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Jesse stillwater May 2018
.

He liked to gather up the silence in the springtime
  Pack it up and carry it in an old timeworn leather rucksack
From a distance it looked like he was a senseless fool
  Picking up handfuls of nothing then putting it in an empty jar


No mind is paid to the fleeting glance in the corner of a stranger's eyes
  They were out of reach from the box he was living in
He kept gathering up the endless silence like missing pieces of a lost soul
   It seemed to be everywhere ―  and in it heard,  the only voice he knew


Supposing all his thoughts pondered come forth of silence
  Often resting sheltered beneath branches where it grew on the trees ―
It wasn't just the songbird that broke the stillness in dappled sunlight
  It was the dearth of love that rivers through a strong heartbeat’s
silenced words ...


Jesse Stillwater

04   May   2018
Thank you for reading and considering "gathering silence"
Lawren Jun 2013
A calm and cool breeze
Passes through the leaves of the trees,
Persuading the branches to sway,
Like algae in a turbulent sea.
Without a cloud in the pale blue Arizona sky,
The sun radiates down-- hot and glaring.
It reflects off the shiny paint of the cars around me,
Illuminates the brown mountains in the distance.
And magnified through the thick lenses of my glasses,
It blinds my sensitive eyes.
The surrounding sempiternal desert
Is so clear and sharp,
That no one nor nothing can hide
(With the exception of the beings who can blend,
And despite my tiring efforts,
I am not one of them.)
The nearest Creosote bush
Eminates of the smell of water,
As it passes through a hose.
I am instantly transported back home
Where sand is replaced by grass and plants
That require regular watering to survive.
When I close my eyes I can see
The illusion of a waterfall, created by the uncoiling hose
As it ejects tepid water for us to traverse.
But upon unveiling my windows,
I allow the sandy landscape to penetrate into my soul
And I am brought back to the present
Where life subsists, illogically,
Through a dearth of water, and inordinate sun.
Poetic T Sep 2018
Life is just a grain falling
          to an inevitable conclusion.

That is, every tide comes in and
                                       drowns it.
Silvana Franco Feb 2018
We lie, beneath the shimmer of long dead stars
your siren hair glowing silver in the ghostly light.
I reach out a hand to make sure you are real,
and you laugh,
and the stars shine brighter.

You are a rainbow in my stormy sky,
chasing away grey with kaleidoscope eyes.
You are cool shade on a scorching day,
a soothing balm for my burning soul.

You move me like the moon lends sway to the tide,
love me as though it were your profession,
And in times of hardship and dearth,
you fall to me like manna from heaven.

We lie, not only beneath a star-studded sky,
but to ourselves
and to each other,
as humans do.
Hearing my words of worship, you sigh wistfully,
Not because they are beautiful,
but because you wish
you could say the same about me.
The dearth of love
Invites me to praise it
Yet, in praising
I fill it with only emptiness

So I must counter it
Oppose it with silence
And hope
The sudden calm
Brings back the seeker
That has never dreamt of the sea
But is now questioning
Why has the ocean stopped
Its call.
Inspired by Harlon Rivers and Jesse Stillwater.
Poetic T Feb 9
Like a swan on dark lagoons,
          she was flawless.

Gathering her steps between
                              the undulation
that clawed endlessly at the shores.

Still she whispered her impressions,
                 silhouettes that degraded
     every movement.

Blinding everything that gathered
                at the shores.
                Feeding the polluted grandeur,
that feed the embankment of sustenance.


She had the elegance of  death,
            captivating all within her



distorted softness..



And they all slept on the edge of

her sanity feeding the ripples that
                    washed over all that watched
                         her tainted perfection
Where Shelter May 2018
trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self

<=>

drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Crescent Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian Freud painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly naked,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.


p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing
lost for many years; for Mary Winslow
NiTSUDD Jun 2018
The artist brought his brush tonight
And spread beauty through the skies for you and I to feast our eyes
As we curl in the grass as the world passes by
I don't mind
For really what else could I find
To better spend my fleeting time
You and I
And the innocent night

I wish I could bottle up the time
For it falls right through my hand like the sand passes by
And you would fall as a victim of the light
Ooooh oh I...
It is so hard to define
The hell that it is to be alone with my mind
Sometimes
Oh all the time

I went a-walkin to the earth
To witness the dearth of where my ancestors gave birth
And run wild as children, naked and free
Then there's me stiff in the ****** trees

Oh the artist brought his brush tonight
And spread beauty in the sky for you and I to feast our eyes
And we curl in the grass as the world passes by
I don't mind
No I really don't mind
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.

Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
*** Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.

Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.

Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.

A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.



And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.

I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running low

URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to KNOW!

M.
Planet Earth
6 March 2019
Mugerwa Muzamil Feb 2018
Moon dangles for ages
Stare as men rage
The sun sunning
Unreachable gold shinning

Our hearts shaking with blood
To pump life in our deeds
Wither not till you're mine
Shun the paths of villain

A love clot in my eyes
So sad your byes
Death stealth as a wave of sleep
Abandoned souls do weep

Dearth of pulse we delve
In this earth we know but leave
The sighing of the last breath
So you try to stop the wrath

Wail for certainty sons
Write your names on the sun
As you swear to change ways
For which you stirred in days.
Dedicated to those who lost a loved one through violence.
I see a world of people insisting
Upon absolutes
Within the current of perpetual
Change and uncertainty

I too am lost among
Those
That insist upon the moment truth
Though they are constantly falsified

Those that have too much faith in science
And
Give not enough credit to faith and intuition

Too many souls seeking absolute answers
And
Too many souls only accepting absolute answers

“There must be a reasonable explanation”

Or reasonable within the current paradigm

Yet, perhaps what you needed to see a
Wider world is to take that leap of faith
To the next paradigm

There will be no “Theory of Everything”

If you are not considering everything


‘Truth’ can become mockery
And
Within mockery there’s often more truth
Than
We are willing to accept

As Arthur Schopenhauer said:

“All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident”

Violent opposition to ridicules
Are evident of acceptance
Disguised as its antithesis

Often such mockery is not intended
But interpreted by a self holding truth
Afraid to be exposed to the world
Thus fighting back whenever it is touched
Leading to its unintended manifestation

Perhaps it is the dearth of a deeper love
In the absence of a truly unconditional love
That gives me fear in what it is to be accepted
There is no ‘Truth’
There is no ‘absolutes’
There will not be the 'acceptance'
That I seek and sought
Inspired by War and Peace and Julia Zarankin's course on said text, as well as some recent observations. Mostly Tolstoy's journey to a truth that will never be found.
For all that beauty barely complete
And those feelings excessively discreet
For that temperament seemingly basic
A smile? Oh what dearth and defeat!
For these and all those things that aren't
I will love 100%

The figure I scarcely behold
The name too old to be told
The dimples create a tempting fold
From which he must be controlled
But why am I moved? Heaven sent!
I will love 100%

Heart pounding ever fast
Eyes down! All shame is cast
Must I love or must I forget
I will destroy and then beget
Then when all my guilt is spent
I will love 100%
Wishing you were anywhere
But here
Can be
A decent state to be in
If you can still appreciate
The kindnesses you're gifted
Without so much to part with
Or to donate foreign strangers
Who have been on the receiving end
Of their fair share of dangers
When displaced in distant
Destinations
Illuminations
Of the darkest spaces
All too often getting lost
In what I thought
Might find myself again
In Paradises's cost
Another fortune
Disproportionately
My prerogative
Compared to millions out there like me
Who may have much more to give
Than take away
From every goodness sake
And goodest grace
The human race
Seems willing to embrace me with
Despite the dearth they make
A common trait among the masses
I am still content
To exploitate
You creep behind refuge, exemplifying human nature
The dearth of your kindness kindles my feature

Your tongue must flavor of dust or dirt
For your falsehoods lay with incessant inert

When God formed you he fabricated sin
Stitched with worthlessness that festers within

I know your deeds and will sing them atop the trees
And your precious pride will perish with my lip's ease

I would do a charity and release your soul from the earth
And make the pain as profitable as your life was worth

Death will wear you as a cape in the afterlife
He'll carve his name in you everyday with a boning knife

It is a sad dawn in hell when you arrive
But it was your fate son, you mustn't deny
Philipp K J Nov 2018
Why do you repel death
As if you stepped on an uncouth reptile
That stupified your mirth with a sting
and stiffled your brearth with dark coils round your girth?

The sibling death was with you ever since your birth
As close and distanced  as the self-effacing unmouthed mammoth  earth.

Throughout your path
And  passage along childhood to Man or
Motherhood
You did not see the truth
That death was with you ever since your
Being to  becoming growth
As a naive and native
Star in the north.

When you giggled and smiled in sleep-shell
the death was smiling with you as well.
When you dreamed and deemed yourself immortal
The death was kind at your daring mettle.
When you forgot to know the worth
Of the Love Smith
Who carved you as the crown of creation
The death was with you, an emphatic narration, a gentle witness of your lavished wishes of yourself.

Death was around you
Embracing your kiths
With valour indepth
And a love of eternal strength!

Still you strolled  uncontrolled to count your mortal home and hearth,
Ephemeral wherewithal

Death was ever loving
And lent you a free living
Even when you were  ailing.


Still you failed in your mirth
To listen and learn
From  what its worth
Still he is mute and modest as earth
And a caring and guiding  north star.

Then why do you loathe
And  show dearth of love to the one who
Loves all in equal strength
And blanks out all balance sheets,  
That credit and debit all accounts on earth
To the remembrance bank of infinity
without showing any disparity?
Yenson Nov 2018
A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa

Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery

Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements

Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations



CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved
This is to the woman I lay my desires on
This is to the woman who her smile is
My cure and her kiss is so pure,
She nourishes my heart like a carrebean flamingo, her warmth I'm never letting go.
This is to the woman not of my ego
But the woman of my hearts choice.
This is to the woman not of the silence of my mouth but the noise of my heart.
A touch from her is like a melody the perfections of her skin tone,
She's dearth of hate humility is all she own.
This is to the woman of my eyes
A woman Who doesn't wear make up but she wears the truth, a woman who doesn't look for attention by twerking but minds for it by working.
This is to the woman of my life.
I'm deeply and madly in love with a girl(DIANA) she holds my focus and desires and I felt like it was better for me to write this as a result of her inspiration.
Philipp K J Dec 2018
If I send you a wish anew
will it reach your ears?
A wish for a new year
Which is ever within you?
Will my wish be heard?
Or find the same hoard
As trash in your clipboard?

But what wish can I send anew?
Other than that's ever within you?
For there is the word
That's of eternal god
But I can send you a key first
To open your golden chest
Let the lid move asunder
Let the air blow off the cinder
For you will find the word
Glowing like shining gold
For there is no dearth of fund
The universe has it abundant
Let's help each other to find
And wipe out the dust smear
That covered the last year
And make it shine anew
As we find standing at the road
That leads to the year ahead!

Now as you have prepared
To take the word to be heard
Tuned well both your ears
Let me put it here
for you  to hear:

I WISH YOU ALL A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
MAY GOD BLESS YOU AS EVER!
NiTSUDD Oct 2018
A voice said look me in the stars
And tell me truly men of earth
If all the soul and body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth

Whether below or above
Living in excess or dearth
There is no amount of love
That can save you from your fate on this...

Look at me!
I am on my knees again
I had hoped that you would be
The end
Of all my
Of all my...
Nolan Willett Apr 17
Under ceaseless rejection it’s hard to maintain
Unconditional love for the earth
Unpromised and unmet loves keep you sane
In spite of all your life’s dearth
Never mind what the embittered say
No matter the truth of their words
Its always enough to live for the day
Leave your anxieties interred
An albatross flies over all our heads
Its our choice to shoot it
A presence exists that threads
Through all our lives if we  permit
The wheel turns again and again
Our muses love us if no one else will
Of forlorn beauty I’ll never have my fill
And I am relieved of any sin
We cannot succumb to cynicism
Inside the box of dreams contingent to divergent nightmares
In the confines of a large painting and solitude and suns
You smell the beauty of her soluble features in the eyes as one
Does it do to have a surplus of truth
The ego of driving id letting your inner self spasm without word's worth and worthiness
Relate to someone, whose heights you must torch and focus on oh so much
Buffering winds and engulfing flames, and paint of wolf and werewolves
The moist stench of inventiveness and red veritas of the current year, in the current art of the raw and cooked
Often, thousands of years could be prepared, before you learn a decade of failure, brewing strangely
Decadence doesn't exist in this defined structure wither the body withers in song and dance
Sundry and adamantine guillotines do sew her flesh in hatchets, axes, and bows
Arches and gallantry of cavalry in a dither and dearth dense censuring, of diseased purgatory
Looking at yourself beyond the riches, and rags to ditches.
So, this is a failure to communicate. Well, I'll take history any day.
This is my life
It can be fulfilled by three words
A couple of poems and writing for you
But, in God's writing and in the saints of this marching past

Days and dates have meant nothing to religious
Legends are pretty keen, it works out
But, all you make them out to be uncanny
Ought to be simple really, you are swift and softer
A presence of you may be adrift as I saw you roll in the darkness
Of the dance of seagulls, nightgown flashing like streetlamps
Streetlights can come to life, turpitude can grow softer
The dearth wailing and crimson deep wounds can crawl through
Fragments of time, and someplace elsewhere in this broken place
The light turns a little darker in the tunnel, cars coming up slowly
The tension of your calves driving and accelerating
Through century city and the steerings broken and street's the same
The limelight and broken and sights of the dancing birds might fly
As crazy like this little thing called forbidden love, tired and ordered
Keep the Hades at the bay of the hellish life we lead that reads like quaint quiet
The Caspian basin salty as the crisps of conversation, sludge dredge

Drudge and adjudicate this stream of solitude and the din ringing soundly the dimly lit freedom
In the candles of the wind, the dark meetings in the German massacre, hallowed by the talk of change
Probably, Beethoven can't hear the cries and feel the Holocaust victims and survivor hearts
Hearts of ***** used to graves dug up, burnt before the loss of civilization
The reality of this can be seen by the posterior, capricious, but, rather germane to our pain
There's nothing called sadness if you're numbed by pain
Oh! What a depressive state of mind that we cannot criminally be accused

The despicable demeanor of the inured can be seen in the unadulterated violence
Breaths are faltering at the sound of some guns, icy hands
Blitzkrieg Bop, as the bombs drop
The stolen conquest of the concentrated masses, eying at agendas
The propaganda of the influential ministers, the less I know the better
Creatures of the night, are you could be held mind tight
Like the night terrors, that grab my strangulated body
The fears won't leave the light, in the darkness of my deja vu
I feel I've been here before
I say that to you

To sure, that you can daydream and go high n' dry
Seeking inspiration from the sinister meaning of the poetic dahlias
Black, are they? Come up in the dilapidated beatnik motel
Ride about in heartbreak hotel
Too bad, this ****** sold out their tickets, to your show
Guess it's time to mend ways and think about friendly things
Butterflies ringing in the belly, that I've hatched upon, already
Guess, you're trying to lose some ways to say "you love me."
Ray Jordan Aug 19
I often find my posits dreadful,
Happiness flies merely fleet,
So much compounds, accosts a headful
Angry, gnawing, awful heat!
In joyful sorrow I must live
For truest joy is not to be
And frightened by, as laws decree,
A final debt, a life to give.
(Then summons me, my last repose,
To Heavens Gate, that some suppose.)

I cannot shed this melanchol’,
So Viper-like time’s turbulence,
Nor sally forth ‘pon brevet fall,
Conning self in feckless hence
When plaintiff Hell wraths from my lips,
“O’ Fie! Ye craven Viper! Fie!
Why should it be that I must die?”,
By fevered brain’s convulsive flips.
(As if a Viper’s state be blamed
For thus which gives me abject pain.)

And in these throes of torrid temper
Comes a hummingbird in flight,
Engaged in moments: basic, simpler,
Perfect-formed wee aero-sprite!
So happily he flits about
When seeking nectar, bloom-by-bloom,
In flowers bright as peacock plumes
And worries not of Earthly doubts.
(For hummingbirds have innate sense
Of urbane thoughts and true pretense.)

His playful flight in mayful flutter
Sagely parries ‘**** the trees
Through ev’ry leaf he flies a’scutter
Daring, as his heart will please!
My dearth, it seems, I now forget;
A tiny smile claims my face
And grows to full by levied grace
To pause my Earthly-borne regret!
(This newly forged respite from woe
Has cast away my pitied trow!)

What revelation rids my sadness
(All those worries disappear)
And what was anguish turns to gladness
Gone, the nagging mortal fears.
O’ they’ll return, I have no doubt,
To wrest my contemplative mind
But now assured that I can find
A joyful thought to fight such bout
I will forever carry near.
And to the hummingbird in flight
I’ll cherish how you drew my sight
To rid a foolish mortal’s tears.
(As hummingbirds will understand
The foibles taken by our hand.)
My writ of death and life by love of hummingbirds.
Ryan O'Leary Feb 6
Till dearth
do us art.
Who is buried under the rock
It's a friend of mine, in Barros
Walloping scallops in French Kitchen, cradling reserved Paris
In the free, memories are made often
Of these great following, greetings today
Now tomorrow now comes yeses and sclera
Is a rocking soup, in the full stomach, day after and after

Hue, in the colorful streetlight
Imagine the night of the thunderous clap, when the fly is a ****** hull
And it just hit me, and I kicked the dirt, you're life has to full of sons
If I had music like this ramble on the porch, bleeding by the fire with the letter of tout wheatish complexion
By the dog who waits on the Mitya and Alyosha is your friend in the thought that you will survive the thing that stays after that is what survives in my mind, the Ivan remembers you in his searching elegant looks

Hooking for readable pages that him to a crime of the senescence wailing, waters won't come back again tainted by the hint at the story and talk oh human nature and passion, a bold letter took from your open book, now strewn hanging in the room

Even when I'm in the drunken haze in the clear, swarthy and dressed, lilies wilt in cold art nouveau, talk of colorful tambourines
Dietrich, Lithuania rebarbative is not subjective
Folgen Sie nur auf der Ersten unlike this we search for some facts between the lines of anticipation of something crawl from under
Auf Wiedersehen from the sending  halls that for romance was once, breadth, lengths to go if you're in dearth sickness and you just keep looking to change how you react
Now, you don't even attract me anymore with stories of Lithuania and unspoken in the loveliest languages, how slovenly though
In need for love, drugs can keep this warm, the finding a drunken haze in drugs, ******, are we arriving at the naked frumpy girl or your heaven's in crisis

Hue in the callow streetlamp, your glib about Ibsen, and talk of centuries and blazing etudes that your soul collates, a thrilling merit
When they told her, that she was "yelling."
They asked her to stop making the noise, forgetting that it was music once
They saw the determination in flowery spokes, that follow the sunflower
Parallelogram van in the dim light, strong verses terse hearses
Towers calls and church were we young once, are we full of ourselves
And becoming romantic, philosophizing on knowing you and I
We must have a purpose to do this, applying and ousting ourselves of comforting minnows yarns of jocular joints cracking by the Thomas Munroe book and fireplace, trust the recesses of your mind they aren't distinctly, but, a warm gun
A free drug and Englishman couldn't prevent the brew from brimming
The drudgery of a different time and passion
Time machine, wheels on fire that talks to us and also tells us to sleep, making sure that we keep a mindful eye optioned out of the dinner sleep and talked about that
Well, we are titillating, scintillating, coruscating, shiny friable animated
Frisco bay, curiosity in the shell-shock of the freedom that talks of captivity and caitiffs, call me a coward
We are soldiers in the prisons of our mind, except most of are in the kitchen making the derelict talk, a black cat crosses the street
Talk, and talk, then the electric silence missionaries, a tabled missionary serving food to the few toward the city in pursuit of the curious one.
Aashi Verma Aug 15
Dearth of hostility,
Esteem of feelings.
This is what I want.
Which can't be bought by even millions of shillings.
But who will understand me,
Will the Lord of paradise?
If he comprehends me,
Then why not others acquiesce?
Why there in this world is abomination?
Why not everyone affable?
Why is everywhere total complication,
Why not every heart adorable?
If everyone gathers on the boughs of trees
With a clear heart for everyone.
Your every doubt will fly for sure.
And you'll flourish, I say.
This is the sagacious decision,
That can make a good hearty way!
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