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multi sumus Apr 14
Disheartened and ardently harkening as this partisan charlatan arvantly darkening the arden within

The clark embarking imparting starkened remarks and then

Disparted but scarting the scarp regarding the spark therein
https://youtu.be/bBX_DO8CyAo
James R Apr 21
We, at various points in life,
draw a line
in the sand.
Marking where we've been,
where we stopped
to never venture forward.
Winds bring change no lines
can withstand. And we draw
them again in defiance.
We eke meaning from this sand
that would otherwise
mean nothing to us. Imparting
our own ideologies
onto an unresponsive medium
as a testament
to ourselves. Our independence.
The sand is most susceptible to change,
shifted constantly
by the sea, our feet,
the wind.
Still, we draw our lines anyway.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. :)
Egaeus Thompson Jan 2017
My darling little one I am tasked.
Tasked with the idea of imparting what I know.
It might not all help,
But it is what I wish I knew.

If you don’ t already;
Pretend you like yourself,
Because if people think you are untouchable
They won’t attempt to approach you and tell you the negative things that you already tell yourself.

Take the time to listen to classical music,
You will like Toccata and Fuge in Dmin,
Trust me.

Don’t regret anything;
You are who you are because of what you have done,
Even if you don’t like the person you are now,
Use the present as a catalyst to become who you picture yourself being.

Fall in love with weird people.
They are a different type of person
And you learn much about how the mind works from them.

Pick up the ukulele.
It is bright and happy.
But only do this after your long stint as a metalhead.
People can say what they want,
But you have to be talented for metal
And if anyone knows about community and looking out for their own it is metalheads.

It is okay to be unhappy-
Even now I don't have the hang of this one.
But maybe someday
Maybe someday.

My tiny shining star,
The world will be cruel to you,
But it will be kind if you let it.
Take in the little things that give you joy.

But your Mum and I cannot wait,
To see the joys you experience
And the mistakes you make,
Because I will be waiting with tea and gumboots
And your Mum will be waiting with blanket forts and chocolate
And probably a better solution.

You will be an unstoppable force in this world
And I couldn't be more excited to meet you
B E Ragland Nov 26
Scattering when the caterwaul
shatters the silence
has been the modus operandi
since band tees became mandatory
for imparting a personality.

I'm a casualty of my own inability
to mask anything except excitement
for that same silence.

This is all over the place,
I know.

Art, artist.
Form, function.

It's whatever.
It's nothing.

But I'll still harvest the stars
out of any hardship
like some lovesick punk
drunk on the assumption
of the eternal life of his inner darkness.
ATL Aug 25
In marble faces I found
a fluttering that pushed blood
into every cavity inside the you
that wishes to be not.

I threw prayers
into ceiling fans-
laying limp inside the gulf,
to know that dry wall peeling back
was all to greet me.

Just ashen fluff flying endlessly
into rotaries,
and an inquiry turned to bird song,
something about windows
and deception.

It’s all cliche-
it’s all cliche,
the dismissive reiteration
of a phrase that piques the you
begging to be not,
coiled in skin,
wishing to be a limping diagram
of human musculature.  

it all grows dimmer
when you realize that
the horizontal is redundant,
rareness becomes
a beguiling piece
of parchment filled
with scribbles
imparting nonsense to the eyes.
Patient death awaits us,
with solemn silent grace.
Imparting us eternity
in it's inevitable embrace.
Inseparable it's companion time, immune to Earthly laws.
No plea can stay it's nearing step.
No riches purchase pause.
And when alas we're beckoned,
No choice we meet our fate.
Since time began has been no man as yet one second late.
Pearson Bolt Jun 9
she sits sun-kissed by the window.
white rays burst around her head,
a halo refracting off her glasses.
a cigarette streams idly from one hand,
a purple highlighter is poised in her other. the cap
is ******* off and balanced between her teeth
as she runs the ink across the page,
murmuring along to the theoretical text
beneath her breath. Scottish highland green
eyes follow along, digesting,
questioning incessantly. she looks up at me,
an inquiry flowering on her lips. “don’t you think
we’ve outgrown birth metaphors?” she asks.
“why can’t we say the revolution ‘explodes’
or ‘blossoms?’” but just think:
the very pages of the books we read
are given to us by the Earth—
wood pulverized to parchment,
imparting hope, as if this very planet
is tattooing insurrection in its flesh.
patty m Oct 11
In the the Forest of Time and Whispers there grew a wondrous tree hidden among all other trees and here and there were caves and odd rock formations . Old and bearded-gray this tree had survived ten thousand summers.  Nothing very much happened until one particular day.  Somewhere deep beneath the ground tunneling upward was a little worm.  Not an everyday worm but a worm consumed with the desire to learn as much knowledge as possible and to put that knowledge to good use.

Was it accident that he rose above ground where the wise tree's roots were being chomped by carpenter ants whose aim it was to bore through and take down the tree and the entire forest if it stood it their way?  Now our little worm had once lived in a castle and had been blessed to see the most wondrous of all things, BOOKS.  Books were rare, and only the very rich could possess them.  He wasn't sure how he learned to read, he only knew that he could and when volumes were left open, he memorized them line by line.  Once he was reading when the Princess Beatrice came in.  Not wanting to be caught he tried to hide, but to his consternation she saw him and worried that this worm might eat or ruin the parchment pages.  So after countless years of study he was thown out the window by a servant, landing somewhere on the side of the moat outside the castle walls.  How sad the little book worm was. But it seems he was destined for something more important.  Upon seeing the ants attacking the old roots of the tree he searched around and found a Maple tree. Begging in his biggest worm voice, he asked for a little maple sugar on a fallen leaf.  "Why should I," asked the Maple?   The worm explained that carpenter ants were particularly found of sweets and loved honey and syrup best of all, and if he could spare a bit, he might be able to save the old tree, in fact he might save all the trees and the animals and birds who lived among them.

He had a plan if he could just obtain the needed ingredients.  He would make a glue and swipe it across some fallen leaves and then coat them with a bit of maple sugar.  The ants wouldn't be able to resist it and they would become stuck to the leaves and the tree would be saved. So the Maple agreed and the worm worked all night hoping he remembered the recipe correctly.  With the help of some birds, and a rabbit all was put in place.  Soon the ants swarmed to the old tree ready to bore his roots which would have been disasterous, when suddenly they discovered something too wonderful to resist.  The scent of that maple sugar was like manna from heaven and quickly they all found their way to the coated leaves and became stuck fast.  Unable to move the entire swarm was imprisoned and soon died or were eaten by critters or birds.  The tree bent it's limbs and thankfully caressed the little worm imparting whispered secrets never before heard.  A bound of undying friendship was made that day in forest of yore.  Only the very fortunate were allowed to hear their varied conversations, or strategic moves.  The worm gave the tree something he didn't have previously, flexibility and a true conversationalist and an avid debater and a binding friendship was struck.  The tree bloomed over night and his beard was no longer gray but black, as if he had regained his youth.  Some say it was the fruit of knowledge he bore, others say apples but with a delicious flair having a taste of something totally enchanting and spicy.  The worm too changed, becoming very learned, and he too grew to larger proportions and sprouted limbs, arms and hands and even legs and he had a very professor like voice.

The forest flourished and soon there were villagers who swore by the worm's remedies.  Soon word spread, of the miracles that had taken place there deep in the forest.  The princess Beatrice was so saddened by the illness of her father that she grasped at any straw.  Un-chaperoned she ventured out in the guise of a lowly servant to see if the stories were true.  How she prayed it was so and that there was a cure that could save him.  The birds were the first to see her, and not even her poor disguise could hide her beauty, so they guided her gently over fallen logs and around bogs, to the sacred place in the hollow. There she spied a very scholarly worm, sitting cross legged on the root of a magnificent tree, deep in conversation.  She bowed downed before them and begged for their help, all pride forgotten in hope of saving her father the King.  The worm recognized her instantly, but she didn't recognize him, for he had grown in stature and wisdom and possessed a very scholarly demeanor.  But the worm was kind, as was the tree, for friendship had softened their hearts.  The worm listened to her tale of woe and then there was a great discussion.  An elixir was recommended and love and patience too.  The worm offered to return with her to the castle so he could see her father and make further recommendations.  It was in the castle, watching the worm turn the pages of a multitude of books that Beatrice remembered who he was and felt her spirits drop at her own cruelty.  But the worm was kind and in a few weeks her father was returned to health.  They wanted to make him chief physician of the land a very notable post, but the worm missed his friend and wanted to go back to his home in the forest.

And so it was that the forest was then put under the protection of the King and all his heirs and theirs, and theirs of generations that followed.  The kingdom thrived with the knowledge of two, one of books and one of secrets no one knew, and they lived some say they still do, deep in the shadowy heart of the forest.

— The End —