"expanded" poems
Innocence isn't just a
Thought
Theory
Feeling
State of Mind
Age
Lack of Knowledge
Purity
Cleanliness
Innocence is more
So much more
Than I ever believed it was
Or could be
I grew up
Maybe a little too fast
And all at once
And where I once was
Innocent
Innocent
Innocent
My mind grew
And expanded
And now I know
Of many many things
I wish I didn't
And no longer am I
Innocent
Innocent
Innocent
But I lack the
Thought
Theory
Feeling
State of Mind
Age
Lack of Knowledge
Purity
Cleanliness
Of
Innocence
That I yearn to have once again
But will never have again
Because once Innocence is lost
It cannot be found
Ever
Again
And you are forced
To sit
And see
And observe
The innocence around you
And mourn over
Your very own
Innocence
Which
Is
Long long
Gone.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Onion,
luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden,
the earth heaped up her power
showing your naked transparency,
and as the remote sea
in lifting the ******* of Aphrodite
duplicating the magnolia,
so did the earth
make you,
onion
clear as a planet
and destined
to shine,
constant constellation,
round rose of water,
upon
the table
of the poor.
You make us cry without hurting us.
I have praised everything that exists,
but to me, onion, you are
more beautiful than a bird
of dazzling feathers,
heavenly globe, platinum goblet,
unmoving dance
of the snowy anemone
and the fragrance of the earth lives
in your crystalline nature.
13.9k
Situations find themselves unraveling uncontrollably,
picking at scabs of superiority,
delving into wide expanded pits of insecurity.
The master of masking change
would be the ever drifting reputation,
it leaves bitter, it brings hate.
May I express how much I hate?
Nothing squirms and squiggles uncontrollably
more, than watching reputations
crumble, due to fake superiority.
What do I want, change!
What does she want? Change, but she gets insecurity.
To understand the confliction, insecurity
must paint walls of peeling purple hate.
Well, something in you will change.
You may remain stubborn, uncontrollably
defending your sudden superiority,
you’re just choosing a rotten reputation.
I wish to fly you to a new nation, I mean shes breaking your reputation.
I’d like to find the spot in your mind resided by insecurity,
I know you’re not studded with superiority.
She’s finding a reason for everyone else to hate
the way you attract uncontrollably.
Nothing about you, in you, should change,
because this digs deeper than the change
her and my relationship took, than are used to be reputation
of adoring each other uncontrollably.
of ignoring that insecurity.
of the day she learned to hate,
spindling a slippery net of superiority.
Her comfort zone of a home lays in superiority,
I’d rather cry endlessly than change
by cultivating my hate
for her, for her debilitating take on your reputation.
Transperency touches insecurity
and you are broken, falling uncontrollably.
I will continue to hate her superiority, but that won’t reflect on her reputation.
You mustn’t change your disposition, but lose the grip on insecurity
Don’t you dare hate these words, they care, they love uncontrollably.
Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
Out of what our hearts are made,
The sea of stars above our little heads is widely spread, expanded,
The river of the milkyway, seperating two lovers, with more stars,
All come within a clear, manifest orbit, bound to gravity and bounty,
A vally of natural nuclear fusion reactors, spreading light through the dark of the night, a play of beauty and might, on the ceiling of Earth,
All shining uninterruptedly, without the intruding light of the moon,
In the world of empty dreams, waiting to be filled with memories,
Clusters, binary, trinary stars with their satelites, dance as celestial beings through the infinity of space, all with grace, individuality, bliss
Heartfelt, past the luxury of luminosity and spinning alike wage wool
Because stars are, a magic mirror to the things we are, or want to be,
Weave the fate that you want to feel free, broken loose from the lies,
It is best to dance with me on these fantastic grounds here with me,
If we gather in a dark night, my dear knight, we can grasp fantasy,
Dear trasure mine, you're, a distant eniment galactic heavenly beauty
So shine on until you someday let go of this worldly life, my dearest,
As then I would like to meet you in the realm of the dead again,
In the loitering darkness one day.
~ Umi
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:35 AM UTC
And so the green balloons did grow
Inflated, nurtured over time,
This tree of air
Nitrogen,
Oxygen,
Carbon
Dioxide,
Argon,
Traces of other gases too,
Out side was warm
Internal temp minus triple degrees,
What had been barren branches
Now sustained as these
Strings matured forth
Buds of latex and rubber grew,
Liquid air exhaled as the buds nurtured
Air expanded with warm the green balloons
Grew
&
Grew
Sprung forth in to life what once was
Small, now expanded fuelled by the
Cold fuel of the tree of white,
In the winds they did gesture
As if dancing putting on a show
Tree,
Branch,
String,
Green balloons flourished there veins
Feeding air anew,
Blustery winds picked up
Strings did snap, green balloons did
Float away, drifting upon high
Into a sea of blue,
But as seasons change,
Green balloons became loose
Many floated away to places new
Those that did not,
Deflated,
Depleted,
Exhausted,
Nourishment of air, no longer green ballons
Phenomenon's of gases changed
And green faded now this tree of air
Brought forth new shades of
Yellows,
Purples,
Black,
Oranges,
So these colours did fall from the tree,
Floating not as before,
They did descend, slowly to the floor,
Biodegradable. they did fade
From view, not what they were before,
The life cycle of these green balloons
The tree of white grows evermore cold,
For seasons change and green balloons will
Grow again next spring floating in the air once more.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.
There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.
The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.
Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.
Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.
One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.
One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
It hurt, my friend, I don't know why
but when I showed you my new found pride
you asked quickly of my minds state and why.
Drunk? Me!? No! This symbol simply proves so.
I'm viewed as average, not good enough.
Just this shows my inner pride.
It helps me knock those comments made by those
on the other side of the glass...
so why must you make one just as crass?
I will prove to you, one I once knew well,
that I'll shed and change - that way easily then
can I reveal just how beautiful a Swan I really am
I'll fly away and soar above your petty comments,
Friend? You were the one who grew distant,
you were the one who couldn't see past the dirt.
Yet here I am, my wings expanded,
Everything changing around me and fast...
I'll fly off on my own path, and show I'm the swan
I truly am.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC
*He makes me feel beautiful*
Which I have never felt before
I've always had my doubts and could never be too sure
Cause they told me I was ugly
They told me I was fat
They joked about me and never had regrets
And I sat there and I laughed it off but it hurt me inside
So bad that I got off the bus and ran straight to my room to cry
And I got on my knees and prayed at my window and asked the lord
"Why is this happening to me?" and it started when I was four
And yes, I still remember that far back
Cause being bullied is it's own feeling of being jumped or attacked
And *he makes me feel beautiful*
Cause he looks me in my eyes and tells me that I am and I can tell it's not a lie...
Because instead of posting pictures I have edited and cropped
And having boys tell me I'm pretty through messages in my inbox...
*He makes me feel beautiful*
Cause he means what he says
And a few other people have told me I am cute but I thought they were just kidding
Cause I have programmed myself to thinking my beauty is forbidden
Which means that I could never be a girl that is praised
For her good looks, her perfect body, and her Aphrodite face.
*He makes me feel beautiful*
Cause even though I have flaws
He accepts them and makes me feel like I have none at all
So maybe I am pretty and I am starting to think better
Of myself instead of looking in the mirror with a look so bitter
*He makes me feel beautiful*
And when he tells me so with such a serious voice, I get chills
Cause he's the first person that hasn't made me feel completely ill
By insulting or pointing out one of my many imperfections
But instead trying to help get rid if that negative venom
That people have slowly injected into my mind
Making my optimism die slowly over time
Making me get violent and defensive and making me less kind
To the point I get a rush to commit a deadly crime
Then they say I'm crazy and continue with the names
It's a cycle, a stupid circle, a horrible made up game
That has expanded to the point where death is how you win
And I would of won this game if it wasn't for my kin
*He makes me feel beautiful* outside and in
So I wrote this in dedication to that special him
For helping me realize more than ever in my life
That maybe I am beautiful and I've been this way for a very long time...
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
When the arc of his watch hands
reached the top of the hour
Sam pushed the throttle forward.
Engine 138 thundered
out of Blossburg station
like an iron dragon
breathing smoke and steam -
whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley.
Powered by coal
the train carried coal
to the waiting city of Elmira
where Sam would press his mother's hand -
perhaps for the final time.
The wheels churning iron on iron
across Pennsylvania farmlands,
turned like other wheels before
moving settlers west
to break its ready earth -
wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart
turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills.
New wheels now carried America
to urban landscapes
drawing us like electro-magnets
to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores -
new crops for a modern age.
Elmira’s silhouette expanded on the horizon.
and Sam pulled the train in on time -
brakes screeching through billowing steam.
His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam
came in a horseless carriage
with Zoe, Marie and Edward,
children now grown at their sides.
They all gathered by Hannah's bed
now approaching her final hours
soft voices and fragile smiles
cradled the truth beyond all telling:
Time, ever advancing
like the hands of a fine old watch,
holds us all in its circling sway
© 2006 by Robert Charles Howard
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
I've never thought less of you
than in begging moment, flipped
on smooth river rocks, arms wide
on expanded hips, smile
fake and expectant.
You paddle kayaks in
awkward plaids and throwaway
sweaters, grinning sweetly
at dimples and polished toenails
and forgetting my name
while I repeat yours in echo.
On tall bicycle, you look down
at tear-strewn carpet, at
lingering rain, and you lean
to one side, precarious balance
while the sun peeks through the blinds.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Pretty is a six-letter word that can’t encompass your entire being in its arms. You were born to a mother who wore pain like trees wear their rings, as marks of fierce bravery and battle cries. You almost split her insides open coming out, wailing so hard the plaster cracked, but she grinned and bore it like a champion, even though the walls of her womb felt like one giant cigarette burn that no one cared enough to put out.
You are Icarus incarnate, with a body stitched from wings, flying toward the sun every day no matter how low the storm clouds hover. Pretty is not a synonym for learning how to put together a body that fights itself every day with pocket knives, like assembling letters to form words that flame in the mouth. That’s called survival. Pretty is an ugly word. It leaves behind a bitter residue that apologies cannot erase. Pretty is just an excuse for playing darts with a woman’s confidence.
When told you are not pretty, always remember how your body expanded to fit its widening cage, its blooming hips, how the growing pains were less like pain and more like cracking fault lines. How your body turned itself inside out and spilled over and over again. Getting emptied is not pretty. It is dark and wounding and it requires strength enough to move mountains.
On your worst days do not look in the mirror and call yourself pretty. Call yourself trying, call yourself surviving, call yourself learning how to get through a day, a week, a month or year. Call yourself still learning. Pretty is just six letters for lipstick, false eyelashes, combs for hair that never gets tangled, not for women who earn a victory every day just managing to exist.
When told you are not pretty, do not **** in your stomach. Pretty is a discriminatory word, but having a body that knows what it wants and gets what it wants is not a hate crime. It’s a healing hymn.
Don’t forget how trees shake their last leaves in winter like they’re shedding skin from the old year. Shed pretty. Shed it now. Teach yourself to replace it with heart-wrenching, brilliant, clever, artistic, unique, understanding, fighting. Always living.
When told you are not pretty, don’t fall in love with the ground. Get back up. This is not an apocalypse; this is not the end of the world. A six-letter word doesn’t have the power to burn down every building in site or freeze the entire world in epic proportions. Your body is not wreckage or refuse left over from a world on fire. Your body is just fine.
Look in the mirror. Tell yourself, Pretty is not me. Pretty is an ugly concept. I am more.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 6:59 AM UTC
this
poem
started off
intending to be the shortest poem in the world
nay,
more aptly
in the whole wide, wide open uni-verse
but ambition overtook it
and it aimed to stretch far and wide
an Aristotelian hubris, you know
like the ambition of Macbeth
going beyond what Mrs Macbeth intended
and so this ambitious little poem of ours expanded
starting meek as grass
growing zealous
and went beyond itself and its kind
this
poem
that
had such humble beginnings
that dared to want to be the shortest poem in the world
but turned out loquacious
and it could go on, it said,
beating all length, breadth and dimension
and would have -
but it got into convulsions and fits
and shock
when it had gone beyond its shortness
and it couldn’t even spell
couldn't even get words right
floating in a soup of red lines in Word or in Mac’s Pages
and so it took its own life
or someone stabbed it like they did to o’erweening Macbeth
or to our poor, poor misunderstood Rasputin who being a Saint was thought a Devil
but was all humble
as the shortest poem in the uni-verse
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:06 PM UTC
you were blue
and i am yellow
you liked the way
i brightened rooms
i thought we could
make a home run true
but no winning evolved
while our garden bloomed
for as my love for you grew
it expanded way beyond you
and it wasn't long
before you knew
exposing your true
shades of gray
when you touched me
but you looked her way
you decided olive green
just didn't look good on you
i have always preferred
green over purple
and you once told me
you felt the same
but that one night
where you both lied
you chose the latter
you took her side
and i’m not sure
if it's because
she appeared shiny red
and i was becoming
a worn out yellow
but it shouldn’t have mattered
because you plucked me first
and you and i both know
that's not what you do
to flowers when you love them
you were supposed to water me
but you showered her instead
and now i am left here
trying to heal the paper cuts
i got from the countless times
i ran in circles trying
to catch your racing heart
but it barely ever
grazed my fingertips
and each time i looked down
to see what was left
of you and me
i was struck in the face
with the sad reality
that we had never even
made it off of home base
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 1:43 PM UTC
I am reading poems by Billy Collins:
AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective,
A sampler, as it were
For the Books and Brew;
Our monthly selection.
Nine manly men
Meeting for monthly meals
And book-talk
And politics
And, of course, good beer.
They like nonfiction,
I like fiction.
Richard Hughes,
British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said:
“All nonfiction can do is answer questions;
It is fiction's business to ask them.”
Still, my repertoire has expanded:
Nike shoes.
Civil War.
Institutional racism.
Opioid addiction.
Rafting the Grand Canyon.
Climbing mountains.
With Baron Von Humboldt.
And now this:
Poetry.
Nine manly men
Reading poetry to each other
While sharing a meal,
One lovely poem after another.
You can't read a book of poetry
Like you consume other books,
Fiction or nonfiction.
The table of contents:
The lid of a box of exquisite truffles—
A map of pleasures contained within.
You look at the map,
And make a selection.
The caramel truffle
Is not the coffee truffle.
You look at the map,
Make a selection,
And bite!
The crusty chocolate cracks!
The darkness melts,
Floods your mouth with taste.
Then the rush of caramel!
Flavors, smells sloshing
Swooning with sensate memories.
What? Turn the page and read another?
Reach for the coffee truffle?
No. Linger with caramel;
Luxuriate on aftertaste.
Is that a note of citrus or salt?
I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
The mathematician never finished his work today
Which is weird because it was the most important project of his career.
Working on the equation for the perfect person, left it halfway done.
The other half lost in this numerical mind.
But that's what we are, two halves of an unfinished project.
A slip atom
A half of a binomial theorem
A parabola at the apex of its' focus, ready to fall right back on its' feet.
Because apart we are imperfect, we trip, we fall
But when multiplied we are a product of perfection, able to point out that mistaken branch before you have time to brace yourself.
I'll take those expanded arms and wrap them around me, feel your acute angles against my obtuse curves.
Put my hand on your neck, not to feel your skin, well: to do that too, but also to feel your pulse.
Knowing it beats at the same intervals as mine.
And no one know why the mathematician never completed the equation.
…maybe fell asleep…
…maybe distracted…
…maybe he just forgot…
But I thank him.
Because perfect is lonely and you...you are everything.
Without him the Y= to my MX+being would never be linear.
And I'm not good at math, neither are you, but I'm pretty sure we don't need to look in the back of the book for any answers.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
Across from me at the bar table,
the bartender smiles and asks for my order
I tell him, "anything strong," and hand him ten dollars
I drink it up, feel its strength running down my throat
into my ever-growing stomach
I look up and remember what I've left at home
My wife sat in the bedroom alone,
My children pacing around and adapting the way women and men are supposed to be
I have taught my son power, strength, and dominance
While I have taught my daughter weakness and submission
Maybe that's where I went wrong as a father
Where all previous generations of my family have gone wrong
Raising me as a man seeing women as objects,
And I raising my son in the same manner
I take one last sip from my ten dollar drink
Taking it in along with my realizations
In front of me is the door of my home
where I have left women to shrink
in order to enlarge myself to the point of overfeeding my ego
And then I decided to shrink myself into the size
of the women I've shrunk
The size of my home has grown larger
Its proportions have expanded
Allowing each of us to occupy the same amount of space
And so I sat across my wife at the kitchen table
Looking at her at eye level
She smiles and I smile back
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
She burst into our lives one summer
In an explosion of glitter and cat ears
And into the darkness of our young lives
She became a light.
She demanded my friendship
Commanded my respect
Reprimanded my bad choices
And expanded my views.
She's the one who got me writing poetry
She taught me how to worship
And how to question authority
She told me to speak up
To be myself
And I learned from her fearless example.
We shared some scars
And she was never afraid of telling me the straight-up truth.
She wasn't perfect
Sometimes she destroyed feelings
And shoplifted our hearts
But I learned from that, too.
And then one day with a toss
Of those red curls, one of those
Hugs that made everything better
And a swing of the metal heart hanging on her chest
She was gone, just like that
But I'll never forget she changed my life
And I'm still changing it through
Rachel, this one's for you.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 4:57 PM UTC
The Canvas Skin strikes again
With a breakdown of mental boundaries
My mind has never stretched so far
Or expanded to such an extent
That the former impossible
Is now within such short grasp
And the idea that was harboured within
Is now beautiful ink
Underneath skin.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
to ones wronged or irked by some stupid bullsh#t
and who may have an itch to do some ruin—
—ation, e.g., shoot some bullets
all the imprudent bullies
and corrupt ****** contributing to in—
—justice will do as ones to subject to a punishment
[mafias & agents of authoritarian regimes]
and if you are one of 'em
a few words regarding your funeral
[if there will be one]
hope it will be at odds with the usual
it should be a carnival to the bone
whether or not that is suitable
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
I was raised in a house that seemed big on the inside
With a garden that was larger than the rest of the earth.
My bedroom was shared. But there was more than enough room.
So proportionally, I always felt small.
The curtains were vines in a furniture jungle
The bookcase a tower of riddles.
I used to spend my days inside the wardrobe
Because I heard there were whole worlds inside of them.
The sofa was a cloud, I liked to sink into it.
The bathtub an ocean, that I was constantly floating adrift in.
The TV screen might as well have been
A stage compared to me when I was younger.
Even the cupboard was a cavernous place, my sparrowbone limbs
Would fold up only slightly, but still there would always be too much space.
Space blank as a bullet hole
Like the gaps between stars.
An absence you're constantly falling through. When you're so tiny,
And surrounded by nothingness, its easy to forget that you're not nothing too.
I was compressed in the classroom behind a scrawl splattered desk
The lines of graffiti looked mammoth.
The teachers were giants
And I was just jack
They ground up my brains to make alphabet stew
And gave me only a handful of A, B's and C's back.
The playground was Olympus, I was acting atlas
I felt as though the whole world was on my shoulders.
See I was a really loud kid, always shouting out
Because I thought that was the only way to get anyone to hear me.
Lungs like an opera singer by the age of just nine
And in the habit of using embellishment.
I've been where you've been kid,
I've seen it all.
I know exactly how the sight of a bullies hand-down button-up
Can be enough to make you choke...
Sometimes it still is enough.
And I know I don't look so tiny now
I expanded as I grew more constricted.
Trying to compensate for the empty place,
I had made a habit of occupying.
See I understand, I know
But I promise you, one day you'll stop standing under things
Find your feet and grow.
The leaves of your family tree do not define
Who you'll be
You do not have to hold up those branches all alone.
And I know I look so small right now
But in here, in here
I'm mammoth.
And I promise the world is not so nothing filled
When everyone is giant.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
in a strange land i stood alone
facing the sun it felt like home.
the mountains were watching me.
i was new i was the guest. how did i come here wasnt clear but its for the best.
somehow i knew the trees had a msg for me.
a msg so familiar that was always burried inside me.
And they said : young man standing in the plain you still have alot to gain. dont be afraid of the unknown for it is essential for ur growth.
trust your intuitions and believe
And all your talents shall be revieled
Be courageous and dont be shy for what life have planed for you aint a lie..
lose your fears and lose your greed and the secrets of life shall be whisperd in your ears.embrace silence and embrace peace and wisdom is what you
shall see.
we know what you think.
we know what you feel and thats one of the reasons we called you here.
in front of you we stand here an untouched forest existing for your relief.
Love me and love me again for im your mother and i ll never end.
im nature.
through me u breath. through me u eat
Never abandon me and i ll provide for you your needs.
i take so many forms im in so many places
love me and into your heart i shall be expanded.
Im done now u can go back and continue your life.
but dont forget rare are the ones who saw this place. always remember wht i said and search for signs traveling in time and happiness is what you shall find.
as the sound stopped i closed my eyes trying to embrace what i witnessed.
i felt im one with evrything. time has passed i opend my eyes.
I was in bed.
I knew this story shall be shared.
words of Harfouchism.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
Humanity.
Humans talk,
communicate.
Been doing
so since the
first grunts.
For millennia
human sounds
have filled
the airways.
Dissipating
in the wind.
Humanity expanded,
communication
expanded.
Spoken words,
written words,
flying furiously
around the globe.
Communications,
thoughts,
information, most
lost to time.
Some stuck
in the minds
of man
and moved
forward.
Engrams tweaked,
thinking altered.
More people
more words.
Endless
conversations
endless thoughts.
Ideas, thoughts
flying around
the globe at
light speed.
Computers,
Internet,
social media.
Communication
increasing
exponentially.
Most dissipates
some sticks
gets passed
forward.
Such is the
way
civilization is
constructed.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC
Admitted to taking the reduced ruling
Fourteen souls accepted what this is after
All
Of this...
Immediately unavailable to face Sunday's showdown at
The Stadium.
The Titan gave assurances to the souls today.
It will not take any further action
-Despite the deal-
But their identity is still unknown
Some suggesting only retired evidence.
Hand in hand with sickness,
The hound (who is widely regarded)
Appears to prove why force
In recent years
Did indeed highly fancy tomorrow's feature;
"The Winner".
The hound first knew his fledgling
When he could finally be on the road
While his empire expanded
"I used to hope for the best"
Titan tells us.
"I used to have a while and
I used to get sick.
Now I just have to find a way
To use up that time.
I speak only to the Landlord
And his tenants.
I only blame myself for the sickness.
All I know is where I've come from
...At least, I think so...
...I hope so."
"It's a funny thing!"- Hound.
*Pressure keeps you honest.
Wet, heavy conditions expected tomorrow.
So, with everything said,
I wish you peace and love.
Love is waiting.*
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
One Republic
pick and mix, assorted all sorted
wrinkles missing, smooth as glaciers
toils reversing on harbingers like excesses does
walking the trodden alleys learning Sods mathematics
organs pains for non-organics are inherent consequences so
one Republic and the anthropologists utters a myth in passing
all bananas look like all bananas because bananas are bananas alike
sing a song of three pence and a pocket full of fear
Plato's cave a grand auditorium for lames
united disunited ages in anti-virus glares
white noise in white air and masses sigh
the emperor's coat plays invisible chess
ladies think long and hard in minds
for a dolphin swims like none-other
the glides of the sweetest depths
and in those places unseen
expanded vibes of feels
know reasons why so
it's the bigger snap
it's the difference
the forbidden
fruit lures
will not
move
not
go
in
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC