"incentive" poems
Endless hours of committed effort,
which frequently felt unrecognised and unappreciated.
Deep down in your desireful soul,
you teased yourself with ambitious day dreams.
The incentive of recognition and opportunity,
put wind in your talented sails.
But now you've got the break,
to perform on that mythical stage.
The first chance filled spark has ignited,
and will hopefully burst into a colourful blazing future.
Grasp your chance with your unique determination,
seize the opportunity with grit and pride.
Achievement is fulfilment,
the more you achieve the more you bask in
the blissful sunshine of life.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
I am the breath you exhale
That sends dandelion seeds asail.
To you, a momentary pleasure,
While it gives my life new measure.
You've plucked me from home,
Blew me into the unknown.
I might be a seed under your boot,
My existence could seem moot.
But next summer, when you've lost incentive
In momentary pleasures, no longer attentive,
I'll be in full bloom.
Pick me up, I'll rebound again soon.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
I noticed a while ago.
I am subconsciously
Objectifying everyone.
And when I think about it
Objectified people
Are easier
To deal with.
I don't think this odd tendency of mine is
Natural.
In fact, I'm sure it isn't.
It's the result of a subdued conscience.
A conscience I always had.
I cared deeply for others.
I felt bad
Cried myself to sleep
For the smallest things.
An offhand insult I wasn't sure was even heard.
A chip taken from the lunch table.
An argument to be forgotten and ignored the next day.
I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I cried
Hated myself
Continuously hit myself
Cried more
And had nightmares.
As I got older
These feelings faded
But still I get these pains in the pit of my stomach.
And I remember how I was
Before I was numbed by
Objectification.
I saw people as people.
I cried because
I don't want people to feel bad.
Not because of me!
I can't think of anything worse
Than being that picture on a dartboard
That gives the incentive to
Never.
Miss.
To be hated.
Even disliked.
Thought of as trash
As I often am
I suspect.
Looks of disgust I draw
From people I care for
Who I don't want to hurt
Who constantly hurt me.
It tears me apart
And as I write this I feel tears welling up
Which they haven't done for
Years.
I began this objectification.
"That's just a dumb person."
"He's an idiot."
"Just one of those mean kids."
And I stopped caring if I hurt them
Because caring hurts.
A lot.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC
Asleep alone
I got the light scare
Of a nightmare
With my plight there
Which wouldn't fight fair
Awake awaits
Chirping is all I hear
Dragging life into focus
Getting the lens clear
To see things are hopeless
My aches and pains
Are my body's refrain
To remind me of existence
Despite my mental resistance
I am lucid
I take my shoelace
And loop it
To run a new race
Timidly trembling
The violence in my dreams
Matches the silence and screams
That defile us and our team
Making the nightmares real
And the pain I can feel
So it's love I steal
A devil's deal
Hell unsealed
I can hear the vultures chirping
Or maybe they're just burping
Out the demons I ignored
My forgiveness they implored
To meet a silent scorn
Like a muted tribal horn
Banishing them to another realm
With my ostracism at the helm
Until the lonely are overwhelmed
And I see the error of my ways
Once I'm part of this chaotic haze
Practically paralyzed
I am lost
In this game
I've met the boss
He and I the same
He is a voice
Chirping in my ear
Saying I have no choice
I should give in to fear
And just drink beer
Until the end is here
Carelessly comatose
The birds that once sang beautifully
Now retreat dutifully
When they see my thoughtless anger
Turn me into a ruthless stranger
Creating danger
For those living righteously
They start fighting me
Trying to enlighten me
Which is only exciting me
Because I lack the sight to see
What the world could be
If we could harmonize
Like the birds
Not using argent lies
But soothing words
Yet there is no tax exemption
For my reluctant redemption
So my mind invented
No incentive
Soul slaughtered
The tear jerking
Birds chirping
Constantly remind me
Inside my sleep they find me
Thrusting me into a life unwinding
Through my window the sun is blinding
When I start to fear my brother
After seeing mirrors in others
Reflecting my attitude
Of ingratitude
I had a nasty nightmare
Of Camp Crystal Lake
Filled with misfit flakes
Paying for their mistakes
With pain and suffering
As deep as a submarine
Being torn apart
For every decision
Hiding their heart
To avoid incisions
And once all these losers are slain
The birds chirping start a new day
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
There is nothing
worse
than smoking a stoge alone
knowing the white paper wrapped
around leaves is a Hearse.
Dying slowly with a friend
feels almost alright
but when the smoke
billows out at night
a locomotive with no incentive
you get pensive
and wish that cancer would develope
dropping you in an early grave.
The stench of burning bodies
isn't a story
with a life lived next to a crematory
the sizzle of the cigarette
akin to the sound of
bacon cooking in the morning.
No warning signs
from a petered out mind
cracked spine causing
an acid flash back
fluorescent butterflies
peek over the guitar strings
stinging like beautiful bees
while the trees take deep breaths
singing
"Breathe child...breathe"
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Say
He is desperate to settle down.
It's crystal a trick to lure her drown.
He thought
She was speaking with her heart all along,
But She was just singing along the song.
A little truth and lies,
A little tries and prise.
Building up a vivid paradise.
He seems patient,
Patient to get obsession.
Observation to his intention.
Kissing with passion,
Groping with no hesitation.
All nature mating season.
Scene like Adam and Eve,
Having fun in Eden with full incentive.
Both are full of deceptive.
Sharing juice of the forbidden fruit.
He drink without dispute,
Dying to see her attribute.
In his baffling blue eyes.
Reflection of a perfect goddess.
From the pools of lies,
Everything look fresh and nice.
There the Lilith in disguise,
But he is too drunk to realise.
Drunk from his own pride and prejudice.
And there is when the pleasure dies.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 9:34 PM UTC
Due to popular belief. I believe that certain things are due to happen naturally.
Like all other things it's bound to grow. This thing, love.
We are due to become obese to this organic, homegrown feeling.
The initial look that begins as taste. Naturally we are starved.
Aroused by the scent that lures us close. This thing, love.
One thing we must learn is self control. To not over indulge in the primary reason it exists.
To selfishly take because it's there. This thing, love.
Effort exudes as it becomes habit. Being placed at a table readily available for what portion comes next.
This need becomes confused with want.
To please others before our need in unselfish manner. A straight forward response to habit.
The rising availability of also being taken for granted. The insurmountable outline that defines lust.
Our intake becomes higher attempting to justify the difference. Thus we become lazy.
Reacting in ways we normally wouldn't. This thing, love.
This scent acts as incentive, instantly attracted by which we over indulge.
Searching for this thing, love.
It's a reasonable thing. Knowing when to reach. When to pull. When to give and sacrifice.
Almost always all of these happen, learning self control, vocalizing when we've had our fill.
Else we will continue to eat until there is nothing left.
Grown obese. This thing, love
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling
Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait
High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination
I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak
I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting
The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus
Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness
I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery
The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
Are your goals incentive
To get you through your life
Is the end result a good one
Can you share it with your wife
Is it worth all of the struggling
To put up with the muddling
Of folks you just abhore
Of folks you'd soon ignore
Are your children on the sidelines
While you work away your years
Are they just collateral damage
As you work on through your fears
Do you ever think you'r losing them
That you may just be abusing them
Those children there
Show them you really care
Is it time to take a back seat
As you ride upon lifes train
Time to hand over the driving
Or are you to proud to abstain
Do you want to end up all alone
Go and throw the dog a bone
You're almost there
Nobody really cares
Take a step and join them
They're the ones you should support
Give up all the overtime
Or you'll end up in court
A lonely, hopeless businessman
Who always does the best he can
All alone
There's nobody left at home
Share your time with work and family
As you make your way along
Don't forget to hear the music
Don't forget to sing the songs
It happens so **** easily
You only need to look at me
I stepped back
After a heart attack
Get priorities in order
don't forget just how to play
Don't put it on a bucket list
Go out and start today
The earlier you leave the race
The longer you'll be in this space
Come on...begin
The water's fine...now please jump in.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
We have incentive to collect our fears,
replace them with hope in the incoming years.
But we tie them off and leave them alone;
stash them away in the deepest parts of our bones.
Stamp them in blood, or tears we forgot,
switch off the trauma and train of our thoughts.
The tracks mail letters, to the backs of our minds;
a land unknown from the depth of our blinds.
I promise you, this ill way of thinking,
doesn't solve the problem, nor help it sink in.
Someone will find them,
somehow deny them,
for the points you could've made;
and the pain you couldn't take-
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
Writing because of procrastination, that is what I am telling myself.
Writing because I have no other way to convey emotions, that is what I feel.
Writing without a reason, that is what seems like the truth.
I am lost again, stuck in a loop of what feels like clarity, into the same self-inflicted confusion.
Wishing for the ability to make my words into music, I stare down at my keyboard and try to play.
I know I wouldn't put in the effort to learn, but I just want to inspire myself.
Maybe by some miracle I can learn what I am doing in time.
For now I am mindless, only commands get me moving.
Yet if they involve work I often zone out for minutes on end in thoughts that mean nothing.
If only I knew all of you reading, if only I hadn't lost touch with the outside world to this mindless cycle that is the internet.
Without the internet though, I wouldn't be able to convey my thoughts, all of my friends would be here.
Hell, what friends would I have without the only place I can show who I am from so far away?
Always introspective, trying my hardest to see what is wrong.
People tell me I am fine, but at the same time, I am not content with who I am.
I want to be older, stronger, able to do things without aide, and being there for those who need me.
I feel unnoticed among my friends, and hailed as above others by my peers.
The cycle makes me feel as though my peers think I need encouragement to live, while my friends know I just need the strength to push past it.
That, or they don't care enough to ask, your friends are how you are in some ways I suppose.
Why am I writing so much if I don't need it to get by, is there some other incentive I am giving myself?
Some reward for not doing anything to change is letting me know about it?
I think this is just my emotions trying to give my brain a kick-start, but I am tuning out the messages.
I don't seem to care about some kind of structure in writing anymore, my care has bled out freezing me to a solid caricature of who I want to be.
Do I even want to publish this, and have it be known to people that I am struggling?
Whatever the case may be, I'll post it anyway, who really cares at this point?
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
There I stood
In a long hallway
Stretching thinly
To a lit point
Lined with doors
Opening as they closed
Its prisms transposing
Euphoria as it shone
Lifting my chest
It dragged me breathless
Down its stretches
As I was reflected
In my own projections
Of sentients
Until innocence
Was all there is
And that is
Where thoughtless
Narrative lives
Where languidly it gives
Wordlessness meaning
And that is
Where fraughtless
Intentions can win
Acting replacing thinking
Incentive in Zen
Awaking and thinking again
Was is and gonna be
Everything I believe
Even while deceived
In sets of themes
Numeric categories
And the tragic stories
Of grander things
Things of grandeurous dreams
That I wring out in the sink
While winking
The well wishes away
In splashes
Of graying
Paint
My hate
Is displayed
In the mourning
Of Mondays
And with relatable monotony
And some mundane
Everything goes back to the same
Or at least
That's the philosophy
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
Keep the youth medicated & sedated, then wonder why the literacy rate is doomed to decline. Birth us on a pedestal, then wonder why we have no incentive to climb. Build us from a violent genocide, then wonder why we've got guns pressed under our tongues. Kneel us before the clergy. Strangle us with your rosaries. Brand psalms into our wrists & make laws to control her ovaries. Value groupthink over independent thought & induce aversion to curiosity. Hang us between your revolving doors & shoot nationalism into our veins... Then wonder why we're so addicted to drowning our insides.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Delusion?
I exist not as I am:
A mirrored image of glamour.
Trace back through each reflection
Until who I am is but a collection
Of women invented
With no incentive
but to save a man like you.
A would be artist
lost touch with who
Knows what; the scar is
Hidden but still you see;
Whats wrong with me?
Our unspoken debate.
I am reaching for myself
But glass stops true connection;
What if you only want to kiss my reflection?
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 2:51 AM UTC
taken up residence in all my areas and in these places
there is always a place for her
In my basement
when she rubs and soothes my toes to a numbing comfort
at opposite end her stretch lets my hands do the same to hers
Structure beams stand
and are why my calves and thighs continue to grow stronger
are incentive to be wrapped around her legs
and hers in a grip twist
throughout the curve of my hips to hold crossing
X made when I am wrapped
For entering the front porch
She knocks but not heard
for her tapping inquiries are irrelevant
So it turns, the doorknob turns
unlocking opening this abstract transition in my abdomen
Here is hers to warm her hands
and chest
when chills come over
and Level-Up in connect
with another’s rushes
through bloods chamber controller
In the hearth of my arms
is where she sleeps off stressful days
and absorbs deep breaths
given to her by the nighttime in comfort fire
that keep warm in clutching swarm
The crawl space of my mind is her cozy retreat
Where she writes to and
receives poetry like excessive pounding heartbeats
and sings and reads, is read to and strummed to
in this cave of only good thoughts drape over, outweigh
and extend
root outward
sprout upward
seeds are sewed
for and of future place
take place
This is where she speaks one line
“Millions of days,”
and falling feta paints rapid wetness across raised cheeks
grazing my chin upward, with her fingers
where we pace, follow, and race,
To more moments in place on our backs
in the yard
just to lay and stare ahead
at endless sects of aerospace
As if in bed, in their others head
Sep 13, 2020
Sep 13, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
.oh... hi y'all:
or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio?
i guess after watching
the disaster artist
and no having watched
the room...
the tetragrammaton
is so glaring to me
in the English tongue,
i might as well be
a reincarnation of
Belshazzar
(but not really...
because, to me,
reincarnation
implies
a fixed number
of people...
and an mingling
of solipsism from
philosophy,
and NPC from the gaming
world...
no, i can't believe
in reincarnation...
saving grace of
the Hindus?
they're not lactose intolerant;
boogie-woogie-boo-woo
ooh things are turning,
freak-y...
why is that a Y and not
an E?
see... the tetragrammaton
is glaring at me...
like an ***** protruding
phallus with the added
"flavor" of a circumcision
snippet...
me? i'm fine...
no snippet...
i can **** off as much
as i like and not feel
stupid -
or catholic, about it,
having, in my possession,
an unsheathed "sword").
p.s. it really is the case
of circumcising men
as a procreational motivation,
no ******** on you...
plenty of ******** on her...
and how the east meets
the west...
back in the east i'd be a blessing...
over 'ere?
i'm a walking abortion...
a nuisance...
something you send off
to fight in incestuous...
here's my 100 year closure celebration:
V!
like the Welsh longbow men... up yours!
who? in the 100 year war...
the French would cut off the...
**** index or middle finger?
they would cut off one of the fingers
of the Welsh longbow men...
so they could fire an arrow...
P.O.W.s...
so the Welsh longbow men
came up with V... a salute
to the French... up yours!
i still have mine!
hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off...
too bad, ol' chap,
you've been given an incentive
to find your missing ********
in a woman's *****
sorry... i actually feel sorry for
you having this imposed on you...
the missing caftan / hood and all...
sometimes i wondered:
does she even know what she's
doing performing ******** on
me? maybe i could cut my torso off
and show her how to do it?
in the east i'd be a godsend,
but in the west i'm an
embarrassment...
great in tissue... greater still
in pointless wars...
auxiliary pageant...
sure sure...
glorify the women...
last time i heard my ex-girlfriend
gave birth to her fourth child...
her fourth daughter...
i seriously should have been
born a ******* Mongol.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
upon waking, i could feel glass in my lungs
small, sharp shards prickling the breaths from my chest and
stealing them away from me—
like some stolen innocence i remember once was mine;
but that was years ago, now
i've been ruined for a long time
i don't sleep very well, and i don't-
don't really wake up very well, either
particularly as we accelerate towards winter
and the only thing i can associate the cold and the dark with
is childhood and threat,
and my school teachers called it Seasonal Depression
but my therapist knows i'm always depressed
Depression is a long-time cuddle buddy;
she's kept me company through trauma.
my therapist tells me that
the cold and dark, they're incentive to flashbacks
too many nights, only single digits in age, forced
to sit in the frost-bitten shadows of an alcoholic's living room
with the AM hours throwing bloodied ***
and violence, through a TV screen
and i still remember the crippling ache of empathy,
watching that little robot boy's family abandon him:
lost in the woods, found only to be beaten.
i breathed through the glass in my lungs,
and never could quite let go of the memory,
nor the popping eyes and crashing cars
or the bleeding walls and possessed children;
wondered, briefly, if maybe some strength could one day possess me
and make my father see i was worth more
than a black-blue shadow in his home, and an accessory in his favourite bars
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 6:07 AM UTC
A, always absencent and afraid
D, in such distaste;
A, for anger- absoloute
& M, cuz mans a ****** Waste:
Is this a written name?
Of this friend or potential lover
How he Reels this unique pain,
Too bad he wont discover:
That I'm the one whos truth's attentive
Not the one with words incentive-
Take ownership, & be repentive
Your minds absolutely unretentive.
I don't believe that you have this gift
*To heal and unlock a Better version
of whoever you think you are-*
What you've been given, you must shift
Enjoying that fake xannax bar?
A lthough you hurt
D ont hurt me too
A lways iconsiderate-
M anipulated too.
✌️
Apr 7, 2023
Apr 7, 2023 at 1:48 PM UTC
those pensive ones
as they seem to me
birds on the wire
gazing this way
and that
lost invariably
to their ennui
their melancholy
their obliviousness
to the point
some may say
pointlessness
of their existence
in these moments
without reason
or incentive enough
to prompt one
or the other
to take to the wing
embracing the bluster
of the ever-blowing winds
rather they sustain
this idle malingering
waiting listlessly
for that which none
can know
Jan 5, 2024
Jan 5, 2024 at 12:28 PM UTC
I was born to be a child that planted seeds of
happiness in whoever I met, so my parents have told me.
I don't think I have ever had the leading role in
this play. I've never been that girl who everyone fawns
over with the spot light shining on her all the time.
I was meant to help others like the backstage hands.
My biggest accomplishment was teaching my mom
how to laugh at herself. She has always been that
busy workaholic type.
At this point in my life, it is only Act III Scene II and there
hasn't been a visible plot yet. My soul is chameleon, and
it is indecisive as to what color it should be. My ideas
of what I want to give to this world change all the
time. But soon if I don't pick, I will be thrown into
a ****** without any heading. My most secret dream
is to become a painter, but nobody has ever understood
that part of me. When I paint, I lose all consciousness of
the outside world and there is no incentive to paint
besides the love of looking at a finished piece. Maybe
one day I'll be a starving artist who gets a break and then
I will get my spotlight on stage.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Loneliness is now upon his throat
I know it for sure
What ails him hasn't a cure
He's shrinking like a sinking boat.
On the perch a plumed pain
He's lost without a care
Tells the vacant stare
Dooming into a never regain.
Death is an easy height to scale
When life remains to grieve
Without any incentive
As love retires to a dark well.
He's fading in the lost glory
And I know it for sure
What's killing him has no cure
My budgie called Story.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
I asked a woman to change her curls to forever straight,
and offered $50,000
(a sum on my mind that day after a
particularly rough day trading),
incentive
to maintain said style in
eternal perpetuity
she has accomodated me now for over a decade+, but
every every, every now
and every then, She pulls me
closer than close,
whispers 50K~ok!,
and hits me with a
hockey checking
an enforcer's hip swaying
pow,
that be
her physio~verbal
hockey stick reminder,
that poets must always pay their debts,
and even
forever, eternal and perpetuity
are included!
&
**have no legal limitations
or
poetic exemptions**
*nor,
credit,
for time
served*
🥴
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
Chiming bells and songs rent up the air!
Mood of festival eve catch up all in joy!
Not minding chill weather all go brisk
Purchasing, taking snack and juice, low!
For a month happy mood will stir all hearts
Forgetting old matters and dreaming new
About long months ahead for progress...
To make life better to enjoy better in full!
And when works go on full swing as per plan
Spring will greet all with smiling flowers.....
To cheer up the mood to forget the stress
And strain of work load with hope of future!
Festival is the incentive to stimulate zeal
To go ahead on any venture to achieve goal!
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 2:44 AM UTC