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My 2 Cents “the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.” Let me start by mentioning that I don’t usually get involved with political matters, but in this case, I’d say it’s more of a basic human rights matter. I’m a man, and I’m a feminist. I was lucky enough to grow up in a home with three women; my mother and two older sisters. Growing up with them gave me an enormous amount of respect for women, (even though I may have lost a certain amount of socially expected masculinity along the way), and their current lives continue to increase my respect for the opposite gender. My oldest sister is leaving to study abroad at Oxford in less than a week to major in philosophy. Philosophy. She also graduated high school with a 4.0 and was involved in power lifting competitions and is enlisted in ROTC. Simply put, she’s an animal. She’s worked hard her entire life and I’d hate to see a world that put that hard work to waste. My other sister is working three jobs to pay her way through college and is planning to major in psychology. I’m always envious of her work ethic and level of commitment to not only her education, but to her friends and family as well. My mother has been my backbone since I was a child. She was always the one I turned to in times of trouble, and continues to be. She works hard everyday, while going through mentally straining marriage problems, and comes home and still asks me about my day. She has given me nothing but unconditional love for my entire existence. For these reasons, it boggles my mind why anyone would ever be anti-feminism. I am genuinely confused as to why, because their bodies are different, women get less privileges, respect, opportunities, and even money. I just don’t get it. I am also disgusted that women are seen by most men as walking ****** organs. l will admit genuine guilt to using the number scale to “rate” women. It’s something I grew up with, but now it sickens me. Assigning a number to a woman based on your misguided views on how she should look, whether you would **** her, is something I find repulsive. There’s nothing wrong with admiring the opposite *** but no one gives a **** about your stupid opinion, especially the woman. I hope someday if I ever have a daughter that she will have the privilege of living in a country of gender equality, tolerance, and open-mindedness. Anyway, I just wanted to put my two cents in. I am a man. I am a feminist. Peace.
0
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
nemonobody
My Two Cents
My 2 Cents “the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.” Let me start by mentioning that I don’t usually get involved with political matters, but in this case, I’d say it’s more of a basic human rights matter. I’m a man, and I’m a feminist. I was lucky enough to grow up in a home with three women; my mother and two older sisters. Growing up with them gave me an enormous amount of respect for women, (even though I may have lost a certain amount of socially expected masculinity along the way), and their current lives continue to increase my respect for the opposite gender. My oldest sister is leaving to study abroad at Oxford in less than a week to major in philosophy. Philosophy. She also graduated high school with a 4.0 and was involved in power lifting competitions and is enlisted in ROTC. Simply put, she’s an animal. She’s worked hard her entire life and I’d hate to see a world that put that hard work to waste. My other sister is working three jobs to pay her way through college and is planning to major in psychology. I’m always envious of her work ethic and level of commitment to not only her education, but to her friends and family as well. My mother has been my backbone since I was a child. She was always the one I turned to in times of trouble, and continues to be. She works hard everyday, while going through mentally straining marriage problems, and comes home and still asks me about my day. She has given me nothing but unconditional love for my entire existence. For these reasons, it boggles my mind why anyone would ever be anti-feminism. I am genuinely confused as to why, because their bodies are different, women get less privileges, respect, opportunities, and even money. I just don’t get it. I am also disgusted that women are seen by most men as walking ****** organs. l will admit genuine guilt to using the number scale to “rate” women. It’s something I grew up with, but now it sickens me. Assigning a number to a woman based on your misguided views on how she should look, whether you would **** her, is something I find repulsive. There’s nothing wrong with admiring the opposite *** but no one gives a **** about your stupid opinion, especially the woman. I hope someday if I ever have a daughter that she will have the privilege of living in a country of gender equality, tolerance, and open-mindedness. Anyway, I just wanted to put my two cents in. I am a man. I am a feminist. Peace.
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15
The day you died I went into the dirt, Into the lightless hibernaculum Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard. It was good for twenty years, that wintering -- As if you never existed, as if I came God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly: Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity. I had nothing to do with guilt or anything When I wormed back under my mother's heart. Small as a doll in my dress of innocence I lay dreaming your epic, image by image. Nobody died or withered on that stage. Everything took place in a durable whiteness. The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill. I found your name, I found your bones and all Enlisted in a cramped necropolis your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence. In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path. A field of burdock opens to the south. Six feet of yellow gravel cover you. The artificial red sage does not stir In the basket of plastic evergreens they put At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot, Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye: The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red. Another kind of redness bothers me: The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth My mother unrolled at your last homecoming. I borrow the silts of an old tragedy. The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing; My mother dreamed you face down in the sea. The stony actors poise and pause for breath. I brought my love to bear, and then you died. It was the gangrene ate you to the bone My mother said: you died like any man. How shall I age into that state of mind? I am the ghost of an infamous suicide, My own blue razor rusting at my throat. O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend. It was my love that did us both to death.
0
6.6k
Sylvia Plath
Electra On Azalea Path
The day you died I went into the dirt, Into the lightless hibernaculum Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard. It was good for twenty years, that wintering -- As if you never existed, as if I came God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly: Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity. I had nothing to do with guilt or anything When I wormed back under my mother's heart. Small as a doll in my dress of innocence I lay dreaming your epic, image by image. Nobody died or withered on that stage. Everything took place in a durable whiteness. The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill. I found your name, I found your bones and all Enlisted in a cramped necropolis your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence. In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path. A field of burdock opens to the south. Six feet of yellow gravel cover you. The artificial red sage does not stir In the basket of plastic evergreens they put At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot, Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye: The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red. Another kind of redness bothers me: The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth My mother unrolled at your last homecoming. I borrow the silts of an old tragedy. The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing; My mother dreamed you face down in the sea. The stony actors poise and pause for breath. I brought my love to bear, and then you died. It was the gangrene ate you to the bone My mother said: you died like any man. How shall I age into that state of mind? I am the ghost of an infamous suicide, My own blue razor rusting at my throat. O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend. It was my love that did us both to death.
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46
Fireworks were cool. Framed metal chairs with woven nylon Americana on watered lawns on the outskirts of the edge of Los Angeles. Hairy neighbors, Miller Drafts and dog **** Sally ****** Jim on the corner, and Jim drank, or started again and wouldn’t stop, but was good with a flat tire and chain adjustment. His kid had a glove like a vacuum. His daughter was a ***** Sally afforded a Mexican gardener. Tim always had fireworks. He had gasoline and willed fireworks into his driveway. He had rope and a keg. Schatzky keep her cool. She had to. She worked the 5th and taught everyone’s kids. She taught their parents too, 10 years ago. Her son Donavan and her husband Keith lived for the 4th. Little pink houses and Jack and Diane kind of **** So they watched fireworks on flag hill while their neighbors ****** and got ********* and burnt their eyebrows. Donavan was ecstatic. Each year the hill was gilded in gold for Donavan and Keith and and Schatzky, because each 4th brought fire and explosives in a way they could never afford. Keith was more patriotic than most. He waited and enlisted and became a hero. Donavan watched on TV. Schatzky watched too. We won the first gulf war and everyone knew it: https://youtu.be/4gNhs2SRacs?t=1m10... They celebrated the fourth in baseball stadiums. They celebrated life and heroism and purpose, and they celebrated with F16s and the best explosives the peacetime nation offered. And Keith celebrated and embraced purpose. He even became a leader in the 2nd gulf war. Sally stopped ******* Jim. Jim wasn’t married anymore. His kid lowered Tim’s basement and didn’t steal the copper. Tim’s house was worth a fortune but it had a radon problem. Schatsky was accused of drowning her dog, but she didn’t do it. Jim still drinks; he’s smarter now. They all meet on flag hill every 4th. The fireworks aren’t as good. A lot of build up for a finale that feels like an accident. Water seeps through my jeans and no one can see my face as I limp home with a broken rubber sandal and a bucket of ice, a dog tied around my legs, and a kid face first on the grass, a wife whose friend drank our last beer an hour ago, a phone with  two-percent battery left and my mom wants to show me what fireworks look like in California.
0
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
weinburglar
Fireworks
Fireworks were cool. Framed metal chairs with woven nylon Americana on watered lawns on the outskirts of the edge of Los Angeles. Hairy neighbors, Miller Drafts and dog **** Sally ****** Jim on the corner, and Jim drank, or started again and wouldn’t stop, but was good with a flat tire and chain adjustment. His kid had a glove like a vacuum. His daughter was a ***** Sally afforded a Mexican gardener. Tim always had fireworks. He had gasoline and willed fireworks into his driveway. He had rope and a keg. Schatzky keep her cool. She had to. She worked the 5th and taught everyone’s kids. She taught their parents too, 10 years ago. Her son Donavan and her husband Keith lived for the 4th. Little pink houses and Jack and Diane kind of **** So they watched fireworks on flag hill while their neighbors ****** and got ********* and burnt their eyebrows. Donavan was ecstatic. Each year the hill was gilded in gold for Donavan and Keith and and Schatzky, because each 4th brought fire and explosives in a way they could never afford. Keith was more patriotic than most. He waited and enlisted and became a hero. Donavan watched on TV. Schatzky watched too. We won the first gulf war and everyone knew it: https://youtu.be/4gNhs2SRacs?t=1m10... They celebrated the fourth in baseball stadiums. They celebrated life and heroism and purpose, and they celebrated with F16s and the best explosives the peacetime nation offered. And Keith celebrated and embraced purpose. He even became a leader in the 2nd gulf war. Sally stopped ******* Jim. Jim wasn’t married anymore. His kid lowered Tim’s basement and didn’t steal the copper. Tim’s house was worth a fortune but it had a radon problem. Schatsky was accused of drowning her dog, but she didn’t do it. Jim still drinks; he’s smarter now. They all meet on flag hill every 4th. The fireworks aren’t as good. A lot of build up for a finale that feels like an accident. Water seeps through my jeans and no one can see my face as I limp home with a broken rubber sandal and a bucket of ice, a dog tied around my legs, and a kid face first on the grass, a wife whose friend drank our last beer an hour ago, a phone with  two-percent battery left and my mom wants to show me what fireworks look like in California.
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14
They warned us not to worry, Just do our best in school; Those worldly professionals, Taught us work-to-rule. They did a few case studies On twins from day of birth; There's a fifty-fifty chance, A will be born first They are urban fighters, Of fire, crime and blame; They live in high rise condos, They return from foreign lands. They  wait over subway vents, Their hearts and heads are bent; They show-up in walk-ons, They go without for Lent. They fly in and out of space, They don't identify with race; They're picked up for vagrancy, They dance cautiously in the street. They volley warning shots Across our private dreams; They sign and seal a peace accord They're sincere to a degree. They contribute to the run-off, And spiked our holy water; They enlisted Moms and Dads, Then slaughtered sons and daughters. They made rings from ivory, And pale lamp shades from skin; They list dissipation As a personal sin. Then they did unholy things With wood and nails, then atoms; They tore at our goodly earth, Wreaked havoc with their mapping. They distilled our alcohol, Made smoking so appealing; Then they rang the tower bells, And preached we had no feelings. They dug deep for wishing wells, Grew stuff to **** our germs; They bestowed us rods and reels, And spades to dig our worms. They connected us Through wireless touch; They counseled us on loneliness, And the traps of busyness. They pronounce death is art When they hang it on a wall; Then blame it on our women, In a scene based on our fall. They're newsy opaque, In love or hate; They are the ambiguous, The they, them and all of us.
0
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
francie-lynch
The Ambiguous
They warned us not to worry, Just do our best in school; Those worldly professionals, Taught us work-to-rule. They did a few case studies On twins from day of birth; There's a fifty-fifty chance, A will be born first They are urban fighters, Of fire, crime and blame; They live in high rise condos, They return from foreign lands. They  wait over subway vents, Their hearts and heads are bent; They show-up in walk-ons, They go without for Lent. They fly in and out of space, They don't identify with race; They're picked up for vagrancy, They dance cautiously in the street. They volley warning shots Across our private dreams; They sign and seal a peace accord They're sincere to a degree. They contribute to the run-off, And spiked our holy water; They enlisted Moms and Dads, Then slaughtered sons and daughters. They made rings from ivory, And pale lamp shades from skin; They list dissipation As a personal sin. Then they did unholy things With wood and nails, then atoms; They tore at our goodly earth, Wreaked havoc with their mapping. They distilled our alcohol, Made smoking so appealing; Then they rang the tower bells, And preached we had no feelings. They dug deep for wishing wells, Grew stuff to **** our germs; They bestowed us rods and reels, And spades to dig our worms. They connected us Through wireless touch; They counseled us on loneliness, And the traps of busyness. They pronounce death is art When they hang it on a wall; Then blame it on our women, In a scene based on our fall. They're newsy opaque, In love or hate; They are the ambiguous, The they, them and all of us.
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56
When ranchers decide to do a thing, Sometimes they just go through it. What follows is a little fling A neighbor did...don't do it. The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage. So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude, Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge. Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space, A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away. Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day. The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul, Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs) Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags. Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home, And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn. Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some; The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed. So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose How ever would they move the thing through town? The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down? Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black. "Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!" Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground. Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon; Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast, To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon); The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last. In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist. Stole some runway time and cut their journey short... No harm done, though they'd never do it twice Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
0
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
don-bouchard
Runway Surprises
When ranchers decide to do a thing, Sometimes they just go through it. What follows is a little fling A neighbor did...don't do it. The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage. So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude, Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge. Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space, A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away. Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day. The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul, Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs) Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags. Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home, And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn. Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some; The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed. So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose How ever would they move the thing through town? The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down? Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black. "Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!" Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground. Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon; Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast, To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon); The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last. In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist. Stole some runway time and cut their journey short... No harm done, though they'd never do it twice Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
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36
Born of a binary, black/white, white/ black. Cultured by silence, a blank slate, but no more tears. Time isn't real. They speak, they say, tell me there's nothing wrong with me; standing in the kitchen with my grandmother telling me there is nothing DIFFERENT about you. Strive to conform. Sameness is a casualty. **I DON'T GIVE A **** about conservatives . "Humanists" avoiding their toxic misogynistic tendencies, old friends enlisted voluntarily perpetuating a system of violence and suffering, others are bluffing, don't say **** walk eggshells, I must be a tiger loose from the cage, and they're waiting to see who becomes the canary in my coal mine. Rhyming by incident, but I hate this **** & I'm not all right. Women can participate in their own oppression, minorities can be racist, we're all raised in a ditch; Patriarchy, capitalism, class values, botched messages, "color blindness", etc. etc. etc. **** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect" if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch. Cultured by racism and depression. I think of suicide like a novelty until I don't . . . Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering. Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma. Waiting for the past to make sense. Waiting.
0
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
austin-heath
"Raised in a Ditch."
Born of a binary, black/white, white/ black. Cultured by silence, a blank slate, but no more tears. Time isn't real. They speak, they say, tell me there's nothing wrong with me; standing in the kitchen with my grandmother telling me there is nothing DIFFERENT about you. Strive to conform. Sameness is a casualty. **I DON'T GIVE A **** about conservatives . "Humanists" avoiding their toxic misogynistic tendencies, old friends enlisted voluntarily perpetuating a system of violence and suffering, others are bluffing, don't say **** walk eggshells, I must be a tiger loose from the cage, and they're waiting to see who becomes the canary in my coal mine. Rhyming by incident, but I hate this **** & I'm not all right. Women can participate in their own oppression, minorities can be racist, we're all raised in a ditch; Patriarchy, capitalism, class values, botched messages, "color blindness", etc. etc. etc. **** everyone, and don't treat me like I'm better or I should know better, or I have to be "perfect" if I want to be "different". Raised in a ditch. Cultured by racism and depression. I think of suicide like a novelty until I don't . . . Everything turns grey and reads like sloganeering. Waiting for the past to manifest as a trauma. Waiting for the past to make sense. Waiting.
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48
All I know is monsters All I see is a cold world that gets darker as the *** stir's The future blurs to a point its so obscure it's not yours Can't seem to stop words from causing me to go backwards Maybe I need to go back and relearn like toddlers in diapers There's no cures All the fibers of my being are withering away like dead flowers Retreating like cowards The more I try the worse I fail, a living hell, crunch the numbers I've done the math, a chalk board full of blunders Nightmares occurring with my eyes wide shut It's more then a rut A candidate to win? Nope, I have a losing ballot No safety blanket and no bright colors on my pallet Hollow and cryptic Revisit the past like I'm stuck to it with a rivet This isn't just unfortunate it's inadequate Chew off my arm to be free or just cannibalistic Can I even resist it? This dark army that I have enlisted For to long happy never even existed And you wonder why I tend go ballistic... Man, *** this $hit! ©2018
0
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
bettsjc187
~•§•~ Not A Winning Candidate ~•§•~
All I know is monsters All I see is a cold world that gets darker as the *** stir's The future blurs to a point its so obscure it's not yours Can't seem to stop words from causing me to go backwards Maybe I need to go back and relearn like toddlers in diapers There's no cures All the fibers of my being are withering away like dead flowers Retreating like cowards The more I try the worse I fail, a living hell, crunch the numbers I've done the math, a chalk board full of blunders Nightmares occurring with my eyes wide shut It's more then a rut A candidate to win? Nope, I have a losing ballot No safety blanket and no bright colors on my pallet Hollow and cryptic Revisit the past like I'm stuck to it with a rivet This isn't just unfortunate it's inadequate Chew off my arm to be free or just cannibalistic Can I even resist it? This dark army that I have enlisted For to long happy never even existed And you wonder why I tend go ballistic... Man, *** this $hit! ©2018
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24
Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was poised on the edge of annihilation, The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity, then without warning Scheherazade stilled her narrative and lived to see the morning sun. When the moon and stars next owned the sky, Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death then the saga of Prince Kalandar seized the king's soul with wonder but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished and sang with the birds at dawn. Rimsky-Korsakoff turned the pages at his desk - consumed by Scheherazade’s charms then etched his pen across the waiting staves: The violin must weave her spell once more and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part. Trombone and trumpet led the martial call and all the rest enlisted for the cause. Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road. A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church, as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force. A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale. capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates. The silence yielded to tender violins chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace. Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry of her debonaire and most virtuous prince. As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes and beheld his immortal princess and she her valiant and eternal prince and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn. She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear, “My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever. Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”
0
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
robert-c-howard
A Thousand and One Nights
Sinbad’s sea-battered ship was poised on the edge of annihilation, The Sultan's brow furrowed with curiosity, then without warning Scheherazade stilled her narrative and lived to see the morning sun. When the moon and stars next owned the sky, Sinbad was snatched from the jaws of death then the saga of Prince Kalandar seized the king's soul with wonder but Scheherazade left the tale unfinished and sang with the birds at dawn. Rimsky-Korsakoff turned the pages at his desk - consumed by Scheherazade’s charms then etched his pen across the waiting staves: The violin must weave her spell once more and bassoon and oboe take the prince’s part. Trombone and trumpet led the martial call and all the rest enlisted for the cause. Russian bravura fused with the seductive allure of exotic tunes born of the dust on the silken road. A sonic whirlwind filled Saint Paul Church, as winds and tremolos grew to cyclonic force. A wall of brass completed Kalandar’s tale. capped by an exuberant clash of cymbal plates. The silence yielded to tender violins chanting a hymn to the princess in all her grace. Tambourine and winds wove a tapestry of her debonaire and most virtuous prince. As the final pizzicato chord faded, the Sultan turned to Scheherazade with tear-filled eyes and beheld his immortal princess and she her valiant and eternal prince and so it would be as long as night preceded dawn. She kissed away his tears of joy and whispered in his ear, “My beloved husband, I will tell you stories forever. Tomorrow you shall learn of the Feast at Baghdad.”
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37
Convince him to get a new hair cut and when he does, notice the way it doesn't frame his face the way it used to and how his shaved head reminds you of your cousin who, as your mom said, enlisted too young. Listen to him, really listen to him when he talks and watch the way his mouth automatically turns to a smile after every single sentence he utters. Make note of every time he laughs at his own joke. When he tosses you a compliment picture his last person and how they must have felt when he tossed the same line to them. As you're lying in bed try to recall the time before he called you his and consider how long you wanted him. Remember the way you memorized his drink orders and the sweater he always wore on Tuesday. Realize that you stopped memorizing him the day he confessed to memorizing you. Bring him to social gatherings and become annoyed with the way he clings to you. Catch him staring at you at least three times in one day and when the day is over compare that number to the zero amount of times you found yourself gazing his way. His voice will come to annoy you and it is important that instead of shutting it out, you let it in. Eventually this annoyance will turn into hatred so you have to let every word sink in. Don't listen to your friends tell you how nice he is and ignore the voice in your head telling you that you have to be happy because he treats you right, unlike the last one. Let it finally hit you that you no longer like him, when you find yourself at 2am crying, in a dark room illuminated only by the light of a computer screen displaying the last picture you have of the man you actually love.
0
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
bcg-poetry
How to stop liking him
Convince him to get a new hair cut and when he does, notice the way it doesn't frame his face the way it used to and how his shaved head reminds you of your cousin who, as your mom said, enlisted too young. Listen to him, really listen to him when he talks and watch the way his mouth automatically turns to a smile after every single sentence he utters. Make note of every time he laughs at his own joke. When he tosses you a compliment picture his last person and how they must have felt when he tossed the same line to them. As you're lying in bed try to recall the time before he called you his and consider how long you wanted him. Remember the way you memorized his drink orders and the sweater he always wore on Tuesday. Realize that you stopped memorizing him the day he confessed to memorizing you. Bring him to social gatherings and become annoyed with the way he clings to you. Catch him staring at you at least three times in one day and when the day is over compare that number to the zero amount of times you found yourself gazing his way. His voice will come to annoy you and it is important that instead of shutting it out, you let it in. Eventually this annoyance will turn into hatred so you have to let every word sink in. Don't listen to your friends tell you how nice he is and ignore the voice in your head telling you that you have to be happy because he treats you right, unlike the last one. Let it finally hit you that you no longer like him, when you find yourself at 2am crying, in a dark room illuminated only by the light of a computer screen displaying the last picture you have of the man you actually love.
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1
~Enter~ Everything injected Identity constricted Breaths restricted Fights enlisted Words explicit Pain inflicted ~Exit~ Withdrawing addiction Half of me missing Shaking commencing Cold sweats kick in Heartbeats lessening Death's threatening ~Return~ Suffocation retired Individuality aspired Stimulation inspired Culmination transpired Life long love desired Exact dosage is required ~Anchored~ © Tina Thompson
0
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 8:13 PM UTC
tinamarie
Prescription
~Enter~ Everything injected Identity constricted Breaths restricted Fights enlisted Words explicit Pain inflicted ~Exit~ Withdrawing addiction Half of me missing Shaking commencing Cold sweats kick in Heartbeats lessening Death's threatening ~Return~ Suffocation retired Individuality aspired Stimulation inspired Culmination transpired Life long love desired Exact dosage is required ~Anchored~ © Tina Thompson
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23
My mind is mine, at least I think it is, but my body honestly, I’m not so sure, see I left home, a runaway, and most of my past, is totally blurred, sometimes I look at my hands, and think they’re not mine, sometimes I see my parents, and think they’re not mine, and I feel trapped in here, like a Ghost in a shell, and the only way I know to get these messages to you, is through these letters I spell, like a message in a bottle, sent by First Class Mail, letters messages bottles, it’s all adding up as far as I can tell, and I’d explain it all, but I don’t want to get too specific, it’s not that I’m scared I’m just not sure, which side I’m on and to which alliance I’ve enlisted, so I continue to just write in code, to spell sentences with these letters, ABC’s are my 1’s and 0’s, because I program Emotionalist, and that’s Emotionalist, not Emotionless, there’s a difference, please make a note of it, note, letters, here we go again, for worse or for better, they made me a weapon, but not the kind that kills, they taught me how to destroy, by teaching me how to build, see whenever I feel anxious, and people tell me to chill, I tell my self to behave, because it’s just the Ghost in my shell, see my mind is mine, at least I think it is, but my body honestly, I’m not so sure… ∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
0
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
aaronlalux
∆ Ghost In The Shell ∆
My mind is mine, at least I think it is, but my body honestly, I’m not so sure, see I left home, a runaway, and most of my past, is totally blurred, sometimes I look at my hands, and think they’re not mine, sometimes I see my parents, and think they’re not mine, and I feel trapped in here, like a Ghost in a shell, and the only way I know to get these messages to you, is through these letters I spell, like a message in a bottle, sent by First Class Mail, letters messages bottles, it’s all adding up as far as I can tell, and I’d explain it all, but I don’t want to get too specific, it’s not that I’m scared I’m just not sure, which side I’m on and to which alliance I’ve enlisted, so I continue to just write in code, to spell sentences with these letters, ABC’s are my 1’s and 0’s, because I program Emotionalist, and that’s Emotionalist, not Emotionless, there’s a difference, please make a note of it, note, letters, here we go again, for worse or for better, they made me a weapon, but not the kind that kills, they taught me how to destroy, by teaching me how to build, see whenever I feel anxious, and people tell me to chill, I tell my self to behave, because it’s just the Ghost in my shell, see my mind is mine, at least I think it is, but my body honestly, I’m not so sure… ∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
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49
There once was a great beast, now but a myth, who sat atop Mr. Atlas’s throne. So the story goes, the beast had become so heavy, and such a burden on Mr. Atlas, that he enlisted some folks to tame it. ****** that beast could fight back. He fought for ages, centuries, eons, a near-bloody-eternity to stay on top of his throne. He would not be defeated, until the world stopped turning up on old Mr. Atlas’s back. After fighting back on and on, pressuring the tamers for years on end, the gargantuan beast was slowly getting tired. Energy seeped out of his body. But he kept fighting. He kept fighting until he didn’t see the point anymore, and he fought some more. To this very moment, the beast is still fighting up there on old Mr. Atlas’s back. The beast, our voice, our final bastion of worldly balance, should very well be tamed by now. The idea of submitting to our tamers is a very unpopular one, though popular at the same time among some. But they are the tamers, and we are the beasts, fighting back to little avail but not giving up on the mission, though thoroughly futile. Folks, it’s time for us to submit to those who are taming us. As awful, as cowardly, as utterly asinine as this sounds to most of you, we just cannot go on if we continue to fight back. Those in charge have ****** it up so thoroughly that we must live life through simplistic principles. We can’t afford to **** around with “the man” anymore. It simply will not work. We have to find our happiness. We have to enjoy the little things, little victories, little comforts, little joys, little hardships, and big souls with big aspirations on the little scale that we are left with. As we enjoy these things, we in turn do not submit to those above us. In fact, those above us hate that we are content. Our contentment is their pain, and if they feel pain, then they stop taming us and they themselves become the ones who are tamed, subdued by their own (now) unsuccessful attempts to tame us. So we have to find comfort in the uncomfortable, and joy in the hardships of life, and accept that we cannot change a thing unless we are content with the conditions that these folks have presented us with. Comfort and contentment is everything, and it is what tames the tamers of the beast.
0
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
jack-marsh
Untitled commentary.
There once was a great beast, now but a myth, who sat atop Mr. Atlas’s throne. So the story goes, the beast had become so heavy, and such a burden on Mr. Atlas, that he enlisted some folks to tame it. ****** that beast could fight back. He fought for ages, centuries, eons, a near-bloody-eternity to stay on top of his throne. He would not be defeated, until the world stopped turning up on old Mr. Atlas’s back. After fighting back on and on, pressuring the tamers for years on end, the gargantuan beast was slowly getting tired. Energy seeped out of his body. But he kept fighting. He kept fighting until he didn’t see the point anymore, and he fought some more. To this very moment, the beast is still fighting up there on old Mr. Atlas’s back. The beast, our voice, our final bastion of worldly balance, should very well be tamed by now. The idea of submitting to our tamers is a very unpopular one, though popular at the same time among some. But they are the tamers, and we are the beasts, fighting back to little avail but not giving up on the mission, though thoroughly futile. Folks, it’s time for us to submit to those who are taming us. As awful, as cowardly, as utterly asinine as this sounds to most of you, we just cannot go on if we continue to fight back. Those in charge have ****** it up so thoroughly that we must live life through simplistic principles. We can’t afford to **** around with “the man” anymore. It simply will not work. We have to find our happiness. We have to enjoy the little things, little victories, little comforts, little joys, little hardships, and big souls with big aspirations on the little scale that we are left with. As we enjoy these things, we in turn do not submit to those above us. In fact, those above us hate that we are content. Our contentment is their pain, and if they feel pain, then they stop taming us and they themselves become the ones who are tamed, subdued by their own (now) unsuccessful attempts to tame us. So we have to find comfort in the uncomfortable, and joy in the hardships of life, and accept that we cannot change a thing unless we are content with the conditions that these folks have presented us with. Comfort and contentment is everything, and it is what tames the tamers of the beast.
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7
The moment you traveled back to me, I couldn't love you the same. I couldn't pick up, just where you left off, or even couldn't start it all over again. There wasn't any beginning or end to it. I couldn't move, it suffocated me. I couldn't care less, how she was holding you then. I couldn't find the same old you. And you weren't my treasure trove of tenderness anymore. I felt as if my love was temporary, maybe it was. You tell me it's all the same, the daisies you planted, the walls we painted, the smell of my hair, though its new red color glare. The night-light I bought, the candles you got. The books that you read, the ones I'd like to keep. And you still like to smell them in indeed. The places we navigated, the ones awaited. The moments we collected, the ones enlisted. you still hate socializing, and humans aren't my special liking. You're lactose intolerant, but love ice-creams. And for me, ice-creams are eminent. But lovers lie, don't they?
0
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
lemonade-1
Lovers and lies.
The moment you traveled back to me, I couldn't love you the same. I couldn't pick up, just where you left off, or even couldn't start it all over again. There wasn't any beginning or end to it. I couldn't move, it suffocated me. I couldn't care less, how she was holding you then. I couldn't find the same old you. And you weren't my treasure trove of tenderness anymore. I felt as if my love was temporary, maybe it was. You tell me it's all the same, the daisies you planted, the walls we painted, the smell of my hair, though its new red color glare. The night-light I bought, the candles you got. The books that you read, the ones I'd like to keep. And you still like to smell them in indeed. The places we navigated, the ones awaited. The moments we collected, the ones enlisted. you still hate socializing, and humans aren't my special liking. You're lactose intolerant, but love ice-creams. And for me, ice-creams are eminent. But lovers lie, don't they?
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31
Half white, half other Mother of a soon to be Born from an intent at backlash Mother of a born to be Plastic spoon in a microwave Destitute, minimal, designer criminal Bun in the oven Baby be coming Out of any mind to choose Mother of a soon to be Potential property to bruise Heidegger enlisted to the off-side Probably due to the wave before Baby lost to the in and out of control, vessel of the past and preordained Prescribed a will denying the innate All joke, all alone Began to end in a hot flash Mother of a soon to be Giveaway
0
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC
wren-djinn-rain
Antonia Hot Flash: "Baby Be Coming"
Half white, half other Mother of a soon to be Born from an intent at backlash Mother of a born to be Plastic spoon in a microwave Destitute, minimal, designer criminal Bun in the oven Baby be coming Out of any mind to choose Mother of a soon to be Potential property to bruise Heidegger enlisted to the off-side Probably due to the wave before Baby lost to the in and out of control, vessel of the past and preordained Prescribed a will denying the innate All joke, all alone Began to end in a hot flash Mother of a soon to be Giveaway
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21
atheana is working on removing my teeth you see i went to the dentist this morning and there was a problem, i was having a stabbing pain right in my gum and the dentist enlisted athena’s help in the healing of the infection, he gave me cephalexin to be taken every 12 hours, till finished and i have been advised to see a doctor if i feel giddy, they took an x-ray on my teeth and i need another denture, as the teeth have to be pulled out when i say athena helps, not in the magical way, no i mean athena gives dentists and doctors help in healing, and will put the patient under sedation, so the work can be done, athena will help you whether you believe it or not, my consulton for the dental work is next tuesday at 3.30pm, and i enlisted dads help in the cosmos to make sure i will help mum with the payment, like paying $40 a fortnight, so she isn’t out of pocket, because i don’t really want to blame dads death on not having help with my dental work done i hope i get these teeth out as soon as i can, the right way, with athena’s help it’s interesting to know if the NDIS, could give funding for dental treatment among other things the coke i have been drinking, has been cosmically putting the gas into my mouth, and gets rid of evil from my brain, and this infection is apart of the evil, which was in my brain, you see when i used to smile, i looked like i was giving the evil YEAH, like a few of my school friends and that is when i was blackbeard the pirate, and i have to have the evil out of me from those days i will need more dentures, i will help pay for it, with the help of the cosmos, ATHENA, HELP ME
0
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC
johnny-georgy-brown
i need dental work on earth, with help of the cosmos
atheana is working on removing my teeth you see i went to the dentist this morning and there was a problem, i was having a stabbing pain right in my gum and the dentist enlisted athena’s help in the healing of the infection, he gave me cephalexin to be taken every 12 hours, till finished and i have been advised to see a doctor if i feel giddy, they took an x-ray on my teeth and i need another denture, as the teeth have to be pulled out when i say athena helps, not in the magical way, no i mean athena gives dentists and doctors help in healing, and will put the patient under sedation, so the work can be done, athena will help you whether you believe it or not, my consulton for the dental work is next tuesday at 3.30pm, and i enlisted dads help in the cosmos to make sure i will help mum with the payment, like paying $40 a fortnight, so she isn’t out of pocket, because i don’t really want to blame dads death on not having help with my dental work done i hope i get these teeth out as soon as i can, the right way, with athena’s help it’s interesting to know if the NDIS, could give funding for dental treatment among other things the coke i have been drinking, has been cosmically putting the gas into my mouth, and gets rid of evil from my brain, and this infection is apart of the evil, which was in my brain, you see when i used to smile, i looked like i was giving the evil YEAH, like a few of my school friends and that is when i was blackbeard the pirate, and i have to have the evil out of me from those days i will need more dentures, i will help pay for it, with the help of the cosmos, ATHENA, HELP ME
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23
Some girls have flowers in their hair. Some have forests. Some girls keep their head under water their whole life Refusing to face the sky, Closing the curtains, and telling the sun they are not interested. Not today. Some girls have heart beats like morse code. But you won't get the message unless you're close enough. Some girls wish on stars that only stare back, Some stare at the blinding moon until it's beams shoot out their fingertips Brighter than city lights. Some girls have mouths full of gunpowder. Their "i love you"s will leave you breathless, wondering whether you enlisted or were drafted into this war. Some girls have eyes like pesky fireflies you will try to put in a jar for when it gets cold. They will fly too far out of your reach. Some girls have eyes like swimming pools, and you will bravely cannonball into their depths. Some girls have flowers in their hair. Some have forests. You have wondered too far past the garden's gate.
0
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
cynosure
Different Types of Girls
Some girls have flowers in their hair. Some have forests. Some girls keep their head under water their whole life Refusing to face the sky, Closing the curtains, and telling the sun they are not interested. Not today. Some girls have heart beats like morse code. But you won't get the message unless you're close enough. Some girls wish on stars that only stare back, Some stare at the blinding moon until it's beams shoot out their fingertips Brighter than city lights. Some girls have mouths full of gunpowder. Their "i love you"s will leave you breathless, wondering whether you enlisted or were drafted into this war. Some girls have eyes like pesky fireflies you will try to put in a jar for when it gets cold. They will fly too far out of your reach. Some girls have eyes like swimming pools, and you will bravely cannonball into their depths. Some girls have flowers in their hair. Some have forests. You have wondered too far past the garden's gate.
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19
my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul, stretched parabola forming a straight line towards heaven. I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling from my lips, this tired old street corner this tired old man giving the world what it wants. I am enlisted. I am the bubble hidden deep inside the bone. I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony, stung by his own pride. here, brother, listen: walk with me while I tell you about the accubation of life and all of it's little lovers, those tiny frail things so easily forgotten. my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind, soft, flattened, delightful attracted to flavor. a million spiders bred a million more, and still their webs spread empty between the trees. this is the way God works. earthquakes, tsunamis, libraries engulfed in flames, over-dosed artists, a genius child sold into slavery. we all become what we already are: gentle creatures abacinated by society fenced in and cornered by evil dreams. we thrash in our sleep, we wake violently, we burst onto the scene like lions from another planet, hungry, oh so wild and hungry. this is the way We work.
0
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
mick-tomlinson
aeolist
my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul, stretched parabola forming a straight line towards heaven. I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling from my lips, this tired old street corner this tired old man giving the world what it wants. I am enlisted. I am the bubble hidden deep inside the bone. I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony, stung by his own pride. here, brother, listen: walk with me while I tell you about the accubation of life and all of it's little lovers, those tiny frail things so easily forgotten. my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind, soft, flattened, delightful attracted to flavor. a million spiders bred a million more, and still their webs spread empty between the trees. this is the way God works. earthquakes, tsunamis, libraries engulfed in flames, over-dosed artists, a genius child sold into slavery. we all become what we already are: gentle creatures abacinated by society fenced in and cornered by evil dreams. we thrash in our sleep, we wake violently, we burst onto the scene like lions from another planet, hungry, oh so wild and hungry. this is the way We work.
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36
I did my duty, I went to war Now to see her face, I ask no more True love is her heart to be How I wish life was battle free Even as I fight, the years go by Lessons to learn to **** but why? If only we could find some peace Now my life would find a release Each second takes me away from her Oh, how I wish we could be together Freedom should be fought for the better Far away, I settle down to read her letter If only I had never enlisted in this war Reaching now, in tears, on a distant shore Ends in tormented pain as she leaves me
0
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 4:57 PM UTC
Darkpoetsoul
485: In The Line Of Fire
I did my duty, I went to war Now to see her face, I ask no more True love is her heart to be How I wish life was battle free Even as I fight, the years go by Lessons to learn to **** but why? If only we could find some peace Now my life would find a release Each second takes me away from her Oh, how I wish we could be together Freedom should be fought for the better Far away, I settle down to read her letter If only I had never enlisted in this war Reaching now, in tears, on a distant shore Ends in tormented pain as she leaves me
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15
bless this restlessness as it is success but a mess none the less I confess when wearing a dress there is no guess just bad press and distress impressed? the need for rest seems incessant and persistent yet I remain resistant by playing an instrument, one reminiscent of distant enlisted men transitioning to some sort of agricultural based life of subsistence subservient serfdom on poor farms in Tennessee with plenty of hens running free and a still out back brewing grain whiskey frisky miss’s with pesky kittens rub dainty mittens smitten with ripping the cotton-topped children’s collars and slipping dollars to poor babies fathers while bothering loggers robbing old codgers –
0
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:57 AM UTC
s-lyman-temple
a lil junk.....put it in yer trunk
bless this restlessness as it is success but a mess none the less I confess when wearing a dress there is no guess just bad press and distress impressed? the need for rest seems incessant and persistent yet I remain resistant by playing an instrument, one reminiscent of distant enlisted men transitioning to some sort of agricultural based life of subsistence subservient serfdom on poor farms in Tennessee with plenty of hens running free and a still out back brewing grain whiskey frisky miss’s with pesky kittens rub dainty mittens smitten with ripping the cotton-topped children’s collars and slipping dollars to poor babies fathers while bothering loggers robbing old codgers –
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29
Grading curves.... Wrongly ruptured neurological nerves. Condemned by societal hate, his fluctuating brain synapses tend to create vicious, malicious and practitious acts that gravitate to attack the faith in every church enlisted in every homestead household. Retaliation puts him in a chokehold. A headlock, a leglock, a deadlock of the mind consciousness revoked, the button is broke vain attempts to find rewind. Press Pause. Bask in his murderous glory, the bodies of the converted; epitome of gory. Bloodshed because god is dead claimed Nietzche He kills all his idols and struggles to think freely. You see the doctors had his mind locked in a cage, they built the bars since he was at an illiterate stage. They taught him how to act, then how to think, a mindless drone choked cause they revoked the power to speak- toungue in cheek, they'll chop off your arm just to make sure nothing's hiding up the sleeve and questioning authority's their biggest pet peeve. But enough is enough...I CHOOSE WHAT TO BELIEVE... Drop my textbook, throw my desk, and through those guidance doors I leave.
0
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
chrysanthos-nicholas
The White Room with the White Walls (Spoken Word)
Grading curves.... Wrongly ruptured neurological nerves. Condemned by societal hate, his fluctuating brain synapses tend to create vicious, malicious and practitious acts that gravitate to attack the faith in every church enlisted in every homestead household. Retaliation puts him in a chokehold. A headlock, a leglock, a deadlock of the mind consciousness revoked, the button is broke vain attempts to find rewind. Press Pause. Bask in his murderous glory, the bodies of the converted; epitome of gory. Bloodshed because god is dead claimed Nietzche He kills all his idols and struggles to think freely. You see the doctors had his mind locked in a cage, they built the bars since he was at an illiterate stage. They taught him how to act, then how to think, a mindless drone choked cause they revoked the power to speak- toungue in cheek, they'll chop off your arm just to make sure nothing's hiding up the sleeve and questioning authority's their biggest pet peeve. But enough is enough...I CHOOSE WHAT TO BELIEVE... Drop my textbook, throw my desk, and through those guidance doors I leave.
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26
My tummy stood still; a statue of a stomach that paused as she passed by to get into the used bookshop line to pay for her basket of titles and authors I'd no idea existed, but I'd be willing to learn and read and not breathe until I had enlisted the use of Wikipedia to find out a one fact about each of them so to break the ice and breach that border of conversation, because I'd want to tell her in some Woody Allen way that her eyes were nice and that Cambridge could be ours tonight if she wanted to.
0
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
tim-knight
OXFAM QUEUE
My tummy stood still; a statue of a stomach that paused as she passed by to get into the used bookshop line to pay for her basket of titles and authors I'd no idea existed, but I'd be willing to learn and read and not breathe until I had enlisted the use of Wikipedia to find out a one fact about each of them so to break the ice and breach that border of conversation, because I'd want to tell her in some Woody Allen way that her eyes were nice and that Cambridge could be ours tonight if she wanted to.
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6
when i was young i drew hearts that looked like the letter "B" - B for battle - for bullies - for boys who would sting me a thousand times over and i worry about my allergies. when i was eight i was a cub scout enlisted in a group on how to become a man i didn't want to play dodgeball, you stupid **** i just wanted to sit back and look at the other boys in their uniforms my heart pounding like a moth on glass i promise that i will do my best to keep it inside of my chest to try and suppress the urge to walk over to peter and kiss him like i ought to kiss girls well, i didn't earn many activity badges and i never won a game of dodgeball but i've washed away the shame, come to learn it's okay to kiss boys like i ought to kiss girls infact, it's ******* great
0
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
adam-hicks
the letter "B"
when i was young i drew hearts that looked like the letter "B" - B for battle - for bullies - for boys who would sting me a thousand times over and i worry about my allergies. when i was eight i was a cub scout enlisted in a group on how to become a man i didn't want to play dodgeball, you stupid **** i just wanted to sit back and look at the other boys in their uniforms my heart pounding like a moth on glass i promise that i will do my best to keep it inside of my chest to try and suppress the urge to walk over to peter and kiss him like i ought to kiss girls well, i didn't earn many activity badges and i never won a game of dodgeball but i've washed away the shame, come to learn it's okay to kiss boys like i ought to kiss girls infact, it's ******* great
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28
You said, "The key to happiness is self preservation." I don't think you know what happiness means. Clearly, you've never kissed in the freezing rain. Clearly you've never had *** in a stranger's pool in the middle of the night. You've probably never had a midnight snowball fight without gloves or a jacket. There's no way you've ever been on a roller coaster. You've obviously never taken a punch for a friend. I'll bet you've never taken the blame for something you're little sister did. I'm sure you've never gone bike riding through a lightning storm. And you've most certainly never been in love, Or moved to a new city with nothing but a suitcase. Or enlisted in the military. Or driven into a terrifying part of town to rescue a drunk cousin. Or committed a serious crime, or deployed a school prank. Or road tripped to a college and gotten stupid drunk. Or played tackle football on Thanksgiving with your older cousin's friends. And you've **** sure never snuck out into the night, or jumped into a fight for one of your friends. And something tells me you know nothing of signing your life away for a cause greater than your own. Have you ever gone paint balling? Or white water rafting? Rock climbing? Street racing? Have you ever played with fireworks? Or shared a meal with a homeless person? Didn't think so. Have you ever played truth or dare? Probably not. You've never quit your job to pursue a dream, you've never rolled the dice of fate, knowing death could be as probable as life. And you **** sure have never willingly given your self fully to another, to do with whatever they please, because without them you'll never be whole again. And there's no way in Hell you've ever begged out into the darkness to trade your life with a family members, wishing to take their pain away and wear it like a trophy so they can be happy again. You see, the key to HAPPINESS is LIFE. The key to LIFE is being ALIVE. And the preservation of the moments, and people that make you feel alive, that remind you how precious and beautiful being alive is. And in order to feel alive, sometimes you have to put your life on the line, and live a little dangerously. Sometimes that means not knowing where your life is gonna go. Sometimes it means preserving someone else's life before you're own. Because happiness is knowing your life is worth living. Save your preservation for when you're dead. By then it won't matter anyways. But hey, what do I know? You'll be a perfect corpse some day. Way prettier than mine.
0
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 6:28 PM UTC
kyledalsanto
Let's. Get. Dangerous.
You said, "The key to happiness is self preservation." I don't think you know what happiness means. Clearly, you've never kissed in the freezing rain. Clearly you've never had *** in a stranger's pool in the middle of the night. You've probably never had a midnight snowball fight without gloves or a jacket. There's no way you've ever been on a roller coaster. You've obviously never taken a punch for a friend. I'll bet you've never taken the blame for something you're little sister did. I'm sure you've never gone bike riding through a lightning storm. And you've most certainly never been in love, Or moved to a new city with nothing but a suitcase. Or enlisted in the military. Or driven into a terrifying part of town to rescue a drunk cousin. Or committed a serious crime, or deployed a school prank. Or road tripped to a college and gotten stupid drunk. Or played tackle football on Thanksgiving with your older cousin's friends. And you've **** sure never snuck out into the night, or jumped into a fight for one of your friends. And something tells me you know nothing of signing your life away for a cause greater than your own. Have you ever gone paint balling? Or white water rafting? Rock climbing? Street racing? Have you ever played with fireworks? Or shared a meal with a homeless person? Didn't think so. Have you ever played truth or dare? Probably not. You've never quit your job to pursue a dream, you've never rolled the dice of fate, knowing death could be as probable as life. And you **** sure have never willingly given your self fully to another, to do with whatever they please, because without them you'll never be whole again. And there's no way in Hell you've ever begged out into the darkness to trade your life with a family members, wishing to take their pain away and wear it like a trophy so they can be happy again. You see, the key to HAPPINESS is LIFE. The key to LIFE is being ALIVE. And the preservation of the moments, and people that make you feel alive, that remind you how precious and beautiful being alive is. And in order to feel alive, sometimes you have to put your life on the line, and live a little dangerously. Sometimes that means not knowing where your life is gonna go. Sometimes it means preserving someone else's life before you're own. Because happiness is knowing your life is worth living. Save your preservation for when you're dead. By then it won't matter anyways. But hey, what do I know? You'll be a perfect corpse some day. Way prettier than mine.
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40