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Gwen Pimentel Jul 2015
n.*  hy•po•thal•a•mus -ˈthal-ə-məs\
: the part of the brain that controls fight or flight responses

September 23rd
The first time our eyes met
Travelling across the room
Not knowing that those were the same eyes
That could **** me with a smile

December 28th
I found out that you wrote
And ****, that was hot
Your words that got me hooked
Were the same ones that cut my strings

February 14th
We were nothing close to lovers
Not even bestfriends
But I somehow felt less lonely
Talking to you everyday

April 8th
The beginning of heat
And I think I barely noticed
Because the thought of you
Makes blood rush to my cheek

June 19th
The start of school
And the start of the drift
Or maybe it was just stress?
I hung on to our conversations

July 31st
You talked about this new girl
And how she was pretty
And funny
And everything I wasn’t

August 17th
We haven’t talked in 2 weeks
Not like you noticed much
All you cared about was her
I'm starting to miss you
Alot

September 27th
I was in Biology
I studied the hypothalamus
And how it controlled
The fight or flight response of our body

September 27th
I was studying the hypothalamus
And learned that the body has a natural instinct
To detect danger or warning
Thus activating the hypothalamus

September 27th
I was studying the hypothalamus
And **** who gave you the right to walk in my mind
I was studying the hypothalamus for God’s sake how does this even relate to you?
I saw you in everything
A notebook – Cos you write
Coffee – because you loved it
The Fault In Our Stars – because you hated it
Pictures of New York – because it was your dream
My playlist – because you made it
My jacket – because it smells like you
My little sister – because she looks for you
My mother – because she still makes your favorite dinner whenever you visit
The flowers on our porch – because you planted them
Hot Pockets – because you despised them
But **** never did I expect to see you in a hypothalamus

September 27th
People don’t come with warning signs attached to their necks
And even if our body has a natural instinct to detect danger
People like you, know just the right things to say or do to trick my body into thinking you're good for me
You know my passcode, how to get through my walls
So all this time I’ve been wondering
Where was my hypothalamus, if I even had one
Why didn’t it warn me
To flee your arms before I got entangled in your words,
Before I sunk in the quicksand of your charm
Why wasn’t I warned, to fight or flight, before I got hurt this bad?
Why wasn’t I warned of the danger that was you.
AC Jun 2015
Long time ago,
I told myself that I should love with all my heart,
to the moon and back,
from the bottom of my hypothalamus
'cause that's what love is, right.
You give it all.

But that was before.
Now, I've learned things in the hard way.
You should think first,
before getting into serious relationships because if not,
you'll lose in the end.
Peculiari Nov 2016
Isang mensahe na ipinapahatid ni "Ariii Potter" sa kanyang alaga na si "Hedwig" the Snowy Owl.


Sa naghihimultong pagmamahal ko sayo.

Mahal.. oo, mahal nga ang tawag ko sayo
Nagbunga kasi ang pagkagusto ko sayo,
Nagbunga ng isang pagmaMahal

Yung feeling na "gusto kita"
Naging "mahal na kita" real quick

Inakala ko talaga sa diagon alley ka lang gumagala
Eh bat ka na sorted dito sa puso ko

Bakit nga ba..

Patawad sa mga katagang sinabi ko, ay mali. hindi ko lang pala sinabi.
Ipinagsigawan ko pa. Ang corny no?

Pero...

Pagbigyan mo sana ako na ihatid ang mga salitang gustong ipabatid ng puso ko

Idadaan ko lang muna sa isang tula.
--
Umpisa.
Sa kung paano mo ako nginitian
At tinanong kung "potterhead kaba?"

Hindi ko alam kung ginamitan mo ako ng "petrificus totalus"
Dahil sa tuwing tinatawag mo akong ng"Ariii" na fre-freeze ang aking hypothalamus

Na halos masabog-sabog na tong pagmamahal na ihahantulad ko sa isang bulkan
Hindi ko man lang namalayan na umabot ito ng isang buwan

Pati na ang nakatagong pag-ibig dito sa aking damdamin
Ay sadyang naging malalim

Na kahit gumamit man ako ng salitang "alohomora"
Para mabuksan ang pintuan ng puso **** nakasara

Kahit maging seeker man ako sa quidditch
At ikaw ang magiging "snitch"
Hindi parin kita maka-catch
Sapagkat ang tayong dalawa ay imposibleng maging match

O makipaglaban man ako sa Wizard's Chess
Para makamtan ang iyong sorcerer's heart
Ay hindi parin sapat
Alam mo kung bakit?
Dahil hindi ako karapat-dapat
At ang karapat-dapat
Ay ang ika'y pakawalan
Dahil alam ko naman sa kahuli-hulihan
Ako parin ang masasaktan

Kaya salamat,
Salamat sa pansamantalang kilig
Sa tuwing ika'y nakatitig.
dye Aug 2014
Kung kailan ako mapagbigay, doon ako madamot.
Kung kailan ako malinis, doon ako nilulumot.

Kung kailan ako gumagalaw, doon ako paralisado.
Kung kailan ako malaya, doon ako limitado.

Kung kailan ako makulay, doon ako monokromatiko.
Kung kailan ako mapait, doon ako romantiko.

Kung kailan ako masipag, doon ako tamad.
Kung kailan ako magaling, doon ako nilalagnat.

Kung kailan ako malinaw, doon ako malabo.
Kung kailan ako matalino, doon ako bobo.

Kung kailan ako umaalab, doon ako upos.
Kung kailan ako puno, doon ako ubos.

Kung kailan ako maayos, doon ako magulo.
Kung kailan ako puro puso, doon ako puro ulo.

Kung kailan ako mayaman, doon ako mahirap.
Kung kailan ako nandyan, doon ako mailap.

Kung kailan ako nagbabasa, doon ako nagsusulat.
Kung kailan ako kalmado, doon ako nagugulat.

Kung kailan ako sigurado, doon ako nagtataka.
Kung kailan ako sumasagwan, doon ako bumabangka.

Kung kailan ako nangangaso, doon ako nangingisda.
Kung kailan ako umaatake, doon ako dumedepensa.

Kung kailan ako hypothalamus, doon ako atay.
Kung kailan ako buhay, doon ako patay.



Kung kailan ako tao, doon ako hindi tao.


Kung kailan ako ako, doon ako hindi ako.
personal fallacy series #1 07/18/14
Church Rowe Jun 2014
She draws closely.
Her nostrils flare; she senses me.
Too late to evade,
She's on the prowl, hunting me.

I convey a little interest,
and then a little lie,
in hopes to divert her current opinion;
to convince her of some other project to drink from.

While conversing, she made two good points before
and for a time, I did adore
her night-life sins,
like the antithesis
of her pale white skin.

One part yang, the other part yin.
Her total package perfectly zen.
Prince Allival Mar 2021
(Untitled)
Kung kailan ako mapagbigay, doon ako madamot.
Kung kailan ako malinis, doon ako nilulumot.

Kung kailan ako gumagalaw, doon ako paralisado.
Kung kailan ako malaya, doon ako limitado.

Kung kailan ako makulay, doon ako monokromatiko.
Kung kailan ako mapait, doon ako romantiko.

Kung kailan ako masipag, doon ako tamad.
Kung kailan ako magaling, doon ako nilalagnat.

Kung kailan ako malinaw, doon ako malabo.
Kung kailan ako matalino, doon ako bobo.

Kung kailan ako umaalab, doon ako upos.
Kung kailan ako puno, doon ako ubos.

Kung kailan ako maayos, doon ako magulo.
Kung kailan ako puro puso, doon ako puro ulo.

Kung kailan ako mayaman, doon ako mahirap.
Kung kailan ako nandyan, doon ako mailap.

Kung kailan ako nagbabasa, doon ako nagsusulat.
Kung kailan ako kalmado, doon ako nagugulat.

Kung kailan ako sigurado, doon ako nagtataka.
Kung kailan ako sumasagwan, doon ako bumabangka.

Kung kailan ako nangangaso, doon ako nangingisda.
Kung kailan ako umaatake, doon ako dumedepensa.

Kung kailan ako hypothalamus, doon ako atay.
Kung kailan ako buhay, doon ako patay.

Kung kailan ako tao, doon ako hindi tao.
Kung kailan ako ako, doon ako hindi ako.
Michael Hoffman Dec 2011
the addict told *******
he was moving out of town
and could never be found

the **** user
kept calling her hypothalamus
but it never called back

the midbrain begged
the frontal cortex please
just one more time, ok?

the parents wondered
why the alcohol counselor
was not Jesus

the *** addict apologized
to the therapist
for not wearing underwear
again

the alcoholic told his boss
his grandmother died of juvenile diabetes
and he had to go to his funeral

the counselor sighed
then read again
what the Tao Te King said
about nature's inscrutable ways
Dimension.
Compound medium (Neurotransmission [receptor])

Apotheon.
Aminergic media (Trace-Amines [TAAR])

Entheon.
Monoaminergic media (Monoamine Releasing Agents[MAO])

Ataraxia ex Entheogenesis.
Dimethytryptamine[rgic] particle[s] (Pituitary [DMT])

Psychedelion/Absurdia.
Glutamatergic medium (Recurrent Feedback Excitation [Classically 5-HT,2A])

Intracommuneon Macro.
Glutamate particle ([NMDA, AMPA, KAR])

Empathion.
Serotonin particle ([5-HT1-7]).

Horizon Cyclica.
Melatonin particle ([MT1-3])

Sympatheon/Parasympatheon.
Choline/Acetylcholine particle ([mAChRs, nAChRs])

Vigilaeon.
Histamine particle ([H1-4])

Logike.
Dopamine particle ([D1-4])

Stimulatus Minor.
Adenosine particle ([A1-3])

Entactus Major.
Adrenergic particles ([alpha1-2&beta1-3;])

Inhibitus Micro.
Glycine particle ([GlyR])

Intoxicatum Socialite.
gamma-Hydroxybutyric Acid particle ([GHB])

Antipathion.
Sigmaergic particulate ([sigma1&sigma2;])

Opus Opiatus .
Opioidergic particles ([OP1-4])

Aponia ex Apotheotelos.
Oxytocin particle (Pituitary [Hypothalamus-Hypophysis])

Inebriatus Dissociate.
gamma-Aminobutyric Acid particle ([GABA-A&B;]

Aetherion.
Cannabinoidergic particles ([CB1&2])
{[Che]M[icall]-Theory}
Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "
Dyticá Leiak's twilight
Amy Feb 2015
Settle into darkness, naturally, and take your cue from unoiled gears jolting forward only to lure you into false stability and lose velocity, stop suddenly, merge the definitions of stopping and falling by balancing the cart on the back of the tongue as sherbet dip dab’s your gums in 3…2…swallow down it drops FLASH past the oesophagus there’s your photo op show us some teeth show us some skin darlin’ begin to dissolve in stomach acid bile’s vile hold it down we will use force if necessary like handcuffs to a headboard excuse me sir may I see your ticket? Right you can’t sit here, you’re 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphphetamine, that’s upstairs you need to swing a left then straight up to the top floor not a bad view, you can’t miss it it’s got a hundred golden bulbs flashing hypothalamus, no we’re not really bothered about our environment take the lift elevate heart rate
                                           C-C-C-CRANK IT UP
to the cerebral cortex’s House of Mirrors home of distortion. What can we do for you sir? We like to pride ourselves in our ability to mess around with the wiring and stimulate receptors, all part of the Deluxe Mega Deal complete with moving walls, disco ball skin and a talking butterfly the size of a car crash for a limited time only whilst serotonin stocks last they fall as fast as the lubricated log flume SPLASH. Please remain seated until the end of the ride. Thrown out into the gift shop. £30 for a 12 hour come down. Come again soon.
bobby burns Jan 2013
i don't think i'll play
with pleasant words
tonight -- i'd rather
upset you with my
honesty than delight
you with laughably
phony repartee.

excuse the graphic aspect
but i'm not in the business
of acknowledging faux pas.

a reflection on state of mind;
i'd say solid, though somewhat
soft and liquid as well, like
a plate of spaghetti for brains,
i can't figure out which strand
of grey matter is meant for me
and which is supposed to be
slurped up by lady and *****
nor whether it is my pituitary
or my hypothalamus which is
destined to be taken home
in a doggy bag for seconds.

i really am lost.
In reference to Young Frankenstein, of course.
JoJo Nguyen Mar 2013
I need to go.
I am displacing
here.

Displaced Wednesday,
time to fast, not
for my health, not
for moral justice, not
to slow consumption, only
from dawn to dinner, a
lackluster way not
to restore dopamine, not
to suppress apetite
in some lateral, percussive
hypothalamus injury.
I fast in sync only
with voices and volume, doing
in mind emptiness.
John Carpentier Oct 2013
My computer screen hurts my eyes.
Thousands and thousands of photons leap forth
from tinted glass, bringing light and beauty but
also pain.

My irises are lucky, they have steeled themselves
with sheets of toasted almond.
Had they built with blue, who knows what pain would have been caused.
Beauty is too delicate.

Dilation.
Unwanted energy springs into my mind,
reverse geysers spraying fountains
which are less wet but no less scalding.

The optic nerve has pinned up a sign
nailed to splintered pine boards:
DNR
right next to another of beige tin:
TRESPASSERS WILL BE LESIONED

But the neurons have had enough
of old man optic nerve
and they shoot gold, white, and alabaster
action potentials
down his throat,
forcing him to cough up his life blood
to the brain

Drips of sparkling joules pour onto
my posterior hypothalamus.

Pathways primed by years of restlessness
sparkle with the nexus of neural lightning fueling my insomnia.

Light never dies,
it just gets born again.
And I will never sleep,
I merely slip through shadow to shine again.
Kate Browning Oct 2012
He was there with
me, now he's there
with her. Or him,
them, maybe all alone.

He makes things better
by slipping endorphins and
stimulants of all different
shades down his little-boy throat.

He used to tickle my
sides and put kisses on
my shell, that held my
cerebellum in all nice and snug.

We would go no where;
Never get anything done.
We would make small
talk about growing up.

I would think about him and
think that he wasn't enough.
He was nice and gave
me all that he had got.

All of the lonesomeness, all of
the sad, all of the mad crept about.
Past my hazel irises and
began to erupt, mushing out.

Out of my ears, my pores, some right
out of my mouth. That day in March
my hypothalamus flip-flopped and
resigned from its job.

The boy who was there fell
right out of touch. An automatic
reflex kicked in quicker than
a frog catching a bug.

My legs lay criss-crossed and
bony, unshaven as I picture
him picturing his old best
friend, who he left and lost.

He day dreams of being aged and
playing Go Fish. Crackling at me
to draw, I grab his prune-textured
hand. In real life he starts to cry.

He sets down his room temperature can
of Mountain Dew. Grabs a couple of different
colored pills and goes out to party
in attempt to help him not remember.
amanda cooper Jan 2013
you are so ****** in the head.
they say "crazy can't see crazy"
but, baby, i looked you dead in the eyes,
and man, someone stirred your brain with a fork.
cerebellum penetrated by tines.
amygdala spooned into their mouths like lukewarm soup.
sliced a knife straight through your hypothalamus.
left the rest to swirl around in that thick skull of yours.

you're used goods, they told me.
you passed your expiration date.
a little too ripe around the edges.
i could see that.
you asked people to palpate your skin,
like checking cantaloupe.
you spit out your seeds in between
inhaling smoke and ******* down liquor.

she warned me that you were a wild one.
rebellion and fierce independence.
all lions and tigers and bears,
sutured together with wolfish teeth
and hyena laughter.
forever breaking out of cages
and biting the hands that fed you.

now if only you could see it too.
or if only i'd saw it earlier.
1/6/13.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
Wednesday, May 29, 2014

Subject: You know how I am about letters



Do people notice when it starts to happen? Maybe not the first time—it can be hard to tell—but do they recognize a pattern? Are they able to appropriately react? Is it easy to detect such feeling, a reoccurring newness? When it happens, it swells and expands: building within and pushing out, resonating a specific sound, paralleling the pang of olfaction from the heavy stench of pheromones. It stimulates the senses and sends the hypothalamus into hyperactivity, the mind clouded with confusion.



I’m glad it happened. I’m glad we got to be friends, the way we were, the way we could still be. It’s easy to be around you, and I appreciate the feeling you instilled in me. Four miles and six beers later, I found myself with you, in your house, talking to your parents, experiencing a part of you I’ve never known. Shortly after, there we were, on your couch, and you were against me and I held your core, warmed by the heat of your skin radiating from beneath your thermal. It was nice, but it was the type of nice which is prone to burn. I didn’t expect to be there.



I could’ve anticipated that drinking so much would release my inhibitions, and given our mutual attraction and history I would have succumbed to you. Obviously, I did. Nothing more than a kiss, but I’m glad I did, even though to actively be swept away in the moment is dangerous. I’m notoriously attracted to it, and sure enough as I write this, I feel a mix of nausea and a dull inner ache. I want it to go away, yet I endure it, understanding it’s a consequence of recklessness. I wouldn’t doubt it’s karma. I don’t think you are, but I notice myself around you and can decide that I am often being reckless with my frivolity. It feels good at first, but like coming down from rolling, there is a lingering feeling of synthetically-induced haze.



I honestly didn’t plan on kissing you, but the night took us there. I did plan on giving you that poem, however. I’m sure you have interpreted it correctly, as I’d assume you’re capable of distinguishing metaphors (you do have a college degree), and now hopefully understand my perspective of our situation.



I wanted to run with you, I wanted to get a beer (also I had a rough day/week so I was kind of down to drink—coping of course) and I wanted to let you read that poem. Those are things I wanted to do, and while I wanted to kiss you, I didn’t. I’m glad I did and it wasn’t a mistake, but I think doing that too many times would be more detrimental than productive. I’m sure you got that theme from what I wrote you was influenced by the weekend I came to Salisbury; maybe you can see certain themes of that weekend in it.



I don’t know. I was just thinking about you and I wanted to express what was going on in my head. I wanted you to know. I was somewhat sad when I left Salisbury, wondering why you gave my no affection when saying goodbye, but I was relieved and grateful you didn’t. But now… I think about us meeting at my house in Fruitland and the four of us drunkenly deciding to live together. It just so happened that Rachel and I were discussing the possibility of her moving to Salisbury and she mentioned Scott finding a house, with my landlord, for $300 a month. Talk about timing. I don’t know what to make of it.



It’s unfortunate that timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling; ironically, more often than not, timing sabotages it. Personally, I have always romanticized things that were doomed to end. The reason I love Shakespeare so much (besides intellect like no other) is because he conveys tragedy in such a beautiful way. Consider it like thanatos vs. eros—there is greater appreciation for something that cannot last forever, because there is only a limited time to enjoy it. It’s sad to think, too often, we’re unable to enjoy things to their fullest because of this notion. Like life and death—if we could live forever would we value our time as much? Hell no, we would take everything for granted (humans already do, as we are prone to do so) and never give a **** about anything. What makes anything matter is being able to appreciate it, despite of how long it lasts?



In that regard, after coming to Salisbury again, I thought about you coming home and what would happen. I assumed you’d be moving to Massachusetts sooner rather than later and wondered if we would even talk. I still wanted to hang out and go running, but I realized it might not happen and I recognized that could happen.



I never expected anything from you. I know we always had a thing and have been flirty towards each other, but to establish a foundation of sorts didn’t ever seem like an option. I liked you unattainable, impossible, a little too late, the right person at the wrong time; it seems pretty sick the way I describe it and I’m well aware, but you were the perfect protagonist of the narrative of my painful romance with Rachel, where you restored my mojo and provided me with the ability to feel and create again. You broke up the dam of my writer’s block with your flow. You were a muse of sorts. I am not idealizing you, just describing what you provided me with.



With this being said, I hope you believe that the sentiments I wrote to you were honest, as were my actions. I have nothing but positive regard for you, despite the periods where we didn’t speak and knowing you was somewhat uncomfortable. I have only known you for a year, but we’ve been through a lot and I consider you a friend. As I stated before, I didn’t mean to like you, it just kind of happened. And like you told me, that’s life. It’s curious, but I wonder if I would like you as much if we had a chance. I know it sounds cold, and I hope reading it doesn’t sting, but I am only trying to be realistic. I’m sure you too have assessed it.



The point of this cyber-letter is to just let you know that I liked you. I’m glad we got to know each other. You influenced me and you left your mark, forever contributing to the me I’m going to be. You taught me a lot about a lot of things. However, as I stated before, timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling. You are a unique “perhaps” in my life, nonetheless. I wonder what it would be like if we were ever together in another world, but I cannot quite imagine it. I dream, but I am bound to servitude by analyzing each intricate detail of the situations in front of me, despite my occasional bouts of impulse. It’s a way to survive, and there’s a pattern to it. It all unfolds so suddenly, paralleling behavioral, weather and astronomical patterns. More recently, I have experienced this. I wasn’t hoping for it or expecting it. I was surprised.



You know how they say “If you’re looking for something you won’t find it, but things are found (or given?) when you’re not looking?” So far 2014 has been a great year for many reasons. Even the  little after -graduation struggle was a transition to build into what is now and what will be.



So….you know how I snapchatted you (and most everyone on my friends list—you may notice I ask questions) asking if going to a park was a date? Well. It wasn’t the first. I wasn’t sure the first date was even a date. He made no forward advances to indicate any kind of ****** interest. I thought he just wanted to hang out, and offered to pay because he knows I don’t make as much as he does. Right? That sounds valid. But still, I wasn’t totally sure. I initially assumed my brother would come with us, because we hadn’t ever been exclusively in each other’s company. So, he said he’d pick me up at 8:00 p.m. My brother told me he was going to hang out with his friend Chelsea and hadn’t heard from him. I will admit I put effort into my aesthetics, perhaps as a slightly narcissistic compulsion to emphasize what is heterosexually considered feminine. Even if we were just hanging out, I wanted to make an impression; also, some places in the National Harbor are really nice, so I wanted to look nice too. We talked for two hours until they were closing and then he dropped me off. I was home by 11:00 p.m. That was May 4th.



I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you served an egress from thinking about work, my brother, my mom: everything. Six beers deep and I was caught up. I did miss you. It was selfish of me to indulge in it, but I wanted to savor you one last time. I don’t think that’s a crime, but I acknowledge it’s emotionally irresponsible. Despite that, when I think about it all, knowing I have to decide, I realize it’s more logical to pursue that which has less risk of becoming hazardous. Am I to deny myself that opportunity? It’s divine how patterns align: specific variables, whether assigned or accreted, determine the true outcome. The rest is what we do, how we behave, and how the mystical law of cause and effect affects the subsequent possible outcomes. Such dissident circumstances are attributed to timing.



It’s been described as a chaotic sequence of events, life. But isn’t there order in chaos? Astronomical and Neurological perspectives serve as two notable examples of materialism establishing the foundations of life, as we observe it functioning, from both holistic and reductionist views, yes. It’s not irrational to wonder if, in a complex way we have yet to fully understand, we are a miniscule, yet essential, part of a functioning unit. The struggle is especially prominent when how we live is based off how we obsess over the desire to understand why things happen. Despite the patterns, it often becomes unpredictable and gets so ******* frustrating. Still, isn’t it wonderful how we can revel in fascination?



I’m sure you weren’t expecting all the prose, but I wanted to be honest and straightforward…writing is the way I know how to be. I want you to know I regard you as a cool person and I really like talking and running (and smoking?) with you. I know you’ll be around for a little bit.  I’d still like to hang out with you, but I understand if you think it’s awkward or there will be tension or something. Regardless, I like your company and our friendship, our memories, our bullshitting, etc. I’d still like to watch some FIFA games, too. Feel free to email me back or use whatever means of communication you prefer.
Gabriel Sep 2015
A Gladius in one hand, leather on the handle amalgamates with weathered epidermis as if together for so long, there is no real division between one and the other. A Parmula in the other,  the protector, second appendage aside a most ravenous blade. Muscles so tense, nerve endings burst with electrical energy, capturing the spirit of the terrible beast within the man, nay, the Gladiator.

The beast tightens his foothold into the sand, raging strength forcing down, sand pressured through each phalanges as if water through a spout. Positioning each arm carefully and with the intent of maximizing damage and avoiding attacks, through cunning and powerfulness, designing death with each glare of the field. His focus, that of the hawk in the hunt or the statesmen in great debate...calculating all the angles, possibilities, and outcomes, defining his moment in time before ever even arriving there, his blood pumps.

The blood courses through his veins like molten hot lava from the core of Mount Vesuvius, ready to feed the vicious requirement of vigor needed to drive the man beyond men, who means to deliver the utmost devastating horror unto the flesh of other just as ferocious men, but none that contend. The strength of ages shown in the ripples of a warrior's poetic mastery to human excellence within war, for the ruthless decimation of human parts in a most savage fashion.

The shattered Gladiator takes that last few seconds, those trice right before battle
......where all time ceases......
To look down at the blood pumping harmoniously through veins before his eyes, he thanks the gods for his passion, power, and even his demise...and at that moment of singularity, he can hear his very blood in motion, as if all the world is silent, even against the crowds of the Coliseum that rival the sound of ten thousand heavy armored horse in full charge crashing lines of men
.......yet he can hear the breath pass his lips, as he breathes that last easy air of peace.    
      
As the opponents he means to send to the afterlife enter into their final space of rest, the roar begins to shake the sands at the suspect of impending death. The Gladiator sees each lusting harder than the other at the thought of his murderous actions given as the sport of all. Loving the blissful pleasures of watching him extinguish the light in men's eyes at his most arrogant time, all in name of a game. The Gladiator clinches his teeth in great anticipation, as the Roman speaks in foreign words which requires a submissive bow, and an utterance of a silly vow, which has no meaning.

And despite his many occasions in this very situation, there is still no greater sensations then when hardened metals smash together in the most destructive manner, setting the sounds alight that is music to the ears of a monstrous warrior who dances with death so often, he has learned to avoid the steps, more often leading, for skills that are the best, and death has all but removed him from his list...

Save a tiny little cyst in his hypothalamus.....he would have never died in battle.
Liz Nye Aug 2010
This was it:
The broken seat,
the precipitous stairs,
the heads of sleepy metal beasts mounted on the wall
places that felt full but were empty.
We mingled brain stems, exchanged heads.
I traded my hypothalamus for your frontal lobe.
Moths un-attracted to light,
we flickered in the dark,
weightless yet burdened-
this dirigible in my chest
Alone in a crowd you whisper
What if?
What if….
stacey renei May 2015
Someday, someone's going to break your heart
The way you did with mine
Then finally, finally
You'd know how it feels like to be broken,

The kind of broken that's going to have you
Physically force yourself out of bed every morning
Just so you can make it to school on time.

The kind of broken where you can't stand
Listening to the endless loops of
Love songs playing on the radio.

The kind of broken that leaves you
In a daze at random moments during the day
That people have to snap their fingers
In front of your face just to get your attention.

The kind of broken where you physically
Feel your heart hurt even though
It's the hypothalamus, which is in the brain
that gives the feeling of love.

Someday you're going to have a taste of your own medicine.
That's when you'll finally understand
The anguish and agony you've brought to me.
That's when you'll understand
How everybody gets their great heartbreak.
That's when you'll see,
I wasn't over reacting.
That's when you'll feel,
What it's like to have your heart broken
To the point that you think
You're incapable of falling in love again.
Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this poem . I hope you guys can relate to the raw emotion I felt while writing this poem. Please like and leave a comment telling me what you think. It'd be pretty rad too if you guys got this poem trending like the other ones. Follow me and leave a message, my inbox is always ready for friendship.
Tommy Johnson Sep 2014
The Lollygaggers gag on their lollipops
As the ice cream truck passes them by

Those moment when you're trying to be funny are the finest cuisine for my hypothalamus

Seeing you display what a sinch it is for you to make an *** of yourself

All you are is a big noise
And your life is held together by safety pins and duct tape
Cali Mar 2017
I linger at skin that clings
and hollow bones
that catch in the moonlight,
pausing at mirrors
that look more like
still-life paintings-
an empty gold vase
over here where my heart
used to reside,
a fresh green sprig
where there were once arms.

There is a sickness
sleeping in my hypothalamus,
heaving with every breath,
every step, every heartbeat.
I try to look at it
and it slips like sand
through my closed mind.

I smile, and it's not
my smile anymore.
John Carpentier Apr 2014
I want to be told stories I don't understand.
I remember when each book I read
or movie I watched
had some idea I didn't get,
and mystery was everywhere.

I was little
and knew nothing of the world around me.
So I made my own world: fresh
and bright, and heroic, and romantic.
I dreamt of kissing girls,
throwing punches,
suffering greatly,
and telling of how I survived.

Now I am big,
my dreams have melted into memories,
and I can't say I understand the world much better.
I've simply learned to ask intelligent questions
which have no answer.

I understand the books I read,
the movies I watch,
and mystery is dead.

At least I understand now
why I understand so little.
I've learned words like philosophy,
metaphysical,
quantum,
ineffable.
I've been taught to express my ignorance
with erudition and elegance.

I am a master of small questions
and can tell you the difference between
a lateral and ventromedial hypothalamus.

But should you ask me,
"Why is there something instead of nothing?"
I will falter,
but answer, knowing I am a blind mute trying to describe
the taste of cinnamon and the softness of sunset.

Ask "What is meaningful?"
And I will wince,
aware that death has meant nothing and everything.
So has love,
and poetry,
and romantic comedies.

My father is nothing more
than soggy ash at the bottom of a bay.
But he is in hundreds of sentences,
has starred in thousands of dreams,
and inspired a million emotions
since I shook his powdered remains
into froth and foam.

So who can tell me what matters in life
when one of the best talks I've had with my dad
was 6 years after he died,
performed for an empty chair
and hundreds of college students?

I am paying;
life, money, tears, love,
in order to better understand
just how stupid I am.

And I'm just fine with that,
because mystery is still alive,
somewhere out there in the nexus of my ignorance.

I'm just a pebble.
I've fallen into an ocean,
and I'm sinking deeper every day.
What I don't see
are the ripples I caused,
splashing somewhere far above me.

I just keep learning,
and reading, and watching.
I still have a lot of questions to come up with,
and the ocean floor is a long way away.
Cameron Godfrey Apr 2012
Love is nothing but a disorder of the hypothalamus
But there's no easy cure
I've fallen in love with the broken trust
And I just can't take anymore
I had to look up Hypothalamus for health... I found that. Sorta my awkward inspiration
Waverly Jan 2012
Man I hate when a girl gets in your head,
because she stays there,
just squats
on your hypothalamus.

But even more than that
she takes over the left side of your brain;
sleep
takes
awhile.

Sleep is no longer
inevitable.

When I start feeling a girl,
I feel her hard,
and I feel her jumping
on my brain for fun,
even though she doesn't know it hurts.

**** my heart,
she'll make her way down there
soon enough.
Advent Feb 2019
You’re sad. And sadness, well, it’s characterized by negative circumstances in your life. But have you ever thought about it? How the brain controls emotions? How the brain, literally, controls every reception in our body?

Loss of a family member, of a special someone, disappointment over your colleague–everything that happens in our world is pure information. And our brain decides how to react to it. I am sad, you are sad, he is sad. Everyone feels the same, though never exactly on the same degree. But the point is everyone endures feelings because our mind tells us to. And sometimes your brain will fail you and would you ever know why? Why the system of the neurons rewiring in your head suddenly choose to break you? As much as you want to be in control, it’s hard and it’s a process. But thinking about it, isn’t it magical? How the brain controls your decisions and suddenly your entire life?

But remember, you’re just science in this world. We all are. You’re a walking anatomy of cell tissues. A speck of humanity sitting in corners. Barely significant. You’ve read books about the philosophy of mankind, of intangible things, of excruciating norms. But the mind could only absorb what you feed. Now I’m asking, how do we take control? Our emotions? Our tendencies to reciprocate what’s unworthy? How do we justify the unthinkable? Art? How do we take control of our lives? Faith is a good concept but aren’t we just a product of science–-science of pumping blood and adrenaline glands? Science of DNAs and reproductive system? Bottom line is, mortality is cruel. And all our stories end in one–death, decomposition, and a life untold.

So try not to be sad. Try to take control of your feelings. Take over your ******* brain–your freaking hypothalamus. Because in years time, eventually we’ll crumble in the ground. And we won’t remember a thing, memories happy or sad.



―a.t.
Anais Vionet Oct 2023
Lisa and I had been watching some boys strut about, as they played soccer, in their little shorts, in the freezing cold. It’s an old animal story.

The game ended, or it was intermission and about twenty guys came streaming into the cafeteria, their cleats sounding like a hundred keyboards clacking all at once.

They were laughing, joking and pushing each other around with rowdy, coiled, unexpended kinetic energy. They were scoping-out the area too, almost subconsciously, like their bronze man ancestors surveying the grassy savannas for threat.

As they strolled in, Lisa and I exchanged looks. Eye-contact can be its own form of complicated language. “Welcome to the monkey-house” we thought, rolling our eyes.

I recognized one of the guys, from a shared chemistry class. He’s tall, slim and lanky, with chin length blonde hair tucked behind his ears and a bit of ****** stubble. Ethan, Adam? I couldn’t remember.

“One’s coming over,” Lisa said, turning a little away and sipping her coffee.
“Morning!” he said, with his winning smile. “What'd you think of that test?” He said, putting one hand in his pocket like a model and making the most disarming eye contact.
“Hard,” I said, with a shrug, Lisa was giving him an appraising look from behind her blonde curtain of hair.
“Aww, come on,” he said, with an aw-shucks grin that looked like something from a Brad Pitt movie. When was the last time I saw Peter - my hypothalamus seemed to ask me with an electric tingle.

There’s something rickety and flexible about resolutions, they melt, like ice cream in the right heat - like the warmth of a look, or the thermal rush of a provocative thought. Impure thoughts are like excited molecules, they bubble, and mine were suddenly on the edge of boiling. I hadn’t expected it, I didn’t trust it, but I liked it. I reached out for my coffee and looked down as I felt myself blush.

Our conversation had lasted long enough to draw the curious attention of a couple of the other guys who came to jostle and crowd Ethan-Adam’s game. “Woah!” one of them said, looking at Lisa. “When you walk in a building, do the sprinklers go off?” The other newbie laughed. Lisa waved the complement away, unsmiling, like an annoying and meaningless buzz.

“All right, all right,” Ethan-Adam said, with a grimacing grin, turning and corralling the other two guys away from the table with outstretched arms. “See ya,” he said, looking back over his shoulder with a “sorry about that,” nod.

“Who was THAT?” Lisa asked, almost admiringly.
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to remember the rollcall, “Ethan.. Adam.. one of those.”
Jordan Gee Aug 2020
I had went to visit some friends
some acquaintances
these people i used to know
I was a ghost in my hometown,
where no one used my given name.
they brought me in through a screen door and
sat me down in the kitchen.
their voices were like underwater sounds
they told me to be still while he said hello.
I looked down a flight of basement stairs
where bathed in a blue light like Chopin’s  no. 19 in E minor
sat a tiger burning bright.
up the stairs it bounded forth in muted strides
to the floor it pinned me under protest
in cemetery stillness it said hello.
the kitchen was an autoclave
I never asked for help.

my hometown calls to me in my sleep
like an indian death wail on a buffalo robe
so my eyes sink back into the firmament.
bathing in the predawn light
my bones are an old horse I ride,
I score one for the body then I get onto a plane
then I score one for the body and I get onto a plane
then i score one for the body as it lays dying without complaint.
kneeling before the Holy Cross by the roadside
I take note of really just how much room there is on the bed beside me
strange bedfellows are I and the space I’ve been given.
there is a queen sized outer darkness within my twin sized
gestures of self control.
the dusk is day now and the moon is the sun
and my hometown calls to me like Jericho’s Trumpet
sounding from inside the Pale.

in my hometown I am a pilgrim
I saunter towards the seaboard
where the docks hold greek columns that soar into the air
like the elephant’s legs in Salvador Dali’s “The Temptation of St. Anthony”.
nostalgia burns my throat like acids and bases
and the columns lead up to nowhere and this place isn’t
how i remember it beyond the Pale.
limping with thin soles
dragging a dull hypothalamus like a dead mule chained to my ankle
we would sit and watch our forefathers stare at the static on the TV
from their arm chairs in the dark.
we would offer them coffee and ask how their day was and they
would tell us that sometimes they feel like a lone alley cat.
It’s like my buddy's roommate when I would go to visit; always alone inside his room.
sometimes I would see him around town and say hello and notice his face and
see that he was still alone inside his room.

well, I have skin in the game and I have a reputation
and i’m attached to my non-attachment.
sometimes a subtle brand of disgust creeps in to replace my avarice
and sometimes I starve to death holding a long handled spoon
seated at Caligula’s table.
sometimes i can’t tell their maidenhood from their madness
so i hoard one for the body.
sometimes i remember the way bees will talk to each other by dancing
and how old men will tell you they’re afraid to die.
Sometimes I hand a *** a 20 and weep as I watch him fold it
into an origami crane.

while I was in town I looked up my former landlord
I held a fondness for the times when they didn’t use my given name.
I wanted to see my old room and I had kept a raven back then and
he assured me it was still around.
the room was now and attic and was much bigger than I had held it
in my memory, vast almost.
I ask the dust as it was thick upon the floor boards and something
felt abandoned in the air.
the roof was in disrepair and one whole side was nearly completely gone.
tranquil ribbons of cirrus clouds stood in the sky through the roof like
a child’s drawing.
“Is it like you remember?”, he asked.
“Way over in the corner there was a couch my brother would sometimes sit in” I replied.
I asked after my raven and he pointed to the part of the roof that still was.
from the shadows came a bird song like an irish low whistle from above the Pale.
“That doesn’t sound like him”, I said (more to myself than to my host),
“that’s an owl or something.”
https://youtu.be/fwR2bmhj0S0  listen to chopin
Usque incorruptibiles aeternum vivet in aeternum
                                         (356-323 B.C.)

The Regressive Legend tells that this good piece of muscular meat and brain too, was born to write his entire story dying with the blood of Etruscan Steeds, each one had golden piercings on the internal hanging of their six paranasal sinuses, to seal life by this blood-tightness. Franciscan timeless swordsman, so that with his last four molars it would give way to amalgamated crystalline light and overflowing from the gums of the period that soaked blood in the equestrian fields. With which from the ventral turbinate he would be in the first row giving pendency to the Troops of the Great Darius, from where his Alikanto Horse, dressed in degrading dust, changed his Etruria marble saddles with his paranasal attributions, and his brain roots of the hypothalamus pillar who gave them super alchemical excitements and compulsions, super powerful attack to arrive at Tel Gomel 7 days before, supported by the elixir of the Fires of the reinforced steel legs of his Alikanto, with whose entity they came out in droves looking like when they ran at great speeds pretending to be more than a thousand equine Etruscans escaping from the Culture of the Vulture war in a rectilinear scourge of speed in an inordinate trajectory by the Gaugamela tapestries.

Vernath; in one of their lives he was aware of broker comments. Along the long avenues there were countless soldiers who had taken possession of their regression! Many spoke loudly through the pavilions of their stateless conscience. After putting their good feeling of great good sufficiency, they called to him to loud voice which with little will he could hear. Then he heard himself say saying ...; They talked about me? Sooner or later I will be with my therapist, she says that before going to her office she was already dictating to approach her great Christus Martial test in Gaugamela. From the six strings of his devotional he came, taken with both hands with great force, to bend from the eyelids of his intruding Sibyl, to travel through the minimum must of the Solstice to reach the point of apogee closest to his epic, which I rescued with Eternal Life an obese arm from wars won by the peaceful Death, in the Way of oblique perpetrated committed soldiers that from Mosul swept him swirling with high bravery mounted in his Alikanto, before arriving at the low meadow forest of the Lid.

If it was a boy ... it was a Man. If he was a Man ... he was an offender of the fortress. If he was leisurely unfolded he always carried his sword, he never left it. Even his reconciling dreamed would be damaged if he deported him from his daily Christian offices. Vernath, is a living survivor precedent to the resurrected Alexander the Great, after 323 BC .. But when they breathed the same glorious air, both looking at each other, brandished cutting the sharp rudeness that divided them with the 6 Golden swords, from 6 angles of strategic fords to die. several times to challenge the pain that surpasses all life the golden strings with blood "Hexachordia Caelestialis Mortuorum", From the musical scale of agony of the sheep plains that are prey to the melodies of the scythes strengthened by the fear of the trembling of the charismatic migrant .

Vernarth was raised as befits a Greek prince, with heroic tales from Joshua de Piedra's epic poetry. He was part of a culture that demanded that great men despise personal danger and take risks to gain experience. His genealogical ancestors came from Sudpichi, near the Talamitense / Chile reign.
He also received teachings from Kalavrita's Etrestles himself in philosophy and science (Kometerium Messolonghi / Editorial Palibrio - Bloomington USA). Since childhood he was a charming guest for the guests of the court. Etrestles was named their teacher, largely to control recklessness and aggressiveness by at least tempering them with more philosophical and civilized values, far from all insomniac excess.
In this he did not achieve complete success, because his obstinacy led him to run around the world barefoot and without clothes. Vernath, far from obeying his parents. He would go out at night and chase the Moon pregnant with pale Solar light on foot to attack it and tame its silver enclosure on its Etruscan steeds, exuding the naused locked in its loopholes.

He learned a great deal from his tutor and became a highly scholarly man watching for Messolonghi and a keeper of the confines of the Kalavrita macro heavens. But he remained essentially the brave boy who spat too blasphemous atomic alcohol on the Cyclops, who wanted to be Hercules surrounded by himself without parallel. Alexander's inspiration was Etrestles; Homer's accounts of his exploits inspired Vernath in his general attitude of putting his books beyond his memoirs and bibliographic insights.

It is likely that he was seen as a brand new version of the classic Greek heroes with divine blood in SudPichi ..., good piece of muscular meat and brain. To a large extent, this was true more than her own Sibyl lying in her lived regression in the decadent heights of Gaugamela's flushed proximity.

Vernath was an extremely aggressive commander who considered any type of defensive preparation as a sign of weakness, so he dared to speak out in opposition to Saint Augustine; The personality of Saint Augustine of Hippo was iron and it took very hard anvils to forge it, attributing to her apathy not to proceed with the courage of the great Maker, for her encyclopedic fervor and scientific rigor. Perhaps in cowardice, for not facing the mysteries of the word of the present Gods. He was therefore encouraged, rather than dismayed, when the Persian army rallied behind the Gránico river, forcing him to stun across it in front of his predicted opposition, like a sovereign crusader. It is the cross of the plain that in oblique route, can rescind the old word task of the ritual punishment of the sacrilegious Pharisee death that lacks.
Vernath with more than 180,000 faithful followers, declared that the ******* did not have confidence in the victory of the greatest affront, and they counted on the pronounced banks of the river to restrain the intensity of their attack enough so that the Persian cavalry defeated him by accumulating centimeters, to gain deadly meters. He launched his cavalry across the river at the point where the enemy seemed strongest brooding, degraded soldier, and after a fierce skirmish he succeeded in driving the Persian cavalry absent from twilight elixir value alongside the extermination of the voiceless I neither sing nor sing.
The second Persian line expired, the Greek mercenaries, held firm, but was slaughtered in less than five variations of the Sun as a declaring manifesto. Depleted of jubilant water resources, the Granicus established the moral dominance of Vernath's army over his enemies and forced Darius to adopt an even more attitude. Local populations Halicamaso, a nearby port moved their lines more than 5 kilometers in their retreat retreated, before the victorious siege since he was awarded by the natural immensities of the forests of Sudpichi, together with his beloved father Bernardolipo, after consonating suspicious corners from the Osho Tarot, when he drew his sword and upright lunge on the first card, on the instep of the undefeated and naive ignorant warrior, versed strenuous mercenary.
VERNARTH ETERNAL LIGHT
Karl Johnson Jun 2017
I spent some time in the Clouds today: turns out
we're not that different.
I realized
my mind is
inhabited by Cirrus and Cumulonimbus.
As a result,
this week's forecast is brought to you by
The Hypothalamus.

I rain in tears,
spring showers and
summer storms in
Unintelligible mutterings
                         sputterings, spit and
Outbursts  of  stutterings.
It's pea soup when I'm P-d off.
Ominously overcast until I'm over it.
Thoughts condense inside;
my skull sweats
until my thoughts are no longer as dense
until it all makes sense.

My head's in the Clouds or
the clouds are in my head.
Thoughts drift off like imagination vapors
on a Sunday afternoon.
I'm captured by these Attention span capers
like the sun captivates the moon.

I'm waiting on clear skies;
my brain's barometoer breaks
       under AtmosFearic pressure.
But the greatest beauty is glimpsed
as the sun's set reflects upon cumuliform
                       - Breathless -
Each gleam an unreplicable clash  
of time, light, and wonder
That a cloudy disposition
     would only discover.
Twalib Mushi Jul 2020
A lot of noise
are knocking inside my head
That bitter noise
slap my hypothalamus
Am out of emotions.
  
But that better noise
Hit my cerebrum
Trying to convince me
That bitter will getting sweeter.

— The End —