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"ish" poems
my subject, mrs. ((brown?)) for this speech is going to be: obesity. ish. you see I remember the article you handed out to us, loos-leafed, fresh-pressed, a dry white piece that told, in simplest terms, the most inarguable & bland facts about !healthy eating & !weight loss! but mrs ((whatever)), I want to tell n and the entire ******* crisp class, that obesity is a load of steaming **** from someone who’s really fucki ng sick (you know how much better it stinks then) that obesity was made to be glorified, I don’t tell you this— I ****** jiggle it to you, grab my santa clause puch and shove it at you-- tick tock we wait for the clock to tell us what s to come, except it makes us guess --see this: a mid-age woman, mother, fat & previously fat, goes in for stabbing pain in the chest, or chronic diarrhea, seeing stars & no energy left. ((this happens)) the doctor says, well let’s weigh you n see if you’ve lost the weight I told you to lose before remember Sharol now Sharol..,,,, sweety….. you weigh 55.62 lbs over the state-set “healthy limit”k, so we’re just gonna give u these diet pills & I promise they work,. all nach-yer-awl u see, none of that waterweight ******** [! excuse my language] and in about 3 months you’ll lose half that overweight, and I promise the starsll go away and you’ll feel right tip top okay now that’ll be $60 & come bac k in a month to tell me how much you’ve lost okay haha but that’s alrightright? she was unhealthy & doctors make you healthy only her brain cancer maybe, or like, colon cancer or literally anything other obesity kills her in about 3 months bc the **** doctor would only pretend that she cared what was wrong with Sharol, sweety…,,, im sharol and so are you and so is your uncle & so is your mother, probably because most of us are “obese” & the only cure for obesity is the cure for the term “obesity” you see
0
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Obesity
my subject, mrs. ((brown?)) for this speech is going to be: obesity. ish. you see I remember the article you handed out to us, loos-leafed, fresh-pressed, a dry white piece that told, in simplest terms, the most inarguable & bland facts about !healthy eating & !weight loss! but mrs ((whatever)), I want to tell n and the entire ******* crisp class, that obesity is a load of steaming **** from someone who’s really fucki ng sick (you know how much better it stinks then) that obesity was made to be glorified, I don’t tell you this— I ****** jiggle it to you, grab my santa clause puch and shove it at you-- tick tock we wait for the clock to tell us what s to come, except it makes us guess --see this: a mid-age woman, mother, fat & previously fat, goes in for stabbing pain in the chest, or chronic diarrhea, seeing stars & no energy left. ((this happens)) the doctor says, well let’s weigh you n see if you’ve lost the weight I told you to lose before remember Sharol now Sharol..,,,, sweety….. you weigh 55.62 lbs over the state-set “healthy limit”k, so we’re just gonna give u these diet pills & I promise they work,. all nach-yer-awl u see, none of that waterweight ******** [! excuse my language] and in about 3 months you’ll lose half that overweight, and I promise the starsll go away and you’ll feel right tip top okay now that’ll be $60 & come bac k in a month to tell me how much you’ve lost okay haha but that’s alrightright? she was unhealthy & doctors make you healthy only her brain cancer maybe, or like, colon cancer or literally anything other obesity kills her in about 3 months bc the **** doctor would only pretend that she cared what was wrong with Sharol, sweety…,,, im sharol and so are you and so is your uncle & so is your mother, probably because most of us are “obese” & the only cure for obesity is the cure for the term “obesity” you see
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74
Dr. F. Wilhem discovered it by accident you see?    The first man downloaded was no longer man. He suffered dearly until the plug was pulled,     and we started over again; with biologists. Geneticists, Embryonticians, TransEugenecists,     all celebrated the new fast-growing body. No more deaths at old age expiry, on battlefields.     for a price all would live eternally; eternity here. It did not work. The bodies worked, the software recorded     but the people were insanely bi-polar. Insane in fact. Until we switched the torso and genetics in tandem.    then somehow the surviving person retained all memories! They were in fact; themselves! Just in a different gendered body?    Unfortunately for everyone this was a major psychological shock. Unexplainable, sure, evolution took four billion years so...     ...more time, more time, more experimentation is all we need. Wilhelm changed it all. When he added the shock, added the <human> response, turning the machines into Humans. They are truly A.I. ...verily human in fact. Animal-ish, peaceful then angry, terrible or violent. Artificially Intelligent; Humans. *"What good is it to change a person,               ...merely into someone else?"* -Al Abd Azaz *To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes. To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes. To see beneath the surface, and know the ocean tydes.* *
0
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 12:14 AM UTC
Wilhelm's Widget
at 11:11 like we usually do we made a wish but he has the flu so we txted our wishes I made a nice wish but when I read his he had said "ish" bae cannot type properly he types worse than he plays monopoly bae still is sick so my wish didnt work I guess I can't be mad that he feels like elephant ****
0
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
bae says "ish"
To the boy I fell in love with, When I came up with the idea to write you this I didn't realize how hard it could be to begin, as I have so many thoughts and as we both know I'm not very organized in my thinking. I guess I should probably start with the obvious, I miss you. If I didn't I wouldn't keep writing about you like this. I miss stupid little things, like goofy overtired conversations and the way sitting too close made my arms itch if I was wearing short sleeves. I even miss the things I often hated like League of Legends, and you screaming at your friend when I was trying to sleep, and the way your room was always too warm to actually be comfortable. I guess the second thing would probably be that I'm sorry... For everything. I'm sorry I hurt you and that I never realized how hard it was on you to constantly have to worry about me. I'm sorry I never left my comfort zone enough to keep you interested, and most importantly I'm sorry I was never able to find a way to convince you not to go. And the third would be thank you. You showed me what it is like to feel love and loss and everything in between. You made me finally feel happy enough to want to live my life to the fullest. You showed me parts of myself I didn't even know existed. You changed my life for the better and even though you are gone and moving on from me, I will always be grateful that we crossed paths. To my first love, I hope that you are doing okay. I know you've had some ups and downs in the past few months, and please remember that I am just a phone call away and always will be. I know its really hard for you to ask for help, but if you ever just want someone to sit with you in silence, or take out as a distraction or anything else please don't hesitate to call on me because I won't hesitate to come. I also hope you are eating, watching you shrink before my eyes kind of says otherwise, but still I hope you are staying healthy(ish). Equally importantly, I hope you are happy, and I mean truly happy in your life. I hope you fall in love with someone who deserves the love you are capable of giving, love that not even I was worthy of receiving. To the boy my family also ended up falling in love with, My mom still asks about you. She still tells me "I always liked that boy, and I know you don't go backwards but he may be worthy of an exception to the rule." That is pretty much her way of telling me she misses you. To the boy I thought I could replace, I couldn't. To the boy I wish I could move past, I can't. To the boy who has moved past me, I'm happy for you, I wish you the best, and I'm glad we are at the very least friends still. So, to the boy I fell in love with, Know that despite my best efforts I never fell back out of love with you, and am starting to doubt that I ever truly will.
0
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
To The Boy I Fell in Love With
To the boy I fell in love with, When I came up with the idea to write you this I didn't realize how hard it could be to begin, as I have so many thoughts and as we both know I'm not very organized in my thinking. I guess I should probably start with the obvious, I miss you. If I didn't I wouldn't keep writing about you like this. I miss stupid little things, like goofy overtired conversations and the way sitting too close made my arms itch if I was wearing short sleeves. I even miss the things I often hated like League of Legends, and you screaming at your friend when I was trying to sleep, and the way your room was always too warm to actually be comfortable. I guess the second thing would probably be that I'm sorry... For everything. I'm sorry I hurt you and that I never realized how hard it was on you to constantly have to worry about me. I'm sorry I never left my comfort zone enough to keep you interested, and most importantly I'm sorry I was never able to find a way to convince you not to go. And the third would be thank you. You showed me what it is like to feel love and loss and everything in between. You made me finally feel happy enough to want to live my life to the fullest. You showed me parts of myself I didn't even know existed. You changed my life for the better and even though you are gone and moving on from me, I will always be grateful that we crossed paths. To my first love, I hope that you are doing okay. I know you've had some ups and downs in the past few months, and please remember that I am just a phone call away and always will be. I know its really hard for you to ask for help, but if you ever just want someone to sit with you in silence, or take out as a distraction or anything else please don't hesitate to call on me because I won't hesitate to come. I also hope you are eating, watching you shrink before my eyes kind of says otherwise, but still I hope you are staying healthy(ish). Equally importantly, I hope you are happy, and I mean truly happy in your life. I hope you fall in love with someone who deserves the love you are capable of giving, love that not even I was worthy of receiving. To the boy my family also ended up falling in love with, My mom still asks about you. She still tells me "I always liked that boy, and I know you don't go backwards but he may be worthy of an exception to the rule." That is pretty much her way of telling me she misses you. To the boy I thought I could replace, I couldn't. To the boy I wish I could move past, I can't. To the boy who has moved past me, I'm happy for you, I wish you the best, and I'm glad we are at the very least friends still. So, to the boy I fell in love with, Know that despite my best efforts I never fell back out of love with you, and am starting to doubt that I ever truly will.
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19
I think it's sad where the poetry community has been going. It seems as though deep, dark poetry isn't considered "good" anymore. I wrote a "poem" called #Hashtag as an example of how braindead some people are becoming. As I write this, it has 44 views while the other 25 poems i've written in the past 2 weeks have max 23-ish views. I think this is completely ridiculous because poetry for me was once a place to escape the modern day stupidity and revel in the intelligence of literature. Now all I see are poems about computers and "some chick left me so I banged my side-chick". I cannot even begin to describe how much it bothers me that my poem "#Hashtag" has more views than my poem "From the Benevolent Ashes, We Rise!". It's absolutely appauling. I don't even know how to end this rant so it's going to seem abrupt but I can't continue right now or else I'll end up even angrier at poetry.
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Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Please read this... -_-
TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ ( for Maureen ) She is teaching Timothy to read even though she can't read herself. Tongue firmly in cheek she traces the words with a tiny fingertip that knows the story off by heart she could read it in the dark. She is "pretending reading." She has my every nuance and pause by rote making great efforts to teach Timothy the puppy but Timothy the puppy is more interested in the un-thrown stick. Timothy the puppy thinks this reading lark is strictly for the humans. "Once..." she begins in a Fairy Tale-ish voice. Timothy the puppy barks in acknowledgement. "Throwthestickthrowthestick!" Timothy the Puppy's mind thinks. "...upon a time a long long time ...ago!" Timothy the puppy looks adoringly at his little mistress with such an immensity of love and licks her finger as it travels over the words the story's journey. "Oh you..!" she scolds "...are not even paying attention!" "It's no good...I give up!" she frowns at the unhappy creature throwing the book away in a prissy hissy fit. Timothy the puppy full of the joys of a dog's life ( it's the only life he knows ) chases the fluttering pages that fly like an exotic bird brings Hans Christian Anderson back his mouth full of words.
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Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
TEACHING TIMOTHY TO READ ( for Maureen )
Jaida toh manga bhi na tha husn e Deedar Khud hi kyu chala gaya bewaqt Bina bataye tujhe Ab tadap Raha hu mein Khuch jaida neend me Ek waqt ke khyaal e aashiqui me Aur kab subhah se raat ** gayi Fursat e dard Raaton ki neend kho si gayi Mujh se phir kehne lagi Ab der na kar.. Laut ja in khyaalon ki kasmakash se Ya Phir aa ja Bina ruke Panchi ki tarah Intezaar e intezar Kab tak Khoya Rahu ish kadar Ki khud se bhi mein itna bekhabar .. .. . .. .
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Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 4:54 AM UTC
Ishq e intezaar e pal!!
I don't understand why I am so caught up In wanting go be pretty You can BUY pretty It comes in pretty bottles Scented cream-form Sealable powder containers And tube mixed with glitter A beautiful soul Cannot be bought But a kind-of-ish guy friend Told me I was pretty today I think he was just being kind though And I wouldn't be interested anyway Then earlier today Some random grade 2 kids Yelled at me As I was walking out the door: You're hot Great so five seven year old boys Think I'm hot I don't think that counts In fact it probably means im extra ugly 'Cause you can't trust a grade 2's taste But that's not my problem My problem is Beauty is aways What girls are complimented on When it is so common It has a price tag. What has our society descended to When "pretty" is the goal
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Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
Pretty
I'm No born free I tasted the dust of apartheid My mother was hiding behind the trees screaming for help No one was there No time to sleep We were cursed for struggle My father never smiled when my mother would say "the baby is kicking" Cause he knew,it wasn't the kick of joy It wasn't a sign of being a soccer star It was the struggle! 1990 Mandela was out of prison 1993 I was born 1994 the Dom's were free No more Dom-pass,but not uhuru still Innocent souls were lost What was the fighting worth for? I can forgive but never forget When De klert called black fools He said they do nothing but barking We turned to dogs now This is for Steve Biko Chris Hani Hector Paterson Raymond mhlaba Let not my skin define who I am Let not the earth describe me I know my future because of my history I was raised in a town of fallen angels Where blacks were deceived Whites felt free Turn the lights off we all the same colour Don't turn them on I want my son to know the history But to not repeat it. They say follow your leader How can you follow corruption? Zuma this zuma that Its all illusion I'll only follow u twitter I want you to retweet all the ish I'll be posting about you,the Raping,The Nkandla part,The Cheating,The Art and the bunch of wives Yes I voted,I still don't know why I voted Helen Zille only speaks xhosa in time of elections Jacob Zuma gives free taxis only to the voting station Julius Malema will bring apartheid back it is said on radio stations Mandela spent most time in hospital All of a sudden his dead Was he even in jail before? Oscar Pistorius ran to **** His now a criminal. Mandela note on my hand But valueless Our economy is dying Our world is dying My Dear South Africa..No Power!
0
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Not yet uhuru
I'm No born free I tasted the dust of apartheid My mother was hiding behind the trees screaming for help No one was there No time to sleep We were cursed for struggle My father never smiled when my mother would say "the baby is kicking" Cause he knew,it wasn't the kick of joy It wasn't a sign of being a soccer star It was the struggle! 1990 Mandela was out of prison 1993 I was born 1994 the Dom's were free No more Dom-pass,but not uhuru still Innocent souls were lost What was the fighting worth for? I can forgive but never forget When De klert called black fools He said they do nothing but barking We turned to dogs now This is for Steve Biko Chris Hani Hector Paterson Raymond mhlaba Let not my skin define who I am Let not the earth describe me I know my future because of my history I was raised in a town of fallen angels Where blacks were deceived Whites felt free Turn the lights off we all the same colour Don't turn them on I want my son to know the history But to not repeat it. They say follow your leader How can you follow corruption? Zuma this zuma that Its all illusion I'll only follow u twitter I want you to retweet all the ish I'll be posting about you,the Raping,The Nkandla part,The Cheating,The Art and the bunch of wives Yes I voted,I still don't know why I voted Helen Zille only speaks xhosa in time of elections Jacob Zuma gives free taxis only to the voting station Julius Malema will bring apartheid back it is said on radio stations Mandela spent most time in hospital All of a sudden his dead Was he even in jail before? Oscar Pistorius ran to **** His now a criminal. Mandela note on my hand But valueless Our economy is dying Our world is dying My Dear South Africa..No Power!
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54
i. the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it: pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is i never used to call them those names: “pa,” “ma,” always found them too cowboy-ish, too un-me, un-like us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared stories of how grandpa came over from china. ii. (at the dinner table) there is no symbolism here. there has been none for a while now. this household eats and eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their books all burned down back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and all her uncles could eloquent on was that “the communists were coming!” “the communists were coming!” and instead of poems took with them their children, and their gold to pawn and their clothes on their muddy mortar-stained backs and the japanese iii. my grandfather now comes twice a week to the hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital. good view of the cleanest part of our ***** city. there are lights and white folks now. two things my dad said did not used to be there. they used to be spanish. they tilled our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand, worked. he claims. your grandfather and his grandfather and i iv. awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30. made to go down to the temple in kalesas and told to fetch the office paper for noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew up just next to the pasig river which back in the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only sweatshirts and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons. v. (back at the dinner table) i listen to my mom and dad sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here he in his sweatshirt and she with her golden purse, preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits - an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it in a sense, but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us to see: “pa,” “ma,” v. it is not cowboys that give us our names.
0
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Pa wears a sweatshirt, ma carries a golden purse:
i. the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it: pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is i never used to call them those names: “pa,” “ma,” always found them too cowboy-ish, too un-me, un-like us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared stories of how grandpa came over from china. ii. (at the dinner table) there is no symbolism here. there has been none for a while now. this household eats and eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their books all burned down back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and all her uncles could eloquent on was that “the communists were coming!” “the communists were coming!” and instead of poems took with them their children, and their gold to pawn and their clothes on their muddy mortar-stained backs and the japanese iii. my grandfather now comes twice a week to the hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital. good view of the cleanest part of our ***** city. there are lights and white folks now. two things my dad said did not used to be there. they used to be spanish. they tilled our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand, worked. he claims. your grandfather and his grandfather and i iv. awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30. made to go down to the temple in kalesas and told to fetch the office paper for noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew up just next to the pasig river which back in the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only sweatshirts and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons. v. (back at the dinner table) i listen to my mom and dad sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here he in his sweatshirt and she with her golden purse, preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits - an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it in a sense, but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us to see: “pa,” “ma,” v. it is not cowboys that give us our names.
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60
I wished on a star too Skipped rocks, flew off the inner tube Played capture the flag, hide and go seek Summer camp and climbing trees. Passing notes, amusement parks, sports awards Just Dance, sleepovers, boogie boards Tire swings, smores, shirley temples, Neighborhood friends, trampolines... few troubles. A shooting star passed, Silent tornadoes of memories Come, lets ponder the time machine. Just a kid, or maybe an adult- I'm 18. Cherish past experiences, live for your dreams.
0
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
Adult...ish
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you? I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory I simply want you to think on what it is to live a high-risk lifestyle. As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing. Now, isn't that just ******* quaint? Probability favors a percentile: That which is unique enough to leave it's mark on our realm. That includes us. Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance. Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs unprotected *** or doing psychedelics but I ask you to ponder just how high risk Life is to begin with: Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs) but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim. This Universe was not made for us and us alone as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on ******* We were not molded after anything intelligent with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself. The probability of the Universe existing is not %100. The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever. But they did. They. Did. They. ******* Did. As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence and Her Energy is as the water to the roots and her Chemistry allows it all to happen. And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen. On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular! With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA! You! Wonderful, temporary you! Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you. You exist, if nothing else,  in a relative way. There is no way to be certain. What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you? There is no way to be certain. If you could bet on your existence, would you? There is no way to be certain. Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain. There is no way to be certain. Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so, yet, there is no way to be certain. ~Addendum!~ Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived- have died. Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!   That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
0
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
"High-risk Life"
If you had the opportunity to live a high-risk lifestyle, would you? I'm not asking this to be derogatory, nor to be accusatory I simply want you to think on what it is to live a high-risk lifestyle. As a mass, we seem to think of it as an undesirable thing. Now, isn't that just ******* quaint? Probability favors a percentile: That which is unique enough to leave it's mark on our realm. That includes us. Risk, unless done in ignorance, is the acceptance of probability More specifically, the pursuit of the more improbable chance. Perhaps when you think of high-risk, you think of constant parties perhaps of ***** needles, and/or STIs unprotected *** or doing psychedelics but I ask you to ponder just how high risk Life is to begin with: Some wish to claim that Life is a granted gift by some benevolent Father figure who has our back, (but not theirs) but I say that's just selfish, arrogant and, frankly, quite foolish to claim. This Universe was not made for us and us alone as if we were some sort of Sims for a bipolar teenage boy on ******* We were not molded after anything intelligent with the exception of the Universe and her Nature itself. The probability of the Universe existing is not %100. The probability of the particular combinations of atoms within the strands of DNA in your body are not "guaranteed" to occur. Ever. But they did. They. Did. They. ******* Did. As if the Universe were the soil to the roots of our existence and Her Energy is as the water to the roots and her Chemistry allows it all to happen. And her physical laws, for lack of a better term, allow that to happen. On top of that, you ******* exist! You! In particular! With your experiences, thoughts and feelings, insights and interests, passions and even DNA! You! Wonderful, temporary you! Mortal you. Ethereal you. Spiritual you. Intrinsic you. Extrinsic you. You exist, if nothing else,  in a relative way. There is no way to be certain. What are the friggin' odds on anything existing at all, let alone you? There is no way to be certain. If you could bet on your existence, would you? There is no way to be certain. Nothing is granted; everything is permitted by the brain. There is no way to be certain. Perhaps it is deeper than that. I hope and think so, yet, there is no way to be certain. ~Addendum!~ Statistically, about 93% of people accounted for by census information who have lived- have died. Statistically, that gives you a 7%ish chance of surviving this life!   That seems like a high-risk Life, to me.
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59
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW "Hello!" said the crow. "Hello?" I answered thinking: ("Talking to crows is a bit of a no-no?") "Do I know you?" I asked politely. "I'm Ted Hughes' CROW ....you know!" "I didn't know that! I admitted. "You look like every other crow there is to know." I impolitely pointed out. "Every crow is CROW!" it pointedly pointed out. "Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!" I challenged it. "In the beginning was..." "...scream!" crow screamed and then a load of begatting to give the Bible a run for its money. Nothing and Never both begatted to make crow. It made me remember the only time I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence. One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that it was falling with tiredness I was. Was it on Thursday I was to meet the girlfriend on Friday Street or Friday I...just didn't know no more. Ted grasped the podium with crooked  hands as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE or a Heathcliff grown old. He glared down on me. I trying not to fall asleep. He like a cliff come alive as if rocks could talk. His words....CROW'S words. Ted now merging into the crow gazing upon me as if I were carrion. Crow now losing his human voice. His raucous caw echoing inside my head as he takes to the skies. I should have listened to what my mum said. "Don't talk to strange corvids!"
0
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW
I don’t know you well enough or I’d read you this poem. I don’t know you well enough, though your quite handsome. I don’t know you well enough for you to care about my interests, I don’t know you well enough — we haven’t reached that level yet. I don’t know you well enough, but if I did I wouldn’t want to. I don’t know you well enough, please keep playing elusive. I like your life, but I don’t know you well enough to like your instagrams — it could seem stalker-ish. We’ve talked about dinner, but I don’t know when or if we’ll actually go. I don’t know you well enough. I don’t know you well enough, but text you regardless, you invite me backhanded to your friends' plans. I don’t know you well enough, to hold your glance, you buy me a beer, my hands fold between my legs. I don’t know you well enough, but I know when your drunk. Your friends leave and I give you a ride home. I don’t know you well enough, but you invite me in, your cat treats me like a familiar friend. I don’t you well enough, but I know when we share spit, it just lubricates comments on our horniness. I don’t know you well enough, but I know your apartment — your couch is too squishy and your bed is too close. I don’t know you well enough. I ask if *** will ruin this, but don't know what this is. I don’t know you well enough, but I sleep in your bed. Your rolling-over motion was disappointing, but not unexpected. I STILL don’t know you well enough, but I know three unanswered texts means your not interested in telling me. Or perhaps, I don’t know you well enough. I don’t know you well enough, but I’m getting to know me and I know that naiive isn’t who I want to be.
0
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
I don’t know you well enough.
I don’t know you well enough or I’d read you this poem. I don’t know you well enough, though your quite handsome. I don’t know you well enough for you to care about my interests, I don’t know you well enough — we haven’t reached that level yet. I don’t know you well enough, but if I did I wouldn’t want to. I don’t know you well enough, please keep playing elusive. I like your life, but I don’t know you well enough to like your instagrams — it could seem stalker-ish. We’ve talked about dinner, but I don’t know when or if we’ll actually go. I don’t know you well enough. I don’t know you well enough, but text you regardless, you invite me backhanded to your friends' plans. I don’t know you well enough, to hold your glance, you buy me a beer, my hands fold between my legs. I don’t know you well enough, but I know when your drunk. Your friends leave and I give you a ride home. I don’t know you well enough, but you invite me in, your cat treats me like a familiar friend. I don’t you well enough, but I know when we share spit, it just lubricates comments on our horniness. I don’t know you well enough, but I know your apartment — your couch is too squishy and your bed is too close. I don’t know you well enough. I ask if *** will ruin this, but don't know what this is. I don’t know you well enough, but I sleep in your bed. Your rolling-over motion was disappointing, but not unexpected. I STILL don’t know you well enough, but I know three unanswered texts means your not interested in telling me. Or perhaps, I don’t know you well enough. I don’t know you well enough, but I’m getting to know me and I know that naiive isn’t who I want to be.
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They were lovers don't you see. They ruled the kingdom of the skies with an iron fist of intimacy. Their pure passion washed over the kingdom like the grey-ish blue waves that violently crahsed over the rocky bottom of a treacherous cliff, one after another never stopping. They were dearly loved by all. Hated by few. Despised by one: Destiny. Destiny had wounds too deep to penetrate with lust like theirs. Destiny had too thick of scabs to peel away with their tender hearts. Destiny was too bitter to love at all and used her agony against the king and queen and over came their rule. She banished one to the skies and the other to the plains, doomed to never see each other again. The plan was full-proof, she never had to deal with her own self wallowing pain, caused by their affection, and rather strive on their cries of reunion, but what Destiny didnt realize, the moon was very cunning like a snake of the forest, lying and manipulative. He made a deal with the devil. The lord of the ground promised him his girl, if he could create a time of the day that everyone feared, and which his demons could roam freely. So he created night. Crowned king of his own creation the moon was granted his girl. Every night for twelve hours the two sing to each other, wishing again for the love they once had, traveling all of the lands, being chased by the sun, never resting; never landing. The moon and the wolf.
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Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC
The Moon and the Wolf
I like to write poems that rhyme, Though I haven't gott much time. Rhyming poems work my mind. They're one of a kind. Sometimes they are lame. The words may sound the same. The words aren't bombastic, they're tame. If you find this poem boring, it's Obama you should blame. Okay, the words are kind of forced in. This poem should be in the bin. And yes, this poem is childish. And yes I can no longer be bothered to make the words rhyme-ish (A for effort?) But this poem was light-hearted. Something to cheer me up. And it make me smile. :)
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Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
Rhyme
Woman are the most dangerous people on the planet. And yes, I said people. Not some flimsy model you see in a magazine not some girl playing with dolls I mean Woman. A person. A living creature set upon this Earth to manage somehow the messes that men make up. A person whose entire being is creating and giving life, who without we would almost virtually go extinct. See the thing Men don't realize is that whilst in the figurative kitchen, the woman is (I'd hope) planning on some way to **** him. Because there's a fine line between asking somebody to get you something in the case that you're lazy, and degrading who they are to the point that you think their sole purpose is breathing for your ****** needs. As much as I hate to admit it and that it disgusts me in a way, I came from my mother. If you think about it we were all pushed about of a birth canal, put forth in the light. Screaming because holy **** it's cold where am I what am I who are you? A woman whom you'll end up calling mom has put you into the world and she could have taken you out before you were fully formed. Babies are clay ready to be molded only we aren't supposed to be the molders, we just help shape it. See the reason that I want to be a woman is that I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, I feel guilty being a man. I am guilty for what man has done what man continues to do. Sexism goes both ways but you cannot tell me it doesn't lean towards her than it does him. If I were a woman I would be powerful. I would be **** Even if I wasn't **** at all I would rock that skirt harder than I do my skinny jeans. I would laugh with my girlfriends I would wear makeup and not wear makeup and be what guys like to call a ***** cause I don't want to blow them. Blow yourself **** head. What I cannot change is the fact that I am a guy. I say guy things and do "guy" things. I smoke **** with my guy friends and sometimes let out a remark I hate myself later for saying. I think more about ******* than I do about what's happening in our government, but don't let that make you think that I won't stand against my male friends for woman. That I'll let them give me **** for wanting to wear a skirt or a woman's shirt. That they can get off with calling my friend a **** cause she sleeps with the same amount of men that my guy friend does woman. I know I'm not the best example of feminism in men but at least I'm trying to be something different than the same old sexist thread.
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Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:54 AM UTC
Woman/my feminism-ish poem
Woman are the most dangerous people on the planet. And yes, I said people. Not some flimsy model you see in a magazine not some girl playing with dolls I mean Woman. A person. A living creature set upon this Earth to manage somehow the messes that men make up. A person whose entire being is creating and giving life, who without we would almost virtually go extinct. See the thing Men don't realize is that whilst in the figurative kitchen, the woman is (I'd hope) planning on some way to **** him. Because there's a fine line between asking somebody to get you something in the case that you're lazy, and degrading who they are to the point that you think their sole purpose is breathing for your ****** needs. As much as I hate to admit it and that it disgusts me in a way, I came from my mother. If you think about it we were all pushed about of a birth canal, put forth in the light. Screaming because holy **** it's cold where am I what am I who are you? A woman whom you'll end up calling mom has put you into the world and she could have taken you out before you were fully formed. Babies are clay ready to be molded only we aren't supposed to be the molders, we just help shape it. See the reason that I want to be a woman is that I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, I feel guilty being a man. I am guilty for what man has done what man continues to do. Sexism goes both ways but you cannot tell me it doesn't lean towards her than it does him. If I were a woman I would be powerful. I would be **** Even if I wasn't **** at all I would rock that skirt harder than I do my skinny jeans. I would laugh with my girlfriends I would wear makeup and not wear makeup and be what guys like to call a ***** cause I don't want to blow them. Blow yourself **** head. What I cannot change is the fact that I am a guy. I say guy things and do "guy" things. I smoke **** with my guy friends and sometimes let out a remark I hate myself later for saying. I think more about ******* than I do about what's happening in our government, but don't let that make you think that I won't stand against my male friends for woman. That I'll let them give me **** for wanting to wear a skirt or a woman's shirt. That they can get off with calling my friend a **** cause she sleeps with the same amount of men that my guy friend does woman. I know I'm not the best example of feminism in men but at least I'm trying to be something different than the same old sexist thread.
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. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Walk with me n be my Friend: fending oFF thee awful Qualm, calming all the thoughts of Death. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Talk to me if no one Else. "tell me what to do aGain?... ...death is gonna Haunchew." Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Waltzing in my ball of Hair; share the Yarn of all you Bear, spare the Rod n chop the Sheers. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; "Welcome to the slums of Hell." help me Speak in bleeding Tongue. "vi la Vita......vi de Vel". Mirror Mirror on the Wall: wall of Talking thought so Clear; hear the Fall of waldo's Water, thrall the Call of ocean Odlaw. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; call my Bluff n cuff my Arms, bar my Cell n sell my Soul, sow the Seed n reap its Rose. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; flaunt my Card n guard the Door. Youre the one im steering Clear of... ..."ofCourse you are." Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all i Know is no ones Lost, mossy Oak is all i Know, frozen Walls i call my Home. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all you Are ish ards of Glass; lashing Out n always Laughing, laughing as you watch me Ball. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all you Do is use my Tears. here you Are with all the Cotton, swabbing all my flaws n Fears. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; call me what you always Do: stupid Queer n weird n Ugly."dont ******* Tell me what to Do." Mirror Mirror on the Wall; talk the way you always Have: Chanting like a ******* Trucker, Cussing like a ******* Sailor. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Hollow be my only Name. satan stole my only Halo: angel of a broken Cross. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Follow me n see my View. you should see what i have Saw... ...all ive seen is You. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all you Are is all i Am. have you not a ******* Conscience?... ..."obviously Not." Mirror Mirror on the Wall; walk a long this haunted Path. after That if you can Laugh... ...so can I. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all youve Done is run n Hide. 'and Then... ...tyler was Gone. was iaSleep?... ...had  i Slept?' -  Jack's Medulla Oblongata   .
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Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
iMaginary "Friend"
. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Walk with me n be my Friend: fending oFF thee awful Qualm, calming all the thoughts of Death. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Talk to me if no one Else. "tell me what to do aGain?... ...death is gonna Haunchew." Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Waltzing in my ball of Hair; share the Yarn of all you Bear, spare the Rod n chop the Sheers. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; "Welcome to the slums of Hell." help me Speak in bleeding Tongue. "vi la Vita......vi de Vel". Mirror Mirror on the Wall: wall of Talking thought so Clear; hear the Fall of waldo's Water, thrall the Call of ocean Odlaw. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; call my Bluff n cuff my Arms, bar my Cell n sell my Soul, sow the Seed n reap its Rose. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; flaunt my Card n guard the Door. Youre the one im steering Clear of... ..."ofCourse you are." Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all i Know is no ones Lost, mossy Oak is all i Know, frozen Walls i call my Home. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all you Are ish ards of Glass; lashing Out n always Laughing, laughing as you watch me Ball. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all you Do is use my Tears. here you Are with all the Cotton, swabbing all my flaws n Fears. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; call me what you always Do: stupid Queer n weird n Ugly."dont ******* Tell me what to Do." Mirror Mirror on the Wall; talk the way you always Have: Chanting like a ******* Trucker, Cussing like a ******* Sailor. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Hollow be my only Name. satan stole my only Halo: angel of a broken Cross. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; Follow me n see my View. you should see what i have Saw... ...all ive seen is You. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all you Are is all i Am. have you not a ******* Conscience?... ..."obviously Not." Mirror Mirror on the Wall; walk a long this haunted Path. after That if you can Laugh... ...so can I. Mirror Mirror on the Wall; all youve Done is run n Hide. 'and Then... ...tyler was Gone. was iaSleep?... ...had  i Slept?' -  Jack's Medulla Oblongata   .
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He got expelled this time. He wasn't sent to In-school suspension Or lunch detention Or the counselor's office. He was expelled from Fairfax County Public Schools. And his friends all freaked. They sat outside the school Every morning And wouldn't go in To protest. They signed a petition That called him a "Well rounded student" And "Well loved by the student body." I didn't love Brian. I hated Brian. Brian was the kid Who always Made the class Stay late. He was the kid who Went through the halls Grabbing peoples butts. He was the kid that All the guys wanted to be And all the girls wanted to have. And instead of sending him off To West Point Where he would have to Shave his Bieber hair and Follow the rules for once, The county revoked the expulsion. And to me It seems like A celebrity murdered someone And because a thousand fan letters were sent in They got to go free.
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May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
Expelled (ish)
Because Instagram is my medium, and because somewhere deep down--in that place that no one talks about--it makes me feel immensely validated: putting out my ******** and receiving little bits of peer approval in return... Because I still smoke too fast when I want that short indulgent rush to last the most, so light another. Because the Itunes visualizer is an assured source of inspiration when I am feeling small about the universe, and about the 5-ish senses that I am confined to, and because there is too much of me to simply be kept quiet; because the things I want are wanted too completely to shut up about. Because I am doing excellent, and I want everybody in the world to applaud me for it--for my relentless and unyielding grasp of sanity, which often slips without my sureness be-ing lost along with it, and because the wreckage is a comfy place to lie when everything comes down to it... Because admitting to yourself that you are addicted is the first step to recovery--or so I am told,,, and because denial is the first step one must fall from if they're itching to reach bottom... Because I am tired of climbing and have learned--among all else--how to enjoy the weightlessness of this long fall and the uncertainty it brings: uncertainty being my one true love, alongside mistress logic, who I truly LOVE returning to with open arms, seeking her comfort after a long long trip-- where I can walk winter without minding cold, and can enjoy seeing all the sights and all the Mad, Mad characters that wonderland contains. Because there is no 'character limit' nor is there censorship where I am concerned. Because I crave the criticism: that repetition is a cheaters way to write--and I want to cheat life's limitations and all social standards every chance I get. Because above all else, below all else, I want to clarify that--through every lesson I have taken-in since recently deceased December, and through all I have learned painfully, through the confusion and unrecognized irrelevance, Because the greatest thing that I have learned thus far is: I am learning.
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Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
Allowed Indulgence
Because Instagram is my medium, and because somewhere deep down--in that place that no one talks about--it makes me feel immensely validated: putting out my ******** and receiving little bits of peer approval in return... Because I still smoke too fast when I want that short indulgent rush to last the most, so light another. Because the Itunes visualizer is an assured source of inspiration when I am feeling small about the universe, and about the 5-ish senses that I am confined to, and because there is too much of me to simply be kept quiet; because the things I want are wanted too completely to shut up about. Because I am doing excellent, and I want everybody in the world to applaud me for it--for my relentless and unyielding grasp of sanity, which often slips without my sureness be-ing lost along with it, and because the wreckage is a comfy place to lie when everything comes down to it... Because admitting to yourself that you are addicted is the first step to recovery--or so I am told,,, and because denial is the first step one must fall from if they're itching to reach bottom... Because I am tired of climbing and have learned--among all else--how to enjoy the weightlessness of this long fall and the uncertainty it brings: uncertainty being my one true love, alongside mistress logic, who I truly LOVE returning to with open arms, seeking her comfort after a long long trip-- where I can walk winter without minding cold, and can enjoy seeing all the sights and all the Mad, Mad characters that wonderland contains. Because there is no 'character limit' nor is there censorship where I am concerned. Because I crave the criticism: that repetition is a cheaters way to write--and I want to cheat life's limitations and all social standards every chance I get. Because above all else, below all else, I want to clarify that--through every lesson I have taken-in since recently deceased December, and through all I have learned painfully, through the confusion and unrecognized irrelevance, Because the greatest thing that I have learned thus far is: I am learning.
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. •a long time ago in a galaxy far away •the saga continues with fancy new droids•characters in outland- ish costumes put on display•impo- ssible new crafts that  dart and slice through vacuumed voids•armed to ■■■■   the teeth with impressive weapons•   ■■■■ ■■■■■   spectacular battles between gargan-   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   tuan cruisers• never ending fight b-   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   etween opposing factions•where d-   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   ark and light wield fantastic sabers•   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   oh i love it... i love it!  the day draws   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   near • where my childhood pangs...   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   **would begin to smart•in a week, the   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   long anticipated day would be here•**   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   where the sith in my veins meets the   ■■■■■ ■■■■■                     jedi in my heart•                     ■■■■■ ■■■■■                                                                        ■■■■■ ■■■■■■                                                                     ■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■                                                                   ■■■■■■■ IIIIIIIIIIIIIII                                                          IIIIIIIIIIIIIII .
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Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
The Saga Continues...
. •a long time ago in a galaxy far away •the saga continues with fancy new droids•characters in outland- ish costumes put on display•impo- ssible new crafts that  dart and slice through vacuumed voids•armed to ■■■■   the teeth with impressive weapons•   ■■■■ ■■■■■   spectacular battles between gargan-   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   tuan cruisers• never ending fight b-   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   etween opposing factions•where d-   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   ark and light wield fantastic sabers•   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   oh i love it... i love it!  the day draws   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   near • where my childhood pangs...   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   **would begin to smart•in a week, the   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   long anticipated day would be here•**   ■■■■■ ■■■■■   where the sith in my veins meets the   ■■■■■ ■■■■■                     jedi in my heart•                     ■■■■■ ■■■■■                                                                        ■■■■■ ■■■■■■                                                                     ■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■                                                                   ■■■■■■■ IIIIIIIIIIIIIII                                                          IIIIIIIIIIIIIII .
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