"maintains" poems
The lull of a restless night relieves my senses
It's monotone silence maintains my breath
The cold night breeze enters through an open window
It whispers soft tunes and attempts to put me to sleep
The humming of an exhausted laptop helps me decompress
It distracts me from overthinking and blocks out my stress
As the night goes on it starts to rain
It comforts my senses and cleanses my pain
This time-worn house cracks and creaks
It talks of troubled times and how it came to be
This place I call home proves i’m never alone
And it's always there to support me
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 9:25 AM UTC
He is trully a brave protector indeed
Neither rain nor shine there he stand
And with the pain of sun and heat
Still he maintains his composure
Everyday he brings hope and protection
As citizen and policeman of this nation
Even if a lack of sleep hinder his stand
Wearing his uniform makes him proud
And later at sunrise he goes home
Looking down on his little angels
Sleeping peacefully in their own dreams
And imagining their bright future
Yet he still sacrifice his life for us
He is trully a brave protector and a father.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
She furiously takes notes in geometry class
He throws a paper plane across the room
She gets out her neatly written homework
He gets out a scratch paper with drawings on it
She maintains straight A's
He's lucky to get a D+
She has a strict curfew of 9:00 pm
He stays out all night
She daydreams about what could be
He steps up for what he wants
She reads Shakespeare
He reads... Well he doesn't
She drives the latest model of the Honda civic
He's lucky if his '76 Toyota will start
She's only loved honor students
He's only loved her
She pays no attention to him
He begs for her notification
She graduates top of her class
He barely gets by
She goes off to college
He stays and becomes a mechanic
She marries rich and lives wealthily but bitterly
He regrets the concealed feelings he never shared
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
i don't know what my father sounds like when he laughs,
laughs where his sides are splitting and tears are in his eyes.
i only know his grin, his slight chuckle.
honestly, i hardly remember his voice;
something about a southern drawl
gently dabbed on syllables
spit out between the touch of nicotine, wrapped
in paper, to his lips.
i know the clothes that i wear mimic
his choice in clothes, somehow.
i know he will not walk me down the aisle,
and this is my decision.
this is my decision, and it will break my heart.
it will break my heart only
because it will break his,
like genetics somehow link emotion
across generations.
i cannot let him run my life,
like pretending to own a car that
isn't in his name;
borrowed from the person who
washes it gently, details the inside,
maintains its running parts.
turning children into property,
it's like trying to take a house that
you used to live in, years and years ago,
but forgot you had the keys to.
you test the locks, and when the door welcomes you
in for the first steps across a threshold
you call it "home" again.
you forget that there is a family on the couches.
a mother cleaning the kitchen.
a brother fixing the shudders.
the house has moved on,
but cannot bear to close its door to you.
this is our relationship.
this is our dynamic.
it has taught me that it hurts to tell him no.
it is expected for him to not care what hurts.
it has taught me how to run from guilt and shame,
destroying past and future in fits of
self-destructive rage,
just to forget the things i've done
or are happening to me.
it's taught me how it feels for a heart to break
from forgetting pieces of someone it loves.
but this hasn't taught me how to fix it,
and i don't think he knows how to, either.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
I sing of life at state expense
a state devoid of common sense
addicted to obesity
impolitic in body weight
yet headed for austerity
as other people’s money ends
plebeian class-revolt transcends
our bureaucratic history.
They stack the monthly welfare decks
complain the service second-rate
those sullen clients, thankless louts
pajama-clad with tattooed pouts
whose girlfriends swell while babies cry;
the fathers mumble, sagging high
and wait in lines. The women try
to fool the lunar period
conceptions waxing myriad
while teenage dads discover ***
and social workers cash the checks
the daily urban nightmare is
enough to scare a nation broke
in clouds of marijuana smoke:
the cashless global mystery.
The breeders born in tropic lands
are tempted till they take the bait
no baby-momma understands
what family means, what life demands
Your undertakers overstate
in order to remunerate
your Democratic history:
a bankrupt urban mystery
the not-so-Great Society.
The ghetto sperm-donation ploy
makes babies but maintains the boy
to run around from mom to mom
slow-motion population bomb
as if to merely demonstrate
that social program funders wait
till number-crunchers aggravate
the urban teenage welfare state.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:36 PM UTC
She is the lady on the road.
She is a mother, a sister, a colleague, a bird, a lassie, a damsel.
She is the lady on the road.
She spreads love and enriches kindness in the society,
She is the crux of an organization, and the fundamental principles.
She is the lady on the road.
She twinkles with the stars and shimmers with the moon,
She scampers with her pets and hops like a frog,
She is not a nomad, but a faithful keeper.
She is the lady on the road.
She wears short skirts,
She wears tight tops,
She doesn't encourage the flirts,
She neither abominates the leering of cops.
She is the lady on the road.
She holds a honourable reputation,
She forms the base of ethical standards,
She buries the grudges and resolves the dissension,
She consolidates herself and maintains her fettle,
She is the epitome of cheerful disposition.
She is the lady on the road.
She ignores the catcalls,
She endures the torture and prevails her morale,
She is a monument unshakable, and a stone unbreakable,
She dumps her burdens and enlightens her destiny,
She protects her dignity and negotiates with denunciation,
She does no harm, but deals with it.
She is the lady on the road, ..the seventh wonder of the world.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
Trump STILL can't stand the thought
That Clinton won the popular vote.
In efforts to cause a major distraction,
He's keeping the voting fraud rumor afloat.
Clinton received two point eight
Million more votes than he--
Votes from voters physically present
Or votes from those voting absentee.
He says that he has evidence
Of widespread fraud. We can surmise
That he has his "alternative facts"--
A handy euphemism for lies.
It's a preposterous, baseless claim,
A mere BELIEF that he maintains,
Another false conspiracy theory,
An insult to people who use their brains.
Voting fraud is an issue
That Trump loves to keep in his sights.
For him it's a very useful excuse
To go after voting rights.
If there was so much voting fraud,
The chances of which are very slim,
Does Trump ever wonder how many
Fraudulent votes went to him?
The more he whines, the more he harps--
He's even driving Republicans mad!--
The more he loses the smattering
Of credibility that he once had.
- by Bob B (1-24-17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
Without legitimate occupancy,
Adverse possession is the legal right
Of anyone who moves in and maintains
A property, so here's the deal. We must
Move in to 1600 Penn,
The current tenant having broke the lease.
The caravan from Guatemala first, Hondurans trudging slowly from the depth.
Then the Yemen children not yet murdered,
Those with preexisting conditions next,
And women whose assaults were ridiculed,
Those roughed up by cops and politicians.
Losers in the war on drugs, the big house
Having far exceeded capacity.
The mentally ill, discarded by the
Great communicator after he tore
The Solar panels off the roof. This is
Anger, not poetic license. When a
Long train of abuses and usurpations
Evinces a design to reduce them
Under absolute Despotism, it
Is their right, it is their duty to throw
Off such Government, and to provide new
Guards for their future security. Such
Has been the patient sufferance of these
And such is now the necessity which
Constrains them to alter their systems of
Government. And journalists under fire,
If there's room still left in the briefing room,
Let facts be submitted to a candid
World.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
she touched up untended walls
all alone, no party assembled
attempting to create reactions
with her color selection
and inspire sunken eyes
with the antonym for
"you are worthless" and "no one cares"
...but the paint is peeling
and her motivation runs constant
as she prepares her endurance
to spackle and smooth grooved surfaces
prime marks and hide pitted edges
to place appropriate strokes adequately
and try a little color contrast
on previously blended door and window trim
...but the paint is peeling
now bubbles form and fall flakily at her feet
as a sleight of hand starts its mischief
of defacing the layers of her self-affirmation
with synonyms for the premature initiative she displayed
so, she drops her tools and starts peeling
removing the pain that is hindering her renewal
and covering the constant decay correctly
working toward a strengthened surface
that maintains its finish against the cruelest force
and accepts loving, touches
without turning them to criticism.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 12:47 PM UTC
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Shuffled deck; fetch me three of Seventy-Eight cards.
First:
Queen of Swords
"This fine Sword of honest metal
is a more true an Ally
than many of Flesh indeed prove to be."
*Much like Athena,
The Queen of Swords
is symbolic of progress;
always keen on new ideas;
though she is not One to leave herself defenseless,
her faithful Sword stands
always by her side.*
Second of the three,
of the still Seventy-Seven:
Two of Swords
"Distracted by conflict
'twixt Heart and Mind,
I hold two Swords and bide my Time."
*Two of Swords
stands between Moon and Water;
the Shadow and the Subconscious
the darkness and the unknown.
The Two of Swords
is blindfolded
and in her blissful ignorance
maintains her precarious balance,
for now.*
The third of three random cards;
leaving Seventy-Five unturned:
Knight of Swords
"Feast your eyes upon this, my plan;
I wager thou hath, in all thy wretched days,
ne'er so beauteous a thing beheld!"
*The Knight of Swords
is a keen poet and a fine musician;
though perhaps not romantically.
She dabbles for the sake of the intellect,
and seeks that those things be playthings thereof.
She is symbolic of progress through new ideas
and of the eloquence of a well-laid plan.
Being of the House of Swords,
she revels in the stimulation of intellect
and the effective use of wisdom.
She usually yields only to herself
and marches to the beat of her own convictions,
all the while
keeping her eyes
on the prize.*
-
All of these Cards
are of the House of Swords.
There's about a 1 in 166 chance
of getting 3 of the 14 Swords
out of a random deck of 78 cards.
I got the Queen of Swords as my third card last time
and the first card this time;
There's 1 in approximately 676 chance
of getting the same card
in two consecutive sets of three cards
from a random 78 card deck.
(im)Probabilities aside:
The Suit of Swords is generally associated with:
one's ways of thinking, systems, ideas, and communication.
It has much to do with
what we chose to do with our Minds
and it also is symbolic of the power of
the stories we tell ourselves and each other.
The Swords are indeed double-edged in Tarot.
It has to do with the power of information
and with that comes delusion,
and, inexorably,
paradox.
Patterns do exist, however.
Upon these patterns
foundations may be built,
the same is true within myself;
I can choose to use all these Swords
to cut through this cage of Shadow
and set free the Light once more
rather than allowing myself
to myself fall victim to the Swords
through inaction or misuse
though only if I tread lightly
and thoughtfully
and proceed with tact;
that much is clear.
Sword is the sign of Air;
perhaps the message here is simply
"Remember to breathe."
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
She rolls along the high wires
Tightrope walkin' moon
She graces life's big circus
She is gone too soon
Huge! A glowing fairie
So luminous! So bright!
She's suspended on the ropes
The performer of the night!
I watch her intently
As she's held aloft
Then she slips toward the hills...
... she is fallin' off!
But she bows down and curtseys!
A smile on her face
She's lost not her dancer's poise,
She maintains her grace.
Finally she exits
The horizon sets the stage
She is only a faint glow
The night has turned the page.
I'll remember her with fondness
As she danced to Claire de Lune...
In her sequined tutu
Tightrope walkin' moon.
SøułSurvivør
8/26/2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
Hecate,
When I was off and gone world weary
Weeping sorrowful in winter
I called on you to help and spare me sorrow.
Now that it is spring, it is now
My duty,
Sweet, sweet magical maiden fair
To grant you help in all you seek.
For you, master of magic, mistress of mythos
Can not fathom that which is the greatest magic,
The one within even mere mortals.
Love, Hecate. Love.
I know that I am one to talk,
Having broken free of the shackles that were formerly Hera’s,
But you, sweet Hecate, must not be mistaken as we are.
In your eyes sits the light of a thousand suns, burning with joy and potential to be,
You cannot subject yourself to these mortal pains, these mortal errors,
These wounds of the flesh as he does.
For he will lead you down a path rarely survived,
Rarely survived truly,
He will walk you into depths of sorrow,
Your own Hades, sweet Hecate.
He will lead you to question the very meaning of yourself,
The very essence of who it is that you are.
You are stronger than a mortal,
As any oracle will tell you,
As any of my court will attest.
He maintains such a level of power over you
That he makes fools of gods and spares no souls,
He has taken you for something silly and of that nature too.
But Hecate, you know this, a spell of love is just a spell
And so driven are you like Apollo before you, so driven with love
That you’ll cast it.
It is not yours to cast, that is Eros’ part and doing so would cause the world to shift out of balance.
But you will do it anyway, Hecate, for I know you well.
I shall leave you with this, and this truly,
Bad things happen to mortals who mess with gods.
-Persephone.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.
Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.
Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.
Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.
Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.
As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Uncle-
13 years-I miss you
Crying this year seems to make little sense-
Rejoicing in your life seems to be a little more relevant-
This heaven sent feeling of remembering you has so much meaning-
I always check in with you to let you know I love you-
That your grandson’s are growing and becoming men of there own-
Your daughter is wonderful and still maintains her home-
Your son is brilliant and the best friend I have-
His heart is like yours and everyday he becomes more of a man-
Your brothers are well, up to the same old-
Your mother is sweet and dear-still as beautiful as gold, her soul is amazing-
With the thought of you and Zadi-I grab hold and remember how you helped raise me-
I will raise Brooklyn the same way you helped teach me-
To be open and honest and free-
If you could only see her she would amaze you-
One day when I see you, we will talk till time is through-
I miss you Gabi, Itchy, I miss you very much-
I will smile today because of your love-
I can see you both smiling down at us-
And I am grateful man for a family of love-
Rest In Peace-
Be easy-
Your favorite nephew (your only nephew)
Richie
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 10:41 AM UTC
The Kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man,
seeking goodly pearls; who, when he had found one,
sold all that he had and bought it.—Matthew 13.45
I know the ways of Learning; both the head
And pipes that feed the press, and make it run;
What reason hath from nature borrowed,
Or of itself, like a good huswife, spun
In laws and policy; what the stars conspire,
What willing nature speaks, what forced by fire;
Both th’ old discoveries, and the new-found seas,
The stock and surplus, cause and history:
All these stand open, or I have the keys:
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Honour, what maintains
The quick returns of courtesy and wit:
In vies of favours whether party gains,
When glory swells the heart, and moldeth it
To all expressions both of hand and eye,
Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie,
And bear the bundle, wheresoe’er it goes:
How many drams of spirit there must be
To sell my life unto my friends or foes:
Yet I love thee.
I know the ways of Pleasure, the sweet strains,
The lullings and the relishes of it;
The propositions of hot blood and brains;
What mirth and music mean; what love and wit
Have done these twenty hundred years, and more:
I know the projects of unbridled store:
My stuff is flesh, not brass; my senses live,
And grumble oft, that they have more in me
Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:
Yet I love thee.
I know all these, and have them in my hand:
Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes
I fly to thee, and fully understand
Both the main sale, and the commodities;
And at what rate and price I have thy love;
With all the circumstances that may move:
Yet through these labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,
But thy silk twist let down from heav’n to me,
Did both conduct and teach me, how by it
To climb to thee.
2.1k
Down the road of the land of the baked beans,
we find this fruit wing of an Amazonian tree.
In autumn, when she turns dry and brown,
she unfastens from her mother tree and plunges down,
dwindling she begins to whirl in pain,
screaming in fear and agony but one cant hear any sound.
The winds are here to fortify that this suffering remain,
she twists, she turns, she whirls and shes headed for the ground.
With one last breath she takes one last spin,
and lands unbroken as she had always been.
Before she catches enough air to realize what a fall she had endured,
a curious soul picks her up and tosses her into the air and her misery is ensured.
Again she twists , she turns , she whirls yet unbroken she lands.
Away from family, unspoken, confused in different sands.
She endures a hundred such journeys from here.
In the brevity of its flight, here is the beauty of her plight.
Despite the solitude ,she maintains her fortitude.
She carries without letting it out that in her she carries another soul.
A seed.
A seed that will give rise to forest.
With their canopy, the trees in the forests will not only live for themselves,
they will provide for, protect and shelter many more.
tiny beings, super beings, all beings.
Her fall was only a rise, upside down.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
Hugging a wall that is made of brick is a certain projection of an identity which has never been discovered.
Shower your soul with the warmth of French kisses and laugh at those imposed moral rectitudes.
******* bonding is a coercion of unity where aggressive independence lurks on the banks of youthful sexuality.
So, dominance no longer maintains power, and an empty shell of proclaimed significance is now rendered inoperative.
Truth has bared her gorgeous glory, and endless voices of self-disclosure resound throughout the cosmos.
Can you hear them?
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
There are too many days..... I cant do this many days. Too many days where darkness wins. Fate laughs endlessly. I am Fate's comedic performer and he laughs without end. Like a donkey behind a carrot I am led and with the rasp of a donkey's bray Fate's laughter rings in my ears.
I don't think I can do this. Where joy is substituted by despair and happiness succumbs to death.... and the symphony of laughter is the tune. The strings on this puppet are frayed and worn but the puppeteer is relentless. How do you fix the strings of a puppet in motion? Who will catch the puppet if he falls? I can hear no answers above the laughter that rings in my ears and so this puppet on tattered strings dances on to the tune that Fate maintains. How long is a piece of string? It matters not if the string can carry no weight.
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
#
Arms outstretched ,
her awakening spirit--
Stardust-clad,
within the celestials..
These pirouettes, bourne
on nothing but air--
((free air..))
She is beginning;;
and as she does
her spirit stretches back
to a time before creation;
..as she Unfolds
as she maintains
underneath this blanket of Love
she now feels.
And like a hen
that gathers her chicks;
her newfound wings
pull all the pieces of her own heart
back to her self..
Back to her-self
*(( back to herself. ))*#
Feb 25, 2023
Feb 25, 2023 at 9:22 PM UTC
If you've wondered why I shy from bathing in your eyes
-it's because I'm terrified of where you'll drain me.
Refraining
Abstaining
From explaining why my brain chains itself to the thought of you.
The thought of you-
Remains coursing through my veins like heavy doses of *******
I can not restrain the rain that steadily maintains its downfall along the inner walls of my thighs
If I jump inside your eyes,
Will you bathe me?
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
The Sun in Sudan is unkind.
There beauty withers into dust.
The people there are primitive,
Their ways are alien to us.
A Christian woman, eight months pregnant,
Has been condemned to lash and rope.
convicted by Sharia law.
Our outrage is her earthly hope.
For Meriam refused to yield,
In Jesus she maintains her trust.
She would not convert by force
To a cult that seeks control of us.
A modern day Antigone,
condemned to death because of faith.
A prisoner of Conscience, she,
Like the Lamb, endures their hate.
She is not clothed as with the Sun.
The child she bears, no Savior King.
She’s labelled an adulteress
though she wears her husband’s ring.
Her faith provides no easy path,
that often is the way of things.
Like all those Martyrs who came before her,
She puts her trust in Christ the King.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
•
I enfold you closer to me,
And let you feel every melody,
That my heart produces.
Suddenly you got enervated,
Because of my monotonous euphony.
I wonder why would you feel like that?
When the only harmony my heart generates,
~> Are the tone of the sweetness of your name,
~> And the music of your love,
That carries me into the paradise land,
Which everyone dreams of?
I only love you,
That's why,
I will never mix others musical genre,
Into the rhythm that maintains the circulation,
Of love and felicity,
Into my life.
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
This is a Pilut, it’s very neat.
It cannot walk, it has no feet.
Its roots grow up, its flowers down,
Tucked safe inside the dirt and ground.
How does it this? How does it that?
Starting with how it gets energy from fat.
A rabbit hops by, staring in wonder,
Why the roots are above,
As opposed to down under.
Suddenly the rabbit will feel great dismay,
As the roots latch on and take it away.
Down to the flowers, the roots will bring bunny,
For the gruesome feast that is not at all funny.
It will travel through the stem
To a very tight trap.
Bunnies fat is consumed,
And that is just that.
Another question is how does it grow?
A Pilut’s growth rate is in fact very slow.
It waits a whole year
For the dust storm to near
And then grabs on small particles,
That stretch it a mere.
One inch or two
Will just have to do
‘Cause oversized Piluts, there are just a few.
An important question that’s been asked before,
Is how these strange creatures tend to make more?
Piluts reproduce not very many others,
Being hermaphrodites means they’re both dads and mothers.
When the wind blows, two roots much touch.
There is slight chance of this, so time it takes much.
That one simple “kiss” for Piluts is renowned,
Fertilizing an egg and setting it down
Beside its parent, deep underground.
That egg then grows off of minerals from the dirt
‘Til it’s big enough to eat animals,
for it’s no longer a squirt.
It’s made of hundreds of cells, maybe even more;
Organized in a way that no one’s seen before.
It digests in the stem,
Breathes through the leaves,
A remarkable system
You have to see to believe.
It hibernates in winter,
As response to the cold.
Maintains homeostasis
With extra energy it holds.
A Pilut is an organism indeed.
It has all signs of life, as you can read.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
Light runs through her veins,
Life is what she maintains.
Hair of gold and eyes so blue,
She is the beginning of everyone including you.
Her voice is the sound of children laughing,
And her laugh is the sound of music blasting.
Darkness runs in his blood,
He is Death collecting souls as they come in a flood.
Skin so pale and his eyes are black pits,
He is as deadly as it gets.
Total opposites in every way,
Sitting around Death heard Life say.
Why do they love me yet they hate you?
She looked to him for a answer but he didn't want to.
He chuckled a little amused by her youth.
Because you are A Beautiful Lie, and I am the Painful Truth
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC