing of the top 30
canape charts of nibbles of artistic output...
poetry can congratulate over mediums of art,
it can steal from what journalism encompasses -
namely the critical pieces of the journalistic anatomy -
art, doesn't necessarily have to be a matthew arnold
moment of as soon as i returned home, i pulled off
my coat, flung myself on the sofa, and wept the
bitterest, sweetest tears
: after coming back from
a Liszt concert... really?
i think that ballet is supreme sadism and Bach
had wax in his ears... fame and the adoration of women?
too lazy... like drinking too much, and listening
to what i like: without adverts selling me car insurance
and German shampoo.
yes, i am bothered, i'm seeing something in England
that's worrying, something akin to a Marx & Engels'
study of Victorian England - only this time it's
existentially tinged - not economically -
and yes, reading a newspaper at any "sensible" hour
of the day is rather pointless...
you can get very impressionable in the morning,
at around midnight, with a whiskey and a cigarette...
while everyone is already nodding off in Luna's
embrace - never understood reading newspapers
in the morning... or in the early afternoon -
it's better to digest the **** of the individual by the world
while everyone is asleep... less democratic constipation
of everyone having a go... or as Auden said:
all the ****** of the world write at night...
well, during the night: everything is apparently black
& white... the vacuum of the space, and the punctuation
of Zodiac are what this sort of writing best describes,
given that, we are the mediators of two opposing
chasms... to be honest... poets hate colour,
the whole spectrum of colour, from
red (λ nanometres 760 etc. and Herr Hertz, whatever)
to violet (λ nanometres 424 - 380) -
    so tiny, this puncture... equatable with
the size of the universe and that spec that's called earth -
to me? all of this is a massive accident -
as the gambling king said (god): oops... dunno.
but from what i can see... poets have colour -
hence the white page where all colours are entombed,
and better than scattering the white into the visible
spectrum, beginning as Newton with a needle hole
and a prism... no... we're probing it with something else,
intent on it being given to us in total,
a sum of all parts... or as they say: shying away from
the people in grey suits... virtually taking risks on meeting
the people in white coats - and how to slur and
window-lick our way into confined spaces
perfecting our skills in Paper Mâchés and Matisse-like
cut-outs.
Ironatmosphere May 2014
I will take the knife you put in my back when I wasn’t looking
And push it through my flesh till it graces my heart
And nicks it just enough for the pain to come flooding out
Then I’ll paint you a portrait
Red with pain
And wrap it up with a bow on top
Because I would never forget your birthday
Or to congratulate you
As you grow one step closer to death
Because that is something that's actually worth celebrating
shiftingclouds Nov 2014
(This post is dedicated to all my followers who still stuck with me after my long hiatus. I'm running low on inspiration these days. I am not a good writer but I'm working towards being one. I hope this post more or less compensates for my long absence.)

A LETTER TO MY LOVER'S FUTURE WIFE

     First things first, he is not my lover. He never has been and probably never will be. But he is very dear to me, and I do not think that I will be forgetting him anytime soon, and thus I considered him my lover. I hope you are okay with that. After all, my thoughts will in no way affect your life. I am writing this letter to congratulate you. You are able to trace the veins on his hands; his pair of hands which I was not privileged enough to touch. Run your fingers over his and remember how soft it is. Only then would it be fair to him because his hands are amazingly sculptured. Remember how they look like, remember how they feel like, even long after he's gone. I would also like to congratulate you for having the chance to see him every day. You see, he has the kind of face you don't get tired of staring at. I hope you notice that. I didn't know faces work that way when you're in love.

     That being said, I would like to pass on several guidelines to you. Guidelines on how to look after this boy. At the time of this letter, we are both eighteen. Young, raw, and still halfway through college. Okay, how do I put this in a nice way. He is light-hearted. Free-spirited. He does what he wants, as long as he is happy. He skips classes often here, I'm not going to deny that. Make sure he doesn't do the same for his work. Force him out of bed and make him go to his ****** job unless he's too sick to sit up. He has a family to feed and children to raise now. Help me shape him into a responsible man. I trust you enough to do this. Also, let him buy his cereals. He will still probably eat it in the morning when he's in a rush, in the evening while he's waiting for you to prepare dinner, and at night when he's too lazy to make supper but too hungry to go to bed after two movies. He makes the most disgusting-tasting oats. I tried it once and it tasted like *****. Trust me, there is nothing you can do about it because he's convinced that it tastes good. Perhaps his tongue has been surgically engineered when he was a fetus. I don't know. Either way, love him for that. But don't let him be the one who makes cereals for the children. Poor, poor children. One more thing, be ready to let his lips touch the mouth of your drinking bottle if he asks for water. He doesn't know how to pour liquid from a bottle without wetting himself. He's an idiot like that.

     Oh, and the air purifier in your room? Clean it once in a while. Make sure the machine works well. He's allergic to dust and I don't know the effects it has on him. And his body can't tolerate coldness that much, so compromise with him and agree on an intermediate temperature, please? Personally, I don't like it too cold either but I do not matter in this context.

     Anyway, I have to go to bed now. It's 1:27AM and I have a class in the morning. I might write another letter to you in the future, I might not. After all, both of us share an extraordinary bond. You are currently in love with someone I used to love. You must have seen the same things I saw in him, probably even more. Maybe I could actually get along with you well, if I could make myself stop wondering what I am lacking every time I look at you.
I got inspired to write poetry in a letter format after re-reading berry's 'the first and last angry letter' (http://hellopoetry.com/poem/687427/the-first-and-last-angry-letter/) and also kunthavi's 'A Letter To My Landlord' (http://dullsuns.tumblr.com/post/88929397603/a-letter-to-my-landlord-below-i-have-compiled). Therefore, my writing style might have been similar to these two pieces in several parts. I used them as reference. Credits go to these two. I love these two pieces so much I printed them out and stuck them in my notebook.
Arianna Anderson Dec 2011
I salute the depression
Welcome the disaster
Congratulate the distress
For becoming my master

I high five the sorrow
Who's a dear friend of mine
A familiar demon
That abandoned me blind

I kissed the affliction
That encouraged my addiction
I must send a thank you not
For it helped with my decision

I salute the melancholy
Welcome the *******
Congratulate the misery
For becoming my master
Esz-Pe-Bea Jul 2014
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****...

Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.

Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?

IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
A selection from a series of poems written on the handrail of a bridge.  June 13th, 2012
ShowYouLove Mar 2018
Lord you made the universe so vast with one word you spoke creation into existence. But for all of that power, still you have carved me into the palm of your hand. You knew me, all of me perfectly from the beginning of time and you love me: not just some of me, but all of me. You love me so much that you gave up everything, came as a helpless baby, were betrayed by your closest friends, tortured, bled and died for ME. I didn’t deserve it and I can’t earn it, but you gave your life away. Sometimes I take it for granted and I forget how amazing it is and how much you love me. I ask that you would help me show love to others in my life and tell them thanks and how much they mean to me. You give me the ability to breath, to smile, to put my feet on the floor and wake up each morning. I am so grateful. I pray that you would open my eyes to truly see just how richly blessed I am. From the family and friends I have, this country, this faith, the gifts and talents you have bestowed on me to share with others. There are so many things to be grateful for that we don’t even think of: food and water, shelter, clothes to wear, the seasons, having a job. Lord help me see with the eyes of a child, to look at the world with joy and wonder and awe. The rain helps the flowers grow, the beauty in a blade of grass, to find healing in the pain, joy in the sorrow. Lord, I also know that finding things to be grateful for changes our perspective, attitude, and outlook. Even on the bad days, when we look for something positive, the day seems better. Help me give thanks with a grateful heart. Even if it is a simple “Thank you God for getting me through this terrible day!!” there is always something to be grateful and thankful for. Lord, help me to look at this world and see the myriad of good things and blessings that you have so wonderfully and richly given. Help me be more mindful of this fact and then give you thanks. Grant me a grateful heart and a joyful soul. Thank you Lord for your presence in my life and all the gifts you have given me. I love you Lord help me to express that love and gratitude in a more real and dynamic way.
Amen

When we are aware of what we have been given and what Christ did for us; when we understand the depth of this love, mercy and grace, we cannot help but turn and do likewise for the world out of gratitude for this gift. We sing because we are thankful. We sing to give him praise and glory and because we are grateful for what he has done for us. We sing because we are grateful to him for the gifts that he has given us and we want to give something back to God. We use the voices and talents he gave us, to turn and give that gift to others and give him the fruits of his blessing. He doesn’t need our singing our praise and adoration, but it gives him joy that we bless him and others with the blessings he has given us.

When we pause for a moment to look around at all that he has created we are overwhelmed by the splendor and majesty of it all. How can we not say “Thank you God for all of this. How great how marvelous is your creation!”

A little bit of gratitude goes a long way as does a little bit of kindness. Congratulate someone on a job well done, give them an affirmation and see the smile on their face. That is gratitude.

Gratitude: short for great attitude.

The 9 Keys for living a life of Gratitude

G is for Grace
R is for Rejoice(ing)
A is for Awe(full)
T is for Thanks
I is for Inspired
T is for Thoughtful
U is for Understanding
D is for Dynamic
E is for Eucharist(ic) Adoration
(And Exceptional!)
1

From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you:
You are to die—Let others tell you what they please, I cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you—There is no escape for you.

Softly I lay my right hand upon you—you just feel it,
I do not argue—I bend my head close, and half envelope it,
I sit quietly by—I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself, spiritual, ******—that is eternal—you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.

2

The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions!
Strong thoughts fill you, and confidence—you smile!
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines—you do not mind the weeping friends—I am with you,
I exclude others from you—there is nothing to be commiserated,
I do not commiserate—I congratulate you.
When I heard at the close of the day how my name
  had been receiv’d with plaudits in the capitol, still
it was not a happy night for me that follow’d;
And else, when I carous’d, or when my plans were accomplish’d,
still I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh’d, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear
in the morning light,
When I wander’d alone over the beach, and *******, bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way
coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter—and all that day my food
nourish’d me more—and the beautiful day pass’d well,
And the next came with equal joy—and with the next, at evening,
came my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to me,
whispering, to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover
in the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined
toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.
Sophie Grey Jul 2014
sticks and stones
may break my bones
(but words will never hurt me)


people stare when we hold hands, they glare and point and scream in whispers behind cupped palms. sometimes they applaud or congratulate us, but i hate that, too; i don't want to be brave or strong or special i just want to kiss you without glancing left and right first. boys in parking lots shout and whistle, cars honk but WE'RE RUBBER YOU'RE GLUE, IT BOUNCES OFF US AND STICKS TO YOU so guess what- you're the *****, you're the *******, you're the freaks, you have to change the pronouns in your poetry, you are afraid of churches, you were listed in The Diagnostic And Statistical Manual Of Mental Disorders as a "sociopathic personality disturbance" until its seventh edition. if i had a nickel for every time a mother hurried a child away from us on the street, i might have enough money to sue one or two of you for harassment and hate.


s.h.
2014
OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL
Wherein,
by occasion of the religious death of Mistress
Elizabeth Drury, the incommodities of the soul in this her life, and her
exaltation in the next, are contemplated
THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY

...

Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
Let thine own times as an old story be.
Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
Do not so much as not believe a man.
For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
Is far more business than this world is worth.
I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
When this world will grow better than before,
Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
That carcass's last resurrection?
Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
To be thus stupid is alacrity;
Men thus lethargic have best memory.
Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
We now lament not, but congratulate.
She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
Should be employ'd, because in all she did
Some figure of the golden times was hid.
Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
Because she was the form, that made it live;
Nor could complain that this world was unfit
To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
She, that first tried indifferent desires
By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
As courts to princes; she, whose eyes enspher'd
Star-light enough t' have made the South control,
(Had she been there) the star-full Northern Pole;
She, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,
What fragmentary ******* this world is
Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;
He honours it too much that thinks it nought.
Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,
Which brings a taper to the outward room,
Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,
And after brings it nearer to thy sight;
For such approaches doth heaven make in death.
Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,
And think those broken and soft notes to be
Division, and thy happiest harmony.
Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack,
And think that but unbinding of a pack,
To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence.
Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence;
Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.
Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,
But that, as bells call'd thee to church before,
So this to the Triumphant Church calls thee.
Think Satan's sergeants round about thee be,
And think that but for legacies they ******;
Give one thy pride, to'another give thy lust;
Give them those sins which they gave thee before,
And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score.
Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they
Weep but because they go not yet thy way.
Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,
That they confess much in the world amiss,
Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that
Which they from God and angels cover not.
Think that they shroud thee up, and think from thence
They reinvest thee in white innocence.
Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,
Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go)
Think thee a prince, who of themselves create
Worms, which insensibly devour their state.
Think that they bury thee, and think that rite
Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucy's night.

....
Sophie Herzing Feb 2013
On my graduation day,
I ripped down all the flimsy paper signs
hanging from the ceiling,
like Judd Nelson does on The Breakfast Club.
I just wanted to be that cool.
I also poured glitter into the water fountains
so it could reflect off the drinkers eyes,
as a reminder that even when you leave here
you can still shine.
I put my lock on backwards
so it would be a ***** for faculty to take off
my locker when I was gone.
I turned in my cap and gown inside out,
and wrote
"see you then"
on the tag right next to the size,
hoping someone might laugh when they read it
or think it was written by someone real wise
when really it was some moon-eyed girl who heard it
from a friend she knew long ago.
I did a donut in the parking lot
with my beat up Cherokee
who had been down all the back roads
too many nights in a row,
just because I wanted to.
I didn't wear underwear to the ceremony,
because it made me feel free
like I was finally going to be.
I also sketched every dream I had
on pieces of loose leaf
and threw them in random places throughout the school,
praying someone would find them
and maybe have them too.
I almost punched you,
for all the times I should have back in middle school
but I didn't want the principal to ask
why there was blood on my hands
when they handed me that fake diploma
that wouldn't really come in the mail
for weeks.
It was just a day to congratulate
all the **** you got away with as a kid,
and to remind you those days are over
it gets real
from this point on-
how comforting.
I left the stage with my tongue out,
hands raised saying goodbye
here I go
thanks for teaching me all the stuff,
I never really wanted to know.
And by the way,
I put 20 goldfish in the girl's lavatory toilets
so even when I left
there'd be something hard to get rid of
something you'd never forget-
like me
when I was gone.
Alyssa Mar 2015
Today, I am sick.
My mental illness is shaped like a prison
and I am in the waiting room
wanting to ask
"What are you in here for"
like
what kind of crime has your head committed
that you are trying to lock it up
with prescriptions
and weekly meetings filled
with uncomfortable confessions
and numb palms from sitting on your hands for too long.
They say it's like playing in traffic,
a red-light-green-light game
where we beg for help
but don't know how to move
when we're asked to explain how we got here.
Do you even remember
what you're running from anymore?
Tell us about the days
where you can't tell if waking up
is a trench or a hill.
What has your head told you to do
and have you done it?
How did it feel when it was over?
Did your head congratulate you
when you were done?
Did you get a prize
like new scars?
Or three more handles of liquor?
The last time you prayed
did you have trouble unlocking your fingers?
Did the weight of God
keep your hands closed tight
in hopes that you wouldn't forget him
like the last time you saw Him
in the bottom of the pill bottle
and you smiled back?
Everyone here says the word Friday
like it hurts
because we know that the weekend is here
but we just can't seem to feel it.

Today we are sick
and nobody notices because our noses aren't running
we aren't openly bleeding in front of the one's we love
we do it in secret
just in case they ever catch us.
Today, we wanted them to catch us.
Stick out their hands
like a safety net
but it doesn't matter what height we fall from
because bones hitting bones
like a head on car collision
will never feel like warm sheets
blanketing our bodies
but we can't help but wonder
if the sheet they will cover us with
after they find us
will be warm too.

Today we are tired of being sick
tired of waking up looking like police chalk lines
tired of walking into the therapy rooms
like they are our parish
but we're too afraid God might smite us on the way in.
We shouldn't have to flinch
when certain words are said
that pull us back loading gun
but are too weak to pull the trigger.

Today WE are the triggered,
the empty promise of tomorrow being filled
with another prescription
another drink
another list of second hand hope
coming from someone who is probably
still trying to remember what it says.
We would rather tiptoe between eggshells
and take our time
than let you know we are struggling.
We are STRUGGLING.
And it makes us so very tired.

So today I am tired
and I will tell you that
instead of reminding you
that every day I am sick.
Jasmine Roper Apr 2015
Black
B - L - A - C - K
5 letters
4 consonants
1 vowel
1 race

We thank
We congratulate
We appreciate  

Everyone person

Whether you created
Dominated
Or lead  

You made our race what It Is

From our Barack Obamas and Martin Luthers

To our Oprah Winfreys and  Maya Angelous  

We thank
we congratulate
We appreciate

Everyone person who has made us, us

Black

B - L - A - C - K
Ignatius Hosiana Jul 2016
You want change the world
start from within
To change and make her better
now's time to begin
you want to see her clearer
look deep within...
Ain't better way to cut your coat
than using your cloth

what other way to cut your coat
than according to your cloth
why go on proclaiming love
yet all you do is loath
why preach forgiveness
while you keeping grudge and hate
to change the world
about yourself contemplate
those who greased their
are the one's you congratulate
lending best to the worst
taunting worst of the best
you give a test
you've failed yourself
dish out weapons
and expect to be safe
poisoned this dough of humanity
and you call yourself a chef
so if


you want to change the world
start from within
to change and make her better
now's time to begin
you want to see her clearer
look deep within
ain't better way to cut your coat
than using your cloth

you want to stop the drugs
you gotta stop the dealer
to stop this corruption
truth should be your pillar
so sick a world
Jah should be your healer
work it like you talk
walk your talk
don't put down your ***
and keep saying you're broke
Rasta never laughs
at such a joke
don't give up
even when twixt
a hard place and a rock
you can change the world
if you act your word


you want to change your world
start from within
to change and make her better
now's time to begin
you want to see her clearer
look deep within
ain't better way to cut your coat
than using your cloth
i wonder if you know what it's like to be them
to have to carry your hands on the sides of your body
because keeping them in the pocket of your hoodie would lead to speculation
that you're carrying a weapon you're in no possession of
eyes on you wherever you go
warnings made over the radio
demands from behind you
"hands over your head where i can see them"
the sound of incoming sirens cue a scene they're far too familiar with
as you sit in the audience, row M, popcorn in your hand, watching the star in suspense
“but officer I’m not carrying a weapon, look—“

Boom.
suspicion is justifiable for a bullet hole in their chest
does that same rule apply to you?

i wonder if you know what it's like to be in the presence of another
and sense the shift in their body as they do their best to distance themselves from you
because apparently there's an imprint across your forehead that screams:
DANGER
...
you probably don't
because it is you who shifts uncomfortably
clutching a little tighter to your purse and wallet
...
who was the first person who told you to stay away?

i wonder if you know what it feels like to have expectations already made for you
they are nothing in comparison to the ones you are assigned at birth
they are nothing like the expectations you are molded into as a child
because unlike them,
you are told you can accomplish anything
you are told you can fight for what you believe in
with no repercussions
you are told you can become whoever you want to be
and you never doubt it
unlike you,
they are the ones placed under the knees of blue in suffocation
another byproduct of history
the expectations placed on them are ones that have been running through the vines of their family tree ever since its seed was planted on this foreign soil
...
they very same ones that deem them
inferior
lazy
dangerous
...
all attributes used to create a segregation amongst us people
a definitive fine line
that if one oversteps
proclaiming unity and equity among us all
prepare for the raise of a hand
a baton enwrapped by fingers who are supposed to instill peace
they've reigned terror on the same people they're assigned to protect
a contradiction, wouldn't you agree?
"Land of the Free"
then why are so many of our people expected to succumb to oppression and dehumanization
why'll the rest of us reside comfortably in our luxury and privilege?
without worry of an invasion
8 shots released in deep sleep
"wrong house" they said...
but this is america
right?
...
i wonder if you've lived life being told you'll fall under the same pattern as your ancestors
that there is no way of breaking the chain
...
i wonder if you know what it feels like to be treated as a token everyone loves displaying for attention
but when the moment comes to fight their truth
...
that attention ceases to exist
...
i wonder if you realize your duty in this fight for justice
but if you don't
i congratulate you
...
you've lived a life safe and sound
away from interrogation
fear
strictness
alertness
you've lived a life where the color of your skin does not predict your destiny
it's formed a shield
a layer that obliterates
accusation
gunshots
abuse
neglect
and prejudice in its most destructive form
...
to be born in this nation as white is the equivalent of getting a head start in the 400m relay we call life
running gracefully with the most opulent shoes for support
jumping over hurdles with an effortless ease
coached by the best of the best
your privilege awards you the golden ticket
tell me
why are you so reluctant in using it for justice?
-c. alejandra
I) Annunciation

A message great
Unmatched to date
From Almighty
Via an angel,
Irreverence against God
That does not tolerate,
To a pious girl immaculate
Was sent.

While the Holy one
For a prayer bent,
The angel Saint Gabriel,
Himself great,
Descended from high
Above in the sky
And with reverence said
“Behold
There is a message
To be told!

The Holy one
Felicitate, for
In God’s face
Of all women folks
You have
The highest place
As you are
Full of grace
And a pride
To a human race!

A miracle untold
Will unfold
Giving birth to
God, incarnated word,
In your arms
You will hold.”

“It is a life of celibacy
I lead
Far from intimacy
Take note
How could
I take that
Without a grain
Of salt? ”

“Behold
Nothing is impossible
To God
The Almighty is
Sure for every prayer
To pay
By the way
When this to you
I say
The barn old lady Elisabeth
Has got in
The family way!”


Let the will of God
Be done
Say more
I shall none!
I have no reserve
God the almighty
To serve!
God has chosen me—
His slave—
Ready troubled waters
From birth to crucifixion(Luke 2:35)
To brave! ”

Because of
Eve’s disobedience,
Place in God’s face
We were forced to lack
Thanks to
Saint Mary’s obedience
We got it back!

How modest
How modest
The Holy one called
Herself a slave
As she knows
Vanity, soul’s rust,
Resides in the dust.
Like the hypocrite
Oneself to exalt
Is a fault,
That is what ****** Mary
Practically taught.

II) Intuition

Up on catching
Saint Mary’s sight
With a face bright
“How could I feel
A comfort zone
When my
Lord’s mother
Climbed up the hill
To congratulate
Me anon? ”

With intuition
Elisabeth repeated
Saint Gabriel’s
Message
Happy given
A chance
To give birth
To a prophet
At her old age.

Here, note
Elisabeth affirmed
Holy Mary does not
Herself exalt.

III) Somersault

In Elisabeth’s womb
John the Baptist
Made a somersault
“Holy ****** Mary
With no fault
That is why
As His throne
You, God sought
As the
Prophets taught!”
Though not
In so many words
He expressed
His thought.

IV) Prophecy

Affirming her
Inviolable
Holiness mandate
Saint Mary said
“Generation
Will call me
Holy Mary
The graceful
The immaculate!
God has done  to me
Things great! ”
Yes, which is why
Generations echo
That to date.

V) Envoy

“In the wedding party
Celebrants have stopped
Short of wine
My son
Do miracles of thine!
You see
Mankind’s problem
Is mine!”
As per her intercession
Jesus turned
The water into wine
In a way that is divine.

On the cross
Jesus said
To his Mother
And Apostle John
“As a mother and son
From now on
Go on you can!”

Yes ****** Mary is
Our mother
Though Devil
—in the mask of a python(Revelation12)
(Snake) tries to
Put us asunder.

As the prophet
Ezekiel (44:2)
Said
Yes, the virgins womb
—The gate –remains
Forever closed
As it was chosen
God to hold.

In the Horeb
Mountain of God,
Moses
Seeing the flame
Of the fire in the bush
He opted forward
To push
He saw
A strange thing
The flame is God
While Saint Mary
The twig.

Till crucifixion, devil
Knew not
The Lord
Is the incarnated word,
Many including Joseph
Knew not
Saint Mary
Is the immaculate
Painted bright
By many a prophet
Till the three wise men
With gifts came to see
Baby Christ
And before him adept
For a prayer opted
To prostrate!

The contra positive of
"God is with you!"
Saint Gabriel's word
Is "In your absence
God is not there!"
Then what is the essence
Of following a faith
In not missing this
That does not
Exercise prudence?
If one digs deep into the bible and reads issues not misconstrued this is the fact.May God help us to know this © 2 minutes ago, Alem Hailu Gabre Kristos
Answer to Connect hood guestion of other children.Never at all.You see Jesus on the cross gave saint Mary to John the Apostle as his mother.He gave apostle John to Mary as her son. The apostle thenceforth took her to his home as her son.
Of all the disciples it was John the Apostle and Saint Mary that 100 % knew the child (Jesus)is the incarnated word.Peter and others Knew not(or internalized) this fact.It was gradually the fact transpired to them.
Why not Jesus told Saint Marry to go to Joseph had there been such intention.

Even Joseph did not internalized this fact until the  three wise men came following the leading star to the barn in search of the child Herod was pursuing to ****.;
Some misconstrue the expression<< he knew her not>>.Even in new versions they use totally an unacceptable word.
He knew her not--He understood not( facts fully) that Mary is Saint,Holy,Forever ******,, Graceful ;Mary.
Joseph was chosen to keep Saint Mary to spare her from the verbal lashing and stoning of  some Jews for getting heavy with child without a husband or normal process.After the birth of Christ the angel was ordering Joseph to take<< the Child and His mother to the far off places to avoid attack.  -->His Mother not other expression
As Jesus grew up in Joseph's house what you read as his brothers are Joseph's sons not that of the ******.
As clearly Ezekiel put it no one could sit on God's throne. Promoting such a wrong idea of other children of Mary is unacceptable.But there are who deliberately propagate such a wrong preaching. Such a trend is indirectly promoting Jesus was not Jesus as there is another one to come. Ezekiel hit the nail on the head.A word is enough for the wise man.
Thank you for raising the question.The Ethiopian Orthodox Church,the Coptic Orthodox church,(those who were there before the beginning) the catholic church could clarify this to you beyond a shadow of doubt,
Read
https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/bible-videos/videos/mary-and-elisabeth-rejoice-together?lang=eng#gallery=img-3
Bassam A Dec 2014
Its early
to celebrate      
with a mood
to congratulate!

Might as well
say farewell
to our past memories
that we tell

Lets start within
before we begin

Forgive and forget
our sins of the past
and make a new wish
to a start that will last!

Lets Boast with joy
and Play with our toys

Lets not cry or sob
but keep our job
while we focus on
the New York ball DROP!!!
OF THE PROGRESS OF THE SOUL Wherein, by occasion of the religious death of
Mistress Elizabeth Drury, the incommodities of the soul in this her life,
and her exaltation in the next, are contemplated THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY

     Forget this rotten world, and unto thee
     Let thine own times as an old story be.
     Be not concern'd; study not why, nor when;
     Do not so much as not believe a man.
     For though to err, be worst, to try truths forth
     Is far more business than this world is worth.
     I'he world is but a carcass; thou art fed
     By it, but as a worm, that carcass bred;
     And why shouldst thou, poor worm, consider more,
   When this world will grow better than before,
   Than those thy fellow-worms do think upon
   That carcass's last resurrection?
   Forget this world, and scarce think of it so,
   As of old clothes, cast off a year ago.
   To be thus stupid is alacrity;
   Men thus lethargic have best memory.
   Look upward; that's towards her, whose happy state
   We now lament not, but congratulate.
   She, to whom all this world was but a stage,
   Where all sat heark'ning how her youthful age
   Should be employ'd, because in all she did
   Some figure of the golden times was hid.
   Who could not lack, what'er this world could give,
   Because she was the form, that made it live;
   Nor could complain that this world was unfit
   To be stay'd in, then when she was in it;
   She, that first tried indifferent desires
   By virtue, and virtue by religious fires;
   She, to whose person paradise adher'd,
   As courts to princes; she, whose eyes enspher'd
   Star-light enough t' have made the South control,
   (Had she been there) the star-full Northern Pole;
   She, she is gone; she is gone; when thou knowest this,
   What fragmentary ******* this world is
   Thou knowest, and that it is not worth a thought;
   He honours it too much that thinks it nought.
   Think then, my soul, that death is but a groom,
   Which brings a taper to the outward room,
   Whence thou spiest first a little glimmering light,
   And after brings it nearer to thy sight;
   For such approaches doth heaven make in death.
   Think thyself labouring now with broken breath,
   And think those broken and soft notes to be
   Division, and thy happiest harmony.
   Think thee laid on thy death-bed, loose and slack,
   And think that but unbinding of a pack,
   To take one precious thing, thy soul, from thence.
   Think thyself parch'd with fever's violence;
   Anger thine ague more, by calling it
   Thy physic; chide the slackness of the fit.
   Think that thou hear'st thy knell, and think no more,
   But that, as bells call'd thee to church before,
   So this to the Triumphant Church calls thee.
   Think Satan's sergeants round about thee be,
   And think that but for legacies they ******;
   Give one thy pride, to'another give thy lust;
   Give them those sins which they gave thee before,
   And trust th' immaculate blood to wash thy score.
   Think thy friends weeping round, and think that they
     Weep but because they go not yet thy way.
   Think that they close thine eyes, and think in this,
   That they confess much in the world amiss,
   Who dare not trust a dead man's eye with that
   Which they from God and angels cover not.
   Think that they shroud thee up, and think from thence
   They reinvest thee in white innocence.
   Think that thy body rots, and (if so low,
   Thy soul exalted so, thy thoughts can go)
   Think thee a prince, who of themselves create
   Worms, which insensibly devour their state.
   Think that they bury thee, and think that rite
   Lays thee to sleep but a Saint Lucy's night.
....
Nicole Fox Jul 2013
I stepped in the shower today and
Let the hot water burn my body
As it trickled down my newly tanned skin.
I closed my eyes and let it
Wash my mascara away.
I thought about now
How wonderful, and peaceful,
And easy things are.
I thought about summer..
You're spinning me around in the water and
Softly kissing my neck;
We sit around blazing orange fires
And congratulate each other on the perfectionism
Of our s'mores.
But soon, September will come
A tidal wave of schoolwork,
Two and a half hours of driving,
And late-night Skype calls,
Are heading our way.
Jealousy and questioning
Are almost guaranteed to become abundant.
It won't be easy,
And I can't promise anything
Besides;
I'll try my best
For you
haven't posted in awhile
judy smith Jan 2016
That Special Touch owner Terry Kutsko broadcast an announcement Oct. 15 on her shop’s Facebook page.

“After 10 fantastic years of owning That Special Touch, I have decided to say goodbye,” she wrote at the time.

The message got 15,000 hits, Kutsko said, and an outpouring of comments from saddened patrons.

The store’s inventory went on sale and word on the street was that the shop would shutter its operation for good, Kutsko said. The lease on the space at 544 Washington St. was up Dec. 31, and Kutsko had been diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer in February.

It was time, she said, to focus on her health. She needed to find a buyer, or the beloved bridal gown shop would close.

On the precipice of the New Year, Kutsko had another announcement, one riddled with exclamation points and infused with a happy tone.

“I’m so excited to announce That Special Touch has a new owner and will REMAIN OPEN!!,” Kutsko wrote. “I’m happy to congratulate Traci DeBord on purchasing the bridal shop! She will continue to run it in the same special way that everyone has come to expect, and you will receive the same personal service that we’ve always been known for. We still have some loose ends to tie up, so it will be a few more weeks before she begins taking orders again.”

Something old

Through That Special Touch, Kutsko has outfitted hundreds of brides. She’s dressed up hundreds of prom goers and put plenty of grooms in their tuxes. Although clothes are her focus now, That Special Touch started off as a floral shop. Kutsko had more than 20 years of experience crafting floral arrangements for weddings, working for Petals and Vines. One day, she found herself flipping through the classifieds section of the newspaper. An interior designer was selling off her fixtures, along with a cash register. She opened up shop in the Zaharakos building.

“I had one dad — I was doing flowers for him,” Kutsko said. “He was in the shop and he said to me, ‘I just want to give you one piece of advice. Do what you say you’re going to do. Don’t promise what you can’t come through with.’”

The advice stuck with her as her business grew. To supplement her floral business, she ordered a few dresses. Then she ordered a few more. Then she added tuxes.

When Zaharakos expanded, Kutsko moved to the 500 block of Washington Street. Eventually, she took over the storefront next to her. Now, That Special Touch has five dressing rooms and is pleasantly stocked with wedding dresses, prom dresses and tuxes.

“I never really planned to have this whole big bridal shop,” Kutsko said. “It just really grew over the last 10 years.”

When Hillary Apple was preparing for her wedding, she saved for last her visit to That Special Touch.

“I kind of knew in the back of my mind that it wasn’t going to feel right buying a dress anywhere else,” Apple said.

Apple had purchased her prom dress at That Special Touch — a gold-colored dress with gathering that reminded her of the formal gown Belle wore in Disney’s animated “Beauty and the Beast.”

“Terry provides high-end looks, but it’s not too expensive,” Apple said. “It feels like you’re in a high-end bridal salon, but you’re treated more like family.”

For as much happiness as her dresses generate, Kutsko feels the magic every day.

“I think the dresses themselves are gorgeous,” she said. “When the right girl puts it on, that’s when the magic happens. I know that sounds kind of corny. When you can match a person with the right dress and make them feel fantastic about themselves, that’s the best thing.”

Something new

Her cancer diagnosis didn’t spell an immediate end for the shop. Kutsko spent 2015 battling the disease, which was found in her breast, lungs, liver and on her spine. The cancer, she said, is now inactive.“I’m doing a ton better,” she said. “I just really want to work on building up my endurance and feeling super healthy. I’m going to have to continue to fight this.” A few years ago, Traci DeBord had purchased her wedding dress at That Special Touch. Actually, the dress was a prom dress — shorter than the typical wedding dress, and executed in ivory with black accents. The MainSource Bank employee liked the shop’s Facebook page and, when she saw Kutsko’s post about the search for a buyer, remarked to her husband that it would be fun to own a bridal shop. And then she continued to think about it. DeBord met with Kutsko and, by Dec. 29, had worked out a deal. DeBord would leave her financial job and buy the dress shop.

DeBord, who has a blended family of four boys, has always wanted a little girl to dress up.

“Now I get to do that every day,” DeBord said.

She will take over Feb. 1.

“I think I’m going to feel a sense of accomplishment, but also a little scared,” DeBord said. “But I have the comfort of knowing that Terry is just a phone call away.”

It is a special shop that Kutsko is handing over.

“Sometimes, at the end of the day, when you’re turning the lights out, you just look around the shop,” Kutsko said. “It is really just a magical business.”

readmore:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses

http://www.marieaustralia.com

— The End —