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Tay Jun 2016
Don't fall in love with a girl who reads.
The girl who feels everything, who dreams, who writes..

Fall in love with the girl you find in a bar. Find her in the squall of smoke and sweat of an upscale nightclub. Make sure she doesn't mix her coffee with bourbon. Love the one shooting tequila straight from a cheap, half-empty bottle. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure it lingers a little too long. Use pickup lines and entertain her with meaningless slurs from a long day and mistakes you know are about to be made. Take her outside and kiss her in the rain because you saw it in a film. Comment on its silliness.

Pull her into a tolerable relationship. Let the months pass by without remark. Then let years pass by unnoticed. Talk about nothing of significance and retreat into it when the air grows stale and the evenings become long. Fight about how the shower curtain needs to be kept closed. Propose a little later because you realize you'd have wasted so much time otherwise. Take her to a restaurant that wreaks of marinara sauce and sheepishly ask the waiter to bring a bottle of expensive champagne. Offer up a modest ring and don't become too concerned if you feel nothing of sincerity or commitment. But fake it, ******* it.

Do these things. Because a life lived in purgatory is better than one lived in hell. She will make it hell. I'm begging you, stay away from the one who reads. Who laughs or cries when she makes love. Who can neatly fold her spirit and spin it into prose and poetry. If she loves poetry, run away. Don't dare to look back. She is to be left alone. Dangerous little smiles should make you shake. Do not smile back.

Do not fall in love with a girl who thinks. Who is made up of magic and knows herself. Do not love the one who knows how to disappear inside of a book or a poem or a painting. If she spends any more than a few seconds looking into the eyes of a sinner, get out of there.

Don't fall in love with the girl who is interested in politics, who feels disease in injustices. Don't love the one who is intense, who is lucid and charismatic. Stay away from the one who has any sense of ambition, of rebellion, or even the smallest hint of wonder in her eyes. Be cautious of the ones who can't live without music. If she can draw, quit, and quit fast.

A girl who reads is one who knows herself; who is sure. She is educated and she is fire inside a bottle of rye. The girl who reads is one who is comfortable with goodbyes. Think about it: she's read millions of novels and each one ends. Most end with the death of her favorite character. They make her think. And she flies through the pages like they are wet wine on collarbones. And she is okay with each and every ending. Sure, she might cry, but she'll wipe her face and pick up another book. Just to do it all over again. Remember this if she ever says her favorite book is you.

She is a romantic and how can you match up to the princes and heroes in her books? She knows nothing else. You can't love her the way those characters could if they were to take shape. She holds a vocabulary that lays claim to her ability to distinguish between the specious and the soulless. She holds rhetoric hands that turn black streaks into the books she loves so deeply. She deserves a man who can hold her hand the way she holds her books. Someone who can write her notes and hide them in her lunch box. Can you write in cursive the way she can?

Please, don't fall in love with a girl who reads. Because a girl like that, you never come back from.
GreenTrees Dec 2013
No dream too big
No detail too small

No mountain to high
Someone to catch me when I fall


COPYRIGHT 2013
Karl v.
Mellow waves Aug 2018
Planes rust when left on the ground
For they were meant to fly,
Hearts break from time to time,
To question the purpose of this thing called life
Men stumble occasionally,
To stand back up and grow stronger.

You see, everything truly does happen for a reason,
You just have to dig deep,
Dig deeper than before,
Look through life with rose colored glasses,
And you’ll see how beautiful is the gift of God.
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Located in the prime location
Precisely at the right spot.
Squaring up the square
Laid to measure on the map.
Equal each side a cube stands
Aligned to the column
brimful every inch.

What now? ‘Looking for a margin,
Wide margin in the solid core.’

Like a human wants to turn up here
From every corner every nook.
The star splashes into its constellation
Like the sun and the moon
Love to wrap around here
Through the fastest route!

What now? ‘Everyone wants a margin
Wide margin where it matters all
It couldn’t be more brimful.
Dark Fjord Nov 2016
as a son, we’ll ‘one up’ at once - get up - step up –
and box it or beat it –Ours is to keep it–
to Pain? ...a crown is made for you,
to the dawn’s made to speak of it,
to the time is made to keep it….
find in you, a just saying
Colyskie Aug 13
You give too much
And that's not going to be enough
No matter how hard you try sometimes
It's not going to make an impact, not an inch, not a dime
Whatever is left is what you've got
After all the bruises and cuts
Everything could go nuts
You swim deep down the waters
You go further and further
But in the end, nothing really matters.
Marie-Lyne Oct 2018
Everything matters
Even the little things
Ana Laag Feb 2
What
will
matter,

is
that

I
had
you

and

you
had
me.
216694707
Khoi-San Oct 2018
Inbetween
the
dark rings
the
bellyfat
the
slightly arched back
we
both know
that
salt and pepper
still
makes
a
pretty mean love potion
And I  mean oh yeah!
Shobhit Dec 2018
Yes, you are free
to nurture those feelings

Feed them dreams and hopes
And let them
germinate incessantly
Into a chaos inside you!

Yes, you are free
to take your time
And segregate them
as you like.

But be sure
about the one
Whom you have
restlessly chosen
To harvest them...

Your orchard of strawberries,
red and bright
They may claim
as land of carcasses
Barren with pits
of black blight!!

Pwac..
Francie Lynch Jan 28
If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.
Joseph Miller Aug 2018
At the center
of my being
I am
a soul
wrapped in precious time
I am
grateful
to know
the gift of life
is spirit
that matters
in the dust of stars
I am
in the middle
of a miracle
that never stops
giving
Universal Thrum Feb 2018
There’s a halo
Over the horizon
Where the wind blows
Up into the mountains
Yea she’s sweet though
Baby’s got them honey bones
I get a taste of
the sunrise on her breath oh
Mmm mmm mmm mmm
It tastes like starting over
Mmm mmm mmm mmm
Awake from golden slumber

As she whispers
feel me from the inside
go deeper
tell me that I feel alright
yea she's sweet though
Baby's got them honey bones
yea she's sweet though
Baby's got them honey bones

In the end,
nothing really matters
https://soundcloud.com/universalthrum/ft-zak-newkirk
RedD Nov 2018
I come to you
With nothing

And I leave
with exactly the same
25.11.18
Just something to hang on to
That’s all we ask of each other
We are proud individuals
who feed into bold lies
spoonfed like we're blind
through hands of our deceitful leaders
still they rise.

Technology is forever shoved in our face;
"hurry up n buy it!"
(before it reaches expiration date)
consuming gadgets at such a fast pace
may that be the devil
that determines our fait.

In the hands of the media we lay
side by side on a sinking ship they say
far, far and further away
we depart from real life
and sink into a screen of shame.

Our children can fake a smile
but their tears don't lie.
and though we let them remain on those sites
we sit, we sigh
and spin our glasses of wine
all the while wondering why we see them
with blubbering hearts and watery eyes.

Our elderly generation
worked all their life
hoping in their older years
that they could relax for a while.
Instead they have to sit there
with frail hands and ghostly smiles
overlooking us poison the planet
and see it turn cold and vile.

We drink until our heart is liquor
we love until our love turns bitter
our emptiness then begins to spread-
until on the inside we all go dead-
and it spreads quickly
and painfully
like the plague
and everyone is too far gone to save.

"Men are to be machines"
We say with a hand on their shoulder
as we push them out the door
off to a war
which will scar them so much so
that they won't want to live anymore.
And while not even a trace of a scar
sits on their skin,
the blood which seeps from their bleeding hearts
soaks and stains deep within.

Mass confusion;
we look to the sky
for the answers we need finding
within this cold society.
We disagree until we die
about matters of no relevance to you or I
but fury is the new joy
and may we fight until all is destroyed.

So many harsh whispers in the streets
so many expectations no one dares meet.
Some go insane
just to be the same
but just who is this madman
that we all aspire to be?
Does he have a name?
Has be ever been seen?

If now was your time to die
would you be happy
with the content of your life?
Or would you be regretful
that for the most part
you were entertaining society's lies.

If you're not happy with the way of human progression
then be the light in a sea of grey
and this horrible game of modern day
you will no longer play
and instead serve now to define
a new society.



Jazmine MacIntyre
12.05.2019
Inspired by 'Iron Sky' by Paolo Nutini.
Nathaniel Aug 3
Queue the laughter.

I'm building a justified war-
Sorry little animals dirtied and poor.
Eat portioned joy you faith-filled fools-
Soured with lemons tasting of ardor.

Perhaps my beast feels shame-
Wither my ego or find he to blame.
Sink the crescent ship below blue-
Fill the sea with smoke and flame.

The dark woods are a bear's back-
Smelling breaths of heady lilac-
Rummaged pines sticky with lines.
Here, there rest no lies or fact.

To let you know of what's today-
We are breaking the yoke in a brand new way.
Sword-toothed sharks battering at our waves-
Keeping the skeptic fish at bay.
Oh in the cave there's comedy is still being written, have a lot to release.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted chemical organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
Joseph Miller Oct 2017
dreams come true
when you get real
with a heart for any fate
find the answers
there is strength in knowing
everything is connected
see the universe
with eyes that see yourself
changing for good
in every moment
the power of spirit matters
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