"invests" poems - Hello Poetry

"invests" poems

Winter, From Summer Winter's kiss reveals barren nests in arbored rests summer's love conceals Winter's veil behests larder meals in burrowed fields summer's sleep divests Summer, From Winter Summer's hand repeals frigid tests of nature's guests winter's grasp unseals Summer's warmth invests life's ordeals on newborn squeals winter's chill arrests

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Feb 15, 2016

Feb 15, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC

Winter and Summer

Winter, From Summer Winter's kiss reveals barren nests in arbored rests summer's love conceals Winter's veil behests larder meals in burrowed fields summer's sleep divests Summer, From Winter Summer's hand repeals frigid tests of nature's guests winter's grasp unseals Summer's warmth invests life's ordeals on newborn squeals winter's chill arrests

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And all your heros are gone, but you refuse to take off the mask. A loudmouth, a capitalist, with greasy hair and a golden toothpick, he is your enemy he is your oppressor and he sits upon a throne of coal and blood with armed security and a nation built for him, to protect him and his money, a police state, pat downs on the corner, murdered in the street, your daughters gotta eat. He grows fatter and fatter still, he loves complacency, he loves contentment, he invests heavily in both. He knows we are strong, he knows we are many, he knows he must divide us to win, he knows we're his greatest weapon, so he created Fox News, he created TMZ, stealthily, we didn't even notice, he created NPR and KVIE, he gave them masks that look like ours. They look poor, they look starved, they look like us, but they have a different master. Our master is the earth, our master is our coworker, our neighbor, our mailman, our dishwashers, our bus drivers, our minimart clerks. Our masters are not the TV, our masters are not the radio, our masters are not the New York Times, they are not National Geographic, they are not BP, they are not our principals, our administrators, our policemen, our CEOs, our investors, our bankers, our insurance providers, these people hate us, they hate us because they can't squeeze blood from a stone, and the rivers are running dry, the factories are standing still, the people, our masters and our friends, they're in the streets, they're shouting "BLACK LIVES MATTER" they're shouting "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE" "NO MORE WAR FOR OIL" **** THE POLICE" "DOWN WITH THE 1%" and soon and soon, The False Gods will grow so fat and we'll have nothing left to eat but them, and on that day we'll sit down to dine and it won't be civilized and it won't be pretty, their blood, our blood, will feed the rivers and their flesh will feed our hungry children and their money will burn and warm our chilled bones but we can't wait, we can't wait for this to happen because everyday they grow stronger, we grow weaker and the river becomes dryer. The Bourgeois is our enemy, they say 'All Lives Matter' they say 'Work Hard and Your Dreams Will Come True' BUT THEY LIE

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Jul 12, 2016

Jul 12, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC

And all your heros are gone, but you refuse to take off the mask. A loudmouth, a capitalist, with greasy hair and a golden toothpick, he is your enemy he is your oppressor and he sits upon a throne of coal and blood with armed security and a nation built for him, to protect him and his money, a police state, pat downs on the corner, murdered in the street, your daughters gotta eat. He grows fatter and fatter still, he loves complacency, he loves contentment, he invests heavily in both. He knows we are strong, he knows we are many, he knows he must divide us to win, he knows we're his greatest weapon, so he created Fox News, he created TMZ, stealthily, we didn't even notice, he created NPR and KVIE, he gave them masks that look like ours. They look poor, they look starved, they look like us, but they have a different master. Our master is the earth, our master is our coworker, our neighbor, our mailman, our dishwashers, our bus drivers, our minimart clerks. Our masters are not the TV, our masters are not the radio, our masters are not the New York Times, they are not National Geographic, they are not BP, they are not our principals, our administrators, our policemen, our CEOs, our investors, our bankers, our insurance providers, these people hate us, they hate us because they can't squeeze blood from a stone, and the rivers are running dry, the factories are standing still, the people, our masters and our friends, they're in the streets, they're shouting "BLACK LIVES MATTER" they're shouting "NO JUSTICE NO PEACE" "NO MORE WAR FOR OIL" **** THE POLICE" "DOWN WITH THE 1%" and soon and soon, The False Gods will grow so fat and we'll have nothing left to eat but them, and on that day we'll sit down to dine and it won't be civilized and it won't be pretty, their blood, our blood, will feed the rivers and their flesh will feed our hungry children and their money will burn and warm our chilled bones but we can't wait, we can't wait for this to happen because everyday they grow stronger, we grow weaker and the river becomes dryer. The Bourgeois is our enemy, they say 'All Lives Matter' they say 'Work Hard and Your Dreams Will Come True' BUT THEY LIE

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421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled— But peers beyond her mesh— And wishes—and denies— Lest Interview—annul a want That Image—satisfies—

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4.9k

Emily Dickinson

A Charm invests a face

421 A Charm invests a face Imperfectly beheld— The Lady dare not lift her Veil For fear it be dispelled— But peers beyond her mesh— And wishes—and denies— Lest Interview—annul a want That Image—satisfies—

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everybody shaves so Warren Buffet invests in Gillette; and every country drinks so he also buys Coke shares - which leads me to my own investment strategy Every human sheds forty thousand skin cells an hour That’s forty thousand cells times 7 billion humans each hour– you listening? - now that’s a lot of dust; and not to forget the many cultures and nations that cremate rather than bury and that releases from each body in the barbecue 1.6 trillion cells of dust - it’s a ****** dusty world, isn’t it? so…I’ve got it all worked out… I’m investing in vacuum cleaners…

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Oct 6, 2013

Oct 6, 2013 at 4:57 AM UTC

my guide to investing

everybody shaves so Warren Buffet invests in Gillette; and every country drinks so he also buys Coke shares - which leads me to my own investment strategy Every human sheds forty thousand skin cells an hour That’s forty thousand cells times 7 billion humans each hour– you listening? - now that’s a lot of dust; and not to forget the many cultures and nations that cremate rather than bury and that releases from each body in the barbecue 1.6 trillion cells of dust - it’s a ****** dusty world, isn’t it? so…I’ve got it all worked out… I’m investing in vacuum cleaners…

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─illustrations on the ceiling i love the way the sunlight ripples along his skin with no complaints "messiah" the shadow talks "of course he is" i reply and i resume to orchestrating my love ─little phobias i wander aimlessly along his windows, his eyes; they are gates to afterlives unloved; they are oceanic shrapnel sky imprisoned infinities a lapis point of view- that i treasure his heart is drenched in my soul- in a sweeter sickness- in the liquid measure of my steps- he mentions i'm contagious i tell him he is my favorite way to bleed "september prodigy" the shadow babbles "why?" i rasp **"sun at long last kisses away all the ghosts harvesting from the heart of the moon"** and i broke out into stars ─my serendipity i love the raw music of our conversations, and how his voice undresses me and my monsters so delicately in fabrics of the dark i love how his laugh makes all the other planets look dull; how his smile is the first step to curing the blind so the blind may know what i know "the symphony of seams" i love how he is the shocking philosophy of turning suicide notes into paper cranes of picking fights with death so i may remain i love the phoenix tucked in his soul how it defines- the altitudes- the limits- our existence he describes to me "reincarnation?" the shadow asks "every morning he wonders" i answer and the fever invests it's time in me "what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs "*besides broken flowers, and ink blots shaped like rain he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"

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Apr 25, 2017

Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC

─illustrations on the ceiling i love the way the sunlight ripples along his skin with no complaints "messiah" the shadow talks "of course he is" i reply and i resume to orchestrating my love ─little phobias i wander aimlessly along his windows, his eyes; they are gates to afterlives unloved; they are oceanic shrapnel sky imprisoned infinities a lapis point of view- that i treasure his heart is drenched in my soul- in a sweeter sickness- in the liquid measure of my steps- he mentions i'm contagious i tell him he is my favorite way to bleed "september prodigy" the shadow babbles "why?" i rasp **"sun at long last kisses away all the ghosts harvesting from the heart of the moon"** and i broke out into stars ─my serendipity i love the raw music of our conversations, and how his voice undresses me and my monsters so delicately in fabrics of the dark i love how his laugh makes all the other planets look dull; how his smile is the first step to curing the blind so the blind may know what i know "the symphony of seams" i love how he is the shocking philosophy of turning suicide notes into paper cranes of picking fights with death so i may remain i love the phoenix tucked in his soul how it defines- the altitudes- the limits- our existence he describes to me "reincarnation?" the shadow asks "every morning he wonders" i answer and the fever invests it's time in me "what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs "*besides broken flowers, and ink blots shaped like rain he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"

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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn; Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.

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3.1k

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn; Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.

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Wind swept Wild places the grass it puts on a veritable orchestra of movement as it undulates to the power of the breeze that passes Mountain meadows splashed with a profusion of flowers they jiggle as if there tickled about something or other The crest of the hill bordered with trees sloping down the hill children are running reminiscent of Jack and Jill This utopia of nature sets aside the hurly burly the curvature of the hills still the wind hold the sun just right you it invites Cross these pasture lands the feeding ground of many cattle and sheep the pride of the farmer who keeps Inexorably bound by breed and creed for centuries this way of life flourishes among these native grasses Tender shoots these roots give of their riches the sun and rain gives them a time to reign with joy all reaps Pleasure in the walk letting fingers glide over the heads of tall grasses the silent telling of harmony filled poise Future generations will be brought to these shadowed grounds they too will by their lives express and know contentment Hourly they hold in sod that has known the breath of time as it has passed time and time again it enlivens breaks fourth Sturdy and resplendent it shows all its dependability the same respect settlers knew is found the builders of this continent Long shadows grow upon earths shoulders she knows the good and the bad but through resilience remains unconquered The distant mountain stands eternal guard, it affects rainfall, mutes the winds force guarantying a peaceful valley Perpetuity is taught in this land tomorrows unfold from days gone by with regularity they build and keep the way open Stewardship the blessed hope working in harmony with all that surrounds at days end this will be the final sum and tally The herdsman knows the time he invests it well always with broad vision does he act in this wisdom all will be victorious

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Jan 1, 2012

Jan 1, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC

hal-loyd-denton

Wind swept Wild places the grass it puts on a veritable orchestra of movement as it undulates to the power of the breeze that passes Mountain meadows splashed with a profusion of flowers they jiggle as if there tickled about something or other The crest of the hill bordered with trees sloping down the hill children are running reminiscent of Jack and Jill This utopia of nature sets aside the hurly burly the curvature of the hills still the wind hold the sun just right you it invites Cross these pasture lands the feeding ground of many cattle and sheep the pride of the farmer who keeps Inexorably bound by breed and creed for centuries this way of life flourishes among these native grasses Tender shoots these roots give of their riches the sun and rain gives them a time to reign with joy all reaps Pleasure in the walk letting fingers glide over the heads of tall grasses the silent telling of harmony filled poise Future generations will be brought to these shadowed grounds they too will by their lives express and know contentment Hourly they hold in sod that has known the breath of time as it has passed time and time again it enlivens breaks fourth Sturdy and resplendent it shows all its dependability the same respect settlers knew is found the builders of this continent Long shadows grow upon earths shoulders she knows the good and the bad but through resilience remains unconquered The distant mountain stands eternal guard, it affects rainfall, mutes the winds force guarantying a peaceful valley Perpetuity is taught in this land tomorrows unfold from days gone by with regularity they build and keep the way open Stewardship the blessed hope working in harmony with all that surrounds at days end this will be the final sum and tally The herdsman knows the time he invests it well always with broad vision does he act in this wisdom all will be victorious

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Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and ***** its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ... Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch I. Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember —upon awaking— is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. II. O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs! I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. III. To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams— they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. IV. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream—that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. V. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. VI. I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought— I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow.

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Apr 14, 2020

Apr 14, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Southern Icarus

Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and ***** its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ... Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch I. Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember —upon awaking— is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being—to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. II. O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs! I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. III. To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams— they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. IV. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream—that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. V. Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. VI. I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought— I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow.

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On the massive Shoulders of Microsoft are... Children's games Search for names Weather reports Scores for Sports Travel news Rythmn & Blues Hotel prices Adult Devices Chinese Quisine Night Scene Machine Screw's High Heeled Shoes Butter Knife Future Wife Candy Crush Makeup Blush Family Tree Spending Spree Natural Pearls Web Cam Girls Rental Hall Disco ***** Dance Clubs Irish Pubs Paternity Tests Financial Invests Mortgage Brokers On Line Poker and, so much more.....JMF 2/21/15

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Feb 21, 2015

Feb 21, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC

On the massive Shoulders of Microsoft are... Children's games Search for names Weather reports Scores for Sports Travel news Rythmn & Blues Hotel prices Adult Devices Chinese Quisine Night Scene Machine Screw's High Heeled Shoes Butter Knife Future Wife Candy Crush Makeup Blush Family Tree Spending Spree Natural Pearls Web Cam Girls Rental Hall Disco ***** Dance Clubs Irish Pubs Paternity Tests Financial Invests Mortgage Brokers On Line Poker and, so much more.....JMF 2/21/15

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Desktop In The Charismatic THEOLOGIAN ESSENCE <[email protected]> BONE STIRS ....' ASSEMBLIONAIRE BEYOND MAGICIAN WOLVES INVISIBLE GRAND OUTPOURING AMNESTY SURROUNDS....' Desktop In The Charismatic Dream into refuge all plantation Dream into cog all wheel Dream into bracing all consultative Dream into rocking all regent Dream into preferable all chariots Dream into luxurious all absorbs Dream into contagious all enthusiasm Dream into communal all welding Dream into universal all anatomy Dream into reality all rings Dream into searchingly all mysteries Dream into artillery all mechanisms Dream into colony all proportions Dream into miracle all compositions Dream into artistry all pursuit Dream into alliance all admiral company Dream into fragrance all new extensions Dream into vast volume habitation all invests Dream into carrying devotion all per excellence Dream into grace-going all shepherd rewarding Dream into oasis all resuming acquaintance Dream into cross over all answering wonder. Your Invades-Of-Veins, SURETICE TONGUE Email: [email protected] Click here to Reply or Forward 0.03 GB (0%) of 15 GB used Manage Terms · Privacy · Program Policies Last account activity: 1 hour ago Details Conversation opened. 1 read message. Skip to content Using Gmail with screen readers Click here to enable desktop notifications for Gmail. Learn more Hide 20 of 155 Desktop In The Charismatic SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]> 11/9/17 to hydee1982 Desktop In The Charismatic Dream into refuge all plantation Dream into cog all wheel Dream into bracing all consultative Dream into rocking all regent Dream into preferable all chariots Dream into luxurious all absorbs Dream into contagious all enthusiasm Dream into communal all welding Dream into universal all anatomy Dream into reality all rings Dream into searchingly all mysteries Dream into artillery all mechanisms Dream into colony all proportions Dream into miracle all compositions Dream into artistry all pursuit Dream into alliance all admiral company Dream into fragrance all new extensions Dream into vast volume habitation all invests Dream into carrying devotion all per excellence Dream into grace-going all shepherd rewarding Dream into oasis all resuming acquaintance Dream into cross over all answering wonder. Your Invades-Of-Veins, Samuel-David O. Armstrong Email: [email protected] +2348131914240 Click here to Reply or Forward 0.03 GB (0%) of 15 GB used Manage Terms · Privacy · Program Policies Last account activity: 1 hour ago Details

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Aug 11, 2018

Aug 11, 2018 at 7:27 AM UTC

BEYOND MAGICIAN WOLVES

Desktop In The Charismatic THEOLOGIAN ESSENCE <[email protected]> BONE STIRS ....' ASSEMBLIONAIRE BEYOND MAGICIAN WOLVES INVISIBLE GRAND OUTPOURING AMNESTY SURROUNDS....' Desktop In The Charismatic Dream into refuge all plantation Dream into cog all wheel Dream into bracing all consultative Dream into rocking all regent Dream into preferable all chariots Dream into luxurious all absorbs Dream into contagious all enthusiasm Dream into communal all welding Dream into universal all anatomy Dream into reality all rings Dream into searchingly all mysteries Dream into artillery all mechanisms Dream into colony all proportions Dream into miracle all compositions Dream into artistry all pursuit Dream into alliance all admiral company Dream into fragrance all new extensions Dream into vast volume habitation all invests Dream into carrying devotion all per excellence Dream into grace-going all shepherd rewarding Dream into oasis all resuming acquaintance Dream into cross over all answering wonder. Your Invades-Of-Veins, SURETICE TONGUE Email: [email protected] Click here to Reply or Forward 0.03 GB (0%) of 15 GB used Manage Terms · Privacy · Program Policies Last account activity: 1 hour ago Details Conversation opened. 1 read message. Skip to content Using Gmail with screen readers Click here to enable desktop notifications for Gmail. Learn more Hide 20 of 155 Desktop In The Charismatic SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]> 11/9/17 to hydee1982 Desktop In The Charismatic Dream into refuge all plantation Dream into cog all wheel Dream into bracing all consultative Dream into rocking all regent Dream into preferable all chariots Dream into luxurious all absorbs Dream into contagious all enthusiasm Dream into communal all welding Dream into universal all anatomy Dream into reality all rings Dream into searchingly all mysteries Dream into artillery all mechanisms Dream into colony all proportions Dream into miracle all compositions Dream into artistry all pursuit Dream into alliance all admiral company Dream into fragrance all new extensions Dream into vast volume habitation all invests Dream into carrying devotion all per excellence Dream into grace-going all shepherd rewarding Dream into oasis all resuming acquaintance Dream into cross over all answering wonder. Your Invades-Of-Veins, Samuel-David O. Armstrong Email: [email protected] +2348131914240 Click here to Reply or Forward 0.03 GB (0%) of 15 GB used Manage Terms · Privacy · Program Policies Last account activity: 1 hour ago Details

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What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel, He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless; Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel, Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless? How is it that he's different from his own self In that he considers not the interest of the termites, And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf; Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites? We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda, Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender, Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret. Folly it was, that he promised us as Change To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants, Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change? We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants. He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless, Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy? None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless; We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.

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Sep 26, 2016

Sep 26, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC

valentine-mbagu

CHANGE THE CHANGE

What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel, He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless; Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel, Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless? How is it that he's different from his own self In that he considers not the interest of the termites, And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf; Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites? We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda, Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender, Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret. Folly it was, that he promised us as Change To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants, Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change? We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants. He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless, Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy? None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless; We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.

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He gave swerves to uncategorized happiness, with spins that ******* back into his despondencies. He was never given a chance to applaud himself for being a second-long happy or get back to the spotlight where he did belong to his whole **** life. He's properly beautiful when he dances, or when he's proud of his weakest points. Him singing, even the most heard songs will sound re-engaging as if he owns it. Our eyes pace head-on against our cars' contraries. Every scar I had given to my wrists soothe when we wrap our sinful hands in an ill-starred manner. Love, for him, is altruistically pouring around like sudden downpours on a midsummer day; he had everything to offer yet nothing for himself. He invests a lot with what he wins back. He's the grandeur of a boring ensemble of actors yet still believes he's the subpar star when in reality, no such star existed like it. No one would ever dare to leave him with a river to bleed, or cherry wine bottles with teary send-offs. Anyone who does that will rest assured have a slot in his own obscenities - oh, how I wish hell would be a lot better than that. I wasn't briefed for safe keeping such recherchés, that I had to jilt. A handful will be curious, why my decision is a ****** or rather, why am I a **** up. But I would say people with better anything deserve his still-endearing dissonances. And all I have are lyrics while he gives song compositions. All he ever needs are happy mornings who hugs him back so right. Behind their curtains are joy-tinted windows with episodes of cuddles and husky 'Good morning's'. I am not that person, so I had left him in his most heightened situation yet - loving me. In a bed full of my inconsistencies, he was sleeping beside his hard-to-swallow Ecstasies.

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Jun 8, 2018

Jun 8, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC

this is the best I can give you

He gave swerves to uncategorized happiness, with spins that ******* back into his despondencies. He was never given a chance to applaud himself for being a second-long happy or get back to the spotlight where he did belong to his whole **** life. He's properly beautiful when he dances, or when he's proud of his weakest points. Him singing, even the most heard songs will sound re-engaging as if he owns it. Our eyes pace head-on against our cars' contraries. Every scar I had given to my wrists soothe when we wrap our sinful hands in an ill-starred manner. Love, for him, is altruistically pouring around like sudden downpours on a midsummer day; he had everything to offer yet nothing for himself. He invests a lot with what he wins back. He's the grandeur of a boring ensemble of actors yet still believes he's the subpar star when in reality, no such star existed like it. No one would ever dare to leave him with a river to bleed, or cherry wine bottles with teary send-offs. Anyone who does that will rest assured have a slot in his own obscenities - oh, how I wish hell would be a lot better than that. I wasn't briefed for safe keeping such recherchés, that I had to jilt. A handful will be curious, why my decision is a ****** or rather, why am I a **** up. But I would say people with better anything deserve his still-endearing dissonances. And all I have are lyrics while he gives song compositions. All he ever needs are happy mornings who hugs him back so right. Behind their curtains are joy-tinted windows with episodes of cuddles and husky 'Good morning's'. I am not that person, so I had left him in his most heightened situation yet - loving me. In a bed full of my inconsistencies, he was sleeping beside his hard-to-swallow Ecstasies.

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171 Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now! Wait till in Everlasting Robes That Democrat is dressed, Then prate about “Preferment”— And “Station,” and the rest! Around this quiet Courtier Obsequious Angels wait! Full royal is his Retinue! Full purple is his state! A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat To such a Modest Clay Since that My Lord, “the Lord of Lords” Receives unblushingly!

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1.8k

Emily Dickinson

Wait till the Majesty of Death

171 Wait till the Majesty of Death Invests so mean a brow! Almost a powdered Footman Might dare to touch it now! Wait till in Everlasting Robes That Democrat is dressed, Then prate about “Preferment”— And “Station,” and the rest! Around this quiet Courtier Obsequious Angels wait! Full royal is his Retinue! Full purple is his state! A Lord, might dare to lift the Hat To such a Modest Clay Since that My Lord, “the Lord of Lords” Receives unblushingly!

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I am a gold digger Speak to me in the language of God Show me your wealth with the currency of deeds I am attracted to the finer things in life Your manners will leave butterflies in my stomach I will be left breathless at virtue that shines brighter than any diamond you could find And when your strength is measured against the trials and tribulations with the trust you have left Everything will cease to exist except you and I And humbleness will bring me to my knees I am a gold digger For the one whose company can truly benefit me A banker of deeds Who invests in good will Keen to reach the top And nothing could stop Us reaching the seventh heaven

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Aug 17, 2015

Aug 17, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC

I am a gold digger

I am a gold digger Speak to me in the language of God Show me your wealth with the currency of deeds I am attracted to the finer things in life Your manners will leave butterflies in my stomach I will be left breathless at virtue that shines brighter than any diamond you could find And when your strength is measured against the trials and tribulations with the trust you have left Everything will cease to exist except you and I And humbleness will bring me to my knees I am a gold digger For the one whose company can truly benefit me A banker of deeds Who invests in good will Keen to reach the top And nothing could stop Us reaching the seventh heaven

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the hunched figurine the tablet of her arm has written there the church of her desires each vein has a scar blackened by collapse and my lips seek them and with such tender kisses i do worship her and her devotions the tool box comes out and she delves into the greasy depth withdrawing a single straight narrow viper with the poisons loaded it stares at me she licks her wet lip and invests in me the dream i wait the bitter watch of night with her false sleeping touching my shoulder and jarring her back from the soft place she runs her hand up my cold chest to lips my kisses so tender of her church trackmarks on my heart after the bitter is heaven your bold words ring hollow your intent was true but the years have gathered on your limbs struggle to breath struggle to pretend that enduring this will bring some measure of peace will bring some answer to the long years bargain with the devil for a longer day but she holds all the cards and keeps banking records of all your hearts humble ideals ready to cash in on your weaker moments the bare bulb dusty room the appalling barrenness of its leathery skin and the scent spins in my head like an illness screaming its foul intentions but i am drawn in its soft seductive voice after the bitter after the thirst it pours itself into my arms and unbuttons its jeans the unspoken is that its soft and warm and after the bitter after the thirst it seems like a place i could be ugly place i willingly wander a feast of images so many colors and interesting things pretty pictures listen to the small screaming sounds as she consumes them see the seeping flow become a puddle of creeping figures they make their way cross the room to her footstep they shadow her moves each one has a hand to the pulse of feelings emotion plays to the heart of every play she makes make no mistake puddle of creeping figures each individual one a shadowy man in a grey overcoat but as a mass they resemble a smiling face of a woman familiar to you familiar enough to get close with a blade pool of creeping figures a shallow lake of bleeding images that makes strange sounds as it moves with incandescent life see her eyes glow like bloodworms but she is what i desire i french kiss her ideal she will be heaven to me after the bitter

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Sep 29, 2013

Sep 29, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC

mark-john-junor-1

after the bitter

the hunched figurine the tablet of her arm has written there the church of her desires each vein has a scar blackened by collapse and my lips seek them and with such tender kisses i do worship her and her devotions the tool box comes out and she delves into the greasy depth withdrawing a single straight narrow viper with the poisons loaded it stares at me she licks her wet lip and invests in me the dream i wait the bitter watch of night with her false sleeping touching my shoulder and jarring her back from the soft place she runs her hand up my cold chest to lips my kisses so tender of her church trackmarks on my heart after the bitter is heaven your bold words ring hollow your intent was true but the years have gathered on your limbs struggle to breath struggle to pretend that enduring this will bring some measure of peace will bring some answer to the long years bargain with the devil for a longer day but she holds all the cards and keeps banking records of all your hearts humble ideals ready to cash in on your weaker moments the bare bulb dusty room the appalling barrenness of its leathery skin and the scent spins in my head like an illness screaming its foul intentions but i am drawn in its soft seductive voice after the bitter after the thirst it pours itself into my arms and unbuttons its jeans the unspoken is that its soft and warm and after the bitter after the thirst it seems like a place i could be ugly place i willingly wander a feast of images so many colors and interesting things pretty pictures listen to the small screaming sounds as she consumes them see the seeping flow become a puddle of creeping figures they make their way cross the room to her footstep they shadow her moves each one has a hand to the pulse of feelings emotion plays to the heart of every play she makes make no mistake puddle of creeping figures each individual one a shadowy man in a grey overcoat but as a mass they resemble a smiling face of a woman familiar to you familiar enough to get close with a blade pool of creeping figures a shallow lake of bleeding images that makes strange sounds as it moves with incandescent life see her eyes glow like bloodworms but she is what i desire i french kiss her ideal she will be heaven to me after the bitter

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My real mother, her name is Angela She invests her heart and soul into a child that she did not birth. She loves, has a selfless sacrifice for someone else's kid in all of her, while ignoring her own comfort. She could never replace my biological mother, but every child needs her mother and nothing can change how much I love her

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Jul 11, 2020

Jul 11, 2020 at 2:17 AM UTC

My Mother Angela

My real mother, her name is Angela She invests her heart and soul into a child that she did not birth. She loves, has a selfless sacrifice for someone else's kid in all of her, while ignoring her own comfort. She could never replace my biological mother, but every child needs her mother and nothing can change how much I love her

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When I grow up I want the world to be happy Because as of now It is not For you see This world is shrouded in hatred And love can be bought All around conveyed love is being traded for physicality As the players get stronger And the girl She cried out to a diety She doesnt even believe in Because he left her Broken Bruised And Pregnant Leaving her for another girl One with a bigger rack And *** Even though she shook hers Every night on stage Baring her body for strangers Only so when she goes home He can unleash his rage So she gives him her money And he loosens his grip on her Freshly Dyed Hair Then he'll pretend to care As he invests her money in his new Jordans Instead of rehab for his Crack head lover. because he never loved her. If he did He wouldnt be saying "That baby isn't mine." So he can spend more time With the new girl by his side. A girl who's snorting coke And lets strangers hands Travel up her bruised thighs I Cant be happy seeing this world in this disgruntloed state Because A young boy hangs up A flowery dress in a closet full of dusty skirts and heels His moms attempt at making him "Normal" Because what you don't know is he was born a She But she wants to be a he And he doesnt know somewhere out there A he wants to be a she But they feel more alone As their parents threaten to send them to camps In failed attemps to make them "Okay" In the eyes of Their God So he lays in bed Blood pouring from his Self inflicted wounds One for every missed label As they call him a her Or he a she But they don't see it "It's just a pronoun right?" Maybe to you Because you haven't fought your whole life To be called something few are open eyed enough to see you as. But he can see it clearly as he pins back his hair and puts on his binder

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Aug 23, 2014

Aug 23, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC

Struggles of the Average American.

When I grow up I want the world to be happy Because as of now It is not For you see This world is shrouded in hatred And love can be bought All around conveyed love is being traded for physicality As the players get stronger And the girl She cried out to a diety She doesnt even believe in Because he left her Broken Bruised And Pregnant Leaving her for another girl One with a bigger rack And *** Even though she shook hers Every night on stage Baring her body for strangers Only so when she goes home He can unleash his rage So she gives him her money And he loosens his grip on her Freshly Dyed Hair Then he'll pretend to care As he invests her money in his new Jordans Instead of rehab for his Crack head lover. because he never loved her. If he did He wouldnt be saying "That baby isn't mine." So he can spend more time With the new girl by his side. A girl who's snorting coke And lets strangers hands Travel up her bruised thighs I Cant be happy seeing this world in this disgruntloed state Because A young boy hangs up A flowery dress in a closet full of dusty skirts and heels His moms attempt at making him "Normal" Because what you don't know is he was born a She But she wants to be a he And he doesnt know somewhere out there A he wants to be a she But they feel more alone As their parents threaten to send them to camps In failed attemps to make them "Okay" In the eyes of Their God So he lays in bed Blood pouring from his Self inflicted wounds One for every missed label As they call him a her Or he a she But they don't see it "It's just a pronoun right?" Maybe to you Because you haven't fought your whole life To be called something few are open eyed enough to see you as. But he can see it clearly as he pins back his hair and puts on his binder

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he always longed for a pair of arms and legs to caress with his young face his hands were delicate, though bruised and burned from creation he stared into his gallery full of art his lovers he invests himself and gives everything to his current piece when he's done, he's done on to the next he grew tiresome of psychedelic colors and infinite prisms. he always grew tiresome though fickle as freckles, indecisive as the ocean, easily bored as a child he spotted the white gleam of the marble almost instantly and he wanted it. the giant, luminescent block wasn't as heavy as it looked he carried it home on his hip and held it like a mother bird he already saw the beauty inside it took very little effort to mold what he saw or wanted to see the marble was softer than it looked each piece that was chiseled off began to reveal a woman she had curves like an old country road big eyes that were filled with magic and adoration he created her in a goddess' image the time he spent on shaping her hips, ******* thighs, and waist were endless the last piece of her he caressed with his chisel was her lips details the cupids bow, fullness, shape, and color when he kissed her, she came alive the color of an overcast sky filled her eyes and she smiled his hands pulled her close and he enveloped her he brought her to life they made love on the floor of the gallery in front of all the other art and he was so unapologetic about it bringing her ecstasy over and over that she had never felt inspiration struck him again or maybe he was just bored of marveling over the same sculpture he assured her that he needed time away from his art all of it he put in her the corner and began sculpting something new right before her eyes but again, he assured her that he wasn't sculpting anything even though she could see the work in front of her the sculptor just wanted a full gallery.

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Dec 14, 2014

Dec 14, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC

he always longed for a pair of arms and legs to caress with his young face his hands were delicate, though bruised and burned from creation he stared into his gallery full of art his lovers he invests himself and gives everything to his current piece when he's done, he's done on to the next he grew tiresome of psychedelic colors and infinite prisms. he always grew tiresome though fickle as freckles, indecisive as the ocean, easily bored as a child he spotted the white gleam of the marble almost instantly and he wanted it. the giant, luminescent block wasn't as heavy as it looked he carried it home on his hip and held it like a mother bird he already saw the beauty inside it took very little effort to mold what he saw or wanted to see the marble was softer than it looked each piece that was chiseled off began to reveal a woman she had curves like an old country road big eyes that were filled with magic and adoration he created her in a goddess' image the time he spent on shaping her hips, ******* thighs, and waist were endless the last piece of her he caressed with his chisel was her lips details the cupids bow, fullness, shape, and color when he kissed her, she came alive the color of an overcast sky filled her eyes and she smiled his hands pulled her close and he enveloped her he brought her to life they made love on the floor of the gallery in front of all the other art and he was so unapologetic about it bringing her ecstasy over and over that she had never felt inspiration struck him again or maybe he was just bored of marveling over the same sculpture he assured her that he needed time away from his art all of it he put in her the corner and began sculpting something new right before her eyes but again, he assured her that he wasn't sculpting anything even though she could see the work in front of her the sculptor just wanted a full gallery.

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a faded picture consumed by hopes softly entrusted to the wind a music far and slight played by a record scratched by dust and time as the weight of your naked body over mine it is now the oppression on my chest for the lack of who should touch it as the beating of your heart under my face rubbed on your skin rough and hot it is now the arid ticking of a clock that relentlessly articulates the minutes of our us without you as your scent harsh and intense in my coilings in my flesh it is now the salty smell of my tears impregnated into a pillow cold and crushed by the weight of my desolation as the strength of your back who supported my weakness it is hard today the regrets wall against which I slam to escape from the fog as your sweet whispers slipped on my skin in my hair it is now icy and lonely the breath of the night that invests me with its petty hissing as your soft caresses that insinuated into my expectations burned by your touch it is now violent the hassle of a crumpled sheet that brushes me wilted and warm of an unknown heat my eyes closed I meander lost and exiled in thoughts imprisoned in the pages of a diary tattooed on my skin until the penultimate page and then again from the first in a circle vicious and delicious of passion and love and obsession who lives and relives until the dawn of a sunset that should never get until a last page deleted don’t read the end

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Jul 20, 2016

Jul 20, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC

stefania-rivoltini

a faded picture consumed by hopes softly entrusted to the wind a music far and slight played by a record scratched by dust and time as the weight of your naked body over mine it is now the oppression on my chest for the lack of who should touch it as the beating of your heart under my face rubbed on your skin rough and hot it is now the arid ticking of a clock that relentlessly articulates the minutes of our us without you as your scent harsh and intense in my coilings in my flesh it is now the salty smell of my tears impregnated into a pillow cold and crushed by the weight of my desolation as the strength of your back who supported my weakness it is hard today the regrets wall against which I slam to escape from the fog as your sweet whispers slipped on my skin in my hair it is now icy and lonely the breath of the night that invests me with its petty hissing as your soft caresses that insinuated into my expectations burned by your touch it is now violent the hassle of a crumpled sheet that brushes me wilted and warm of an unknown heat my eyes closed I meander lost and exiled in thoughts imprisoned in the pages of a diary tattooed on my skin until the penultimate page and then again from the first in a circle vicious and delicious of passion and love and obsession who lives and relives until the dawn of a sunset that should never get until a last page deleted don’t read the end

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Desperately grabbing on to imaginary safety, hoping that maybe just maybe, they'll save me. This is no virtual reality, but it's hard to see reality when the fast pacing of ghosts and goblins are racing to neglect you as if you weren't ever here, to begin with... This endless stress I'm feeling is a confession of my LACK of pity because I feel like it's fitting for this circular way of ending Spinning in this pattern Fending for myself on an endless pasture Demons and shadows, I call those the normal Opposing humanity that lacks reality Blinded by the constant wall we bring together Formally restraining the legs, because we think it's better "What's the weather" A constant concoction of tales and tallies for the repeating day Like a feather, the weight of these lifeless questions couldn't keep the ocean at bay "What else is there to say" It's not about what you say that will matter anyway, Although the power of words is often underestimated, Keep in mind whom invests in you and what you say, For those will be you're biggest assets and liabilities. But if you insist, say what you value, and value what you say, Because your actions will amount to what comes from them at the end of the day, Constantly tiptoeing over words like an *** drunk and stumbling over grass We value the past, abusing it until we've drained it of any real mass it once had, excusing what we do, based upon the past Forgetting that the past is so close yet fastly becoming the last player in this race in time, What kind of journey must we take to pick what we say, what we do, what we feel, what we value, giving our value to ourselves, excusing someone else's hell and making it about an experience that we still dwell on, our experience forgetting the rotating reality around us never really rotated around us, but it around it, around it, which we are apart of, silently sending chaos into its sight as we see fit fright...we should feel because this multiple concoction of words is really a riddle, hidden message, pleading for safety, which may never come, fiddling my thumbs as I write this passage, Paving a plea that may one day be seen and actually pondered... Or maybe left, neglected, as expected, not graced even lightly with another soul's wonder.

0

Mar 22, 2019

Mar 22, 2019 at 4:36 PM UTC

Desperately grabbing on to imaginary safety, hoping that maybe just maybe, they'll save me. This is no virtual reality, but it's hard to see reality when the fast pacing of ghosts and goblins are racing to neglect you as if you weren't ever here, to begin with... This endless stress I'm feeling is a confession of my LACK of pity because I feel like it's fitting for this circular way of ending Spinning in this pattern Fending for myself on an endless pasture Demons and shadows, I call those the normal Opposing humanity that lacks reality Blinded by the constant wall we bring together Formally restraining the legs, because we think it's better "What's the weather" A constant concoction of tales and tallies for the repeating day Like a feather, the weight of these lifeless questions couldn't keep the ocean at bay "What else is there to say" It's not about what you say that will matter anyway, Although the power of words is often underestimated, Keep in mind whom invests in you and what you say, For those will be you're biggest assets and liabilities. But if you insist, say what you value, and value what you say, Because your actions will amount to what comes from them at the end of the day, Constantly tiptoeing over words like an *** drunk and stumbling over grass We value the past, abusing it until we've drained it of any real mass it once had, excusing what we do, based upon the past Forgetting that the past is so close yet fastly becoming the last player in this race in time, What kind of journey must we take to pick what we say, what we do, what we feel, what we value, giving our value to ourselves, excusing someone else's hell and making it about an experience that we still dwell on, our experience forgetting the rotating reality around us never really rotated around us, but it around it, around it, which we are apart of, silently sending chaos into its sight as we see fit fright...we should feel because this multiple concoction of words is really a riddle, hidden message, pleading for safety, which may never come, fiddling my thumbs as I write this passage, Paving a plea that may one day be seen and actually pondered... Or maybe left, neglected, as expected, not graced even lightly with another soul's wonder.

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an intimacy of affections and intimate attentions hovers in the air sometimes shimmering perhaps swirling this way and that creating at its core an impulse of hope of a shared dream drawn to each as each is to each as in pursuit of that which is hidden in our hearts obscured by what we think we know about ourselves yet we are drawn into this thing and find ourselves called to each other in pursuit of our dreams of love yet we have lived this long experience these shared echoes that we realise# each without each would be stunningly incomplete a lavish perfume it envelopes us invests us with new forms in the most powerful and novel ways with new rituals and language we bristle with unexamined interpersonal connections so gentle, so powerful, so beautiful like the terms borrowed from tow different galaxies of homeless stars yet complement each other as a whole for we have found it what love what is it it is the music only we can hear for we are the duality of our dream

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May 31, 2013

May 31, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

The knowledge of attraction...in which Edgar thinks about love and stuff and such...

an intimacy of affections and intimate attentions hovers in the air sometimes shimmering perhaps swirling this way and that creating at its core an impulse of hope of a shared dream drawn to each as each is to each as in pursuit of that which is hidden in our hearts obscured by what we think we know about ourselves yet we are drawn into this thing and find ourselves called to each other in pursuit of our dreams of love yet we have lived this long experience these shared echoes that we realise# each without each would be stunningly incomplete a lavish perfume it envelopes us invests us with new forms in the most powerful and novel ways with new rituals and language we bristle with unexamined interpersonal connections so gentle, so powerful, so beautiful like the terms borrowed from tow different galaxies of homeless stars yet complement each other as a whole for we have found it what love what is it it is the music only we can hear for we are the duality of our dream

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His CHARM invests her grace, The Love she beheld - Through the tears on her face, Collar her Spirit dispelled. Paint her your Gentle Art, Colored with Dreams - Never to Depart, In Charm’s Streams.

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Dec 9, 2015

Dec 9, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC

Charlotte-huston

His CHARM invests her grace, The Love she beheld - Through the tears on her face, Collar her Spirit dispelled. Paint her your Gentle Art, Colored with Dreams - Never to Depart, In Charm’s Streams.

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Think of the last time…you made a mistake? Someone told you not to do it, yet you did it anyway. He still teaches…were just not listening. Remember, as you jumped from that plane? You thought you heard a voice say, “Don’t do it” As your shoot tore open just feet from the ground. He still teaches…were just not listening. That day you stole those clothes from the store, your mother once told you, “Don’t take what’s not yours.” He is still teaching…your just not listening. You spent all your money and the rent is past due, you know what they say, “A fool spends for the day, and the wise man then receives it and then invests it for the future.” When God sends people and silent whispers in the wind to teach you about life, receive his words and what he has been teaching…because God has not stop teaching. But we have stopped listening for Gods never changing words. He does still teach, you just need to learn to decipher his words.

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Dec 3, 2011

Dec 3, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC

jay-andrew-anderson-taylor

He still teaches

Think of the last time…you made a mistake? Someone told you not to do it, yet you did it anyway. He still teaches…were just not listening. Remember, as you jumped from that plane? You thought you heard a voice say, “Don’t do it” As your shoot tore open just feet from the ground. He still teaches…were just not listening. That day you stole those clothes from the store, your mother once told you, “Don’t take what’s not yours.” He is still teaching…your just not listening. You spent all your money and the rent is past due, you know what they say, “A fool spends for the day, and the wise man then receives it and then invests it for the future.” When God sends people and silent whispers in the wind to teach you about life, receive his words and what he has been teaching…because God has not stop teaching. But we have stopped listening for Gods never changing words. He does still teach, you just need to learn to decipher his words.

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Shes simply..... **** Sweet A delight Heavens treat... A cherub, A serpahim, A chariot Of heavens plum.... A cheribum, A reader, An angel Past life soulmate and mine greeter... One of woes And stressed Worries She invests in... Thinketh to much just as me For tis I'm her, For we art free. She's unbound to worldly knowing She's her own show... Halo on her head Close thine eyes when she glows!!! Though open thy eye's When thou want to seeith, Everything heàven offer's She healeth me when I bleedeth... She's, mine Mi amour Mi amare Mine child So fair, Alluring Appealing, Charming Dazzling, Delicate Delightful Elegant, fragile Insightful, Helper Of others, Sister Lonely As her feathers... She hast wing's She flappeth them at night. When her moon cometh out Her worries turn bright. Gorgeous Graceful Giving Unwasteful, Marvelous Pleasing Maketh me wait She's teasing Splendid Stunning Superb Poetic words of her's art flowing and running..... She turneth me on She maketh me see Everything I wanted before In a lost boys dreams... Though I've told thee I kneweth her from lightyears away, When wilt she maketh me hers? I guess I'll have to wait .. Though I'm not patient, For her I shalt be.... Because that's true love... Waiting on thee...... ©Brandon nagley ©lonesome poet's poetry

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Jul 8, 2015

Jul 8, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC

Tá sí go simplí ...... ( She's simply.....) Old irish tongue

Shes simply..... **** Sweet A delight Heavens treat... A cherub, A serpahim, A chariot Of heavens plum.... A cheribum, A reader, An angel Past life soulmate and mine greeter... One of woes And stressed Worries She invests in... Thinketh to much just as me For tis I'm her, For we art free. She's unbound to worldly knowing She's her own show... Halo on her head Close thine eyes when she glows!!! Though open thy eye's When thou want to seeith, Everything heàven offer's She healeth me when I bleedeth... She's, mine Mi amour Mi amare Mine child So fair, Alluring Appealing, Charming Dazzling, Delicate Delightful Elegant, fragile Insightful, Helper Of others, Sister Lonely As her feathers... She hast wing's She flappeth them at night. When her moon cometh out Her worries turn bright. Gorgeous Graceful Giving Unwasteful, Marvelous Pleasing Maketh me wait She's teasing Splendid Stunning Superb Poetic words of her's art flowing and running..... She turneth me on She maketh me see Everything I wanted before In a lost boys dreams... Though I've told thee I kneweth her from lightyears away, When wilt she maketh me hers? I guess I'll have to wait .. Though I'm not patient, For her I shalt be.... Because that's true love... Waiting on thee...... ©Brandon nagley ©lonesome poet's poetry

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lately i've been comparing myself to a house i know you think i'm nice to look at but i've got faulty wiring and a cracked foundation my ceilings leak and i'm fairly worried you're going to fall right through my floors you were the earthquakes and storms that ruined my worth consider this to be full disclosure for anyone who nearly invests in a broken home

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Jul 23, 2015

Jul 23, 2015 at 3:40 AM UTC

A Guide To Real Estate

lately i've been comparing myself to a house i know you think i'm nice to look at but i've got faulty wiring and a cracked foundation my ceilings leak and i'm fairly worried you're going to fall right through my floors you were the earthquakes and storms that ruined my worth consider this to be full disclosure for anyone who nearly invests in a broken home

Continue reading...