"pertaining" poems
1.) You have the most loving heart. Your warmth, your gentle touch that you personify without words. Melts the supports of my heart
2.) Eyes of deep blue, that ensnare me and leave me thoughtless. How they change into everglade greens, and mystical greys. They're beautiful
3.) Few laughs may be as pure as your quiet giggle. The mere sound gives me goosebumps and a funny feeling in my stomach. You're so freakin' adorable
4.)The curves of a semi-circle aren't nearly as perfect as yours. You've worked alot for the perfect body. I simply need to ask... How can you make something that's something that is already perfect better?
5.) Spontaneous, unexpected and surprising. You keep me on my feet, keep me entertained and make me enjoy every second with you. Who knows what I am to expect?!
6.) Once upon a time, there lived to fluffy bunnies, they decided to leave their little hole and go out on an adventure. A wolf came along and bit of the rabbits head and it bled to death Its so dark, and it leaves you wondering what to think. I love your dark side. It both terrifies and intrigues me
7.) You're so intellectual. I love some of the things you say and more importantly write! You have an amazing capacity for knowledge and wisdom and you use it well. It baffles me, some of the connections you make in your essays and assignments
8.) My love you illustrate a maturity that surpasses your years. Pertaining to your ability to be responsible and reliable if and when - not that I ever am - clearly am not able to be. I think you're the one looking after me. I'm the older one, who just happens to have an 8yr old inside them~
9.) You smell amazing, but no. Seriously, you are in every way, shape or form. The most amazing, star studded, picture perfect, superbly sensational girl. I could ever have met. Yes, let the alliteration flow
10.) Because you're you, and you are mine
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
Make sure there is a pencil in your bag
A small notebook in your pocket
Ideas are sometimes spontaneous
And inspiration does not come everyday
Look everywhere, listen, and smell,
And don't forget to write things down.
Even if you see and listen well,
What you have seen, might not come back around.
That's where your pencil plays it's part.
And with your pencil, there's no regrets.
Especially when pertaining to the heart,
The pencil remembers, what the mind forgets.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Though you've barely had a ramble
are no wayward canine daddy of note
that brief encounter in our brambles
has left the experts fearing a cancerous growth
So we starve you of your pine nuts and bacon rinds
so we can feed you anaesthetic
and betray you to the thief of time
only to make you, I imagine, feel pathetic
And you often so full of life's exasperate scurry
I worry
will the shine stray from your eyes
those hazel pools of so much of
my feeling mature, just for
pertaining to a creature's care
we all seem in too much of a hurry
to stifle what little spirit
that surrounds us
to wear
down on every minor aspect
of childish delight
in this silent sacrament
of the aging process
and with arguably years
of your fatherhood left
in the very ***** some dry eyed savant
decides it correct we should tamper with
Tomorrow I will snuggle you in favoured, bouncy eiderdowns
that will blanket your unknowing
and treat you as if
you were an eastering child
on cured hams and other saltiness
after you awaken
from those strangest enforcements of sleep
and through our eyes we will trade more secrets to keep
And we will hope, as we only can, that it was for the best
For you, Yorkshire's son, or Sheringham's
And consider with all of your
exhuming breath
That we meddled, stilling over life
To cheat a slightly delayed death.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
The smell of fresh cut grass that you have mowed
A lollipop with flavor painful, ****
The signal traffic has to let you go
A thumb on men who give plants great kick-starts
The middle of a rainbow, warm and cold
A long square with fuzz on a table for pool
The mark on the root of all evil that's sold
A moss-covered abandoned private school
The things you see once trekking through the woods
A pond lies ankle-high within this place
The bits of algae below where you stood
A frog that jumps in front of your shocked face
There still are many things we've not yet seen
Pertaining to the wonderful color green
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Changing Names and Changing Faces
Changing Times and Changing Places
The emptiness remains the same
The Sunna Sutta,
Part of the Pali canon,
Relates that the monk Ananda,
Buddha's attendant asked,
"It is said that the world is empty, the world is empty, lord.
In what respects is it said that the world is empty?"
The Buddha replied, "Insofar as it is empty of a self
Or of anything pertaining to a self: Thus it is said,
Ananda, that the world is empty.
Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form
Emptiness is not separate from form,
Form is not separate from emptiness
Whatever is form is emptiness,
Whatever is emptiness is form
One time to the next time
That is all it is
Try to be a good person
Be kind to others
Show others the love that Jesus showed
I just want a good friend is all
That would be nice
Someone to share my life with
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
Contrapuntal
— adjective, Music.
- pertaining to counterpoint.
- composed of two or more relatively independent melodies sounded together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If we set this site poetic to music,
there would be two
contrapuntal melodies.
A harmony of disharmony,
met and matched by a
single refrain,
a harmonizing voice
meeting the needs
of the sopranos, the altos.
the low of the lowest basso.
I am in love,
life painting me beautiful.
The dawn is cracking,
opening my heart with love.
*I am a heartbroken shell,
in a living hell of neverending.
There is no light
in my bed at night, bulb broken.*
Let's write of joy,
celebrate reunification, singularity,
of our place,
our happy collision,
our universal location.
For where you are,
I exist,
no where else.
*Less than nothing,
gave and given in,
found a lost plateau
where there is no substance, only
pieces of broke,
pieces of ache,
pieces of brown glass*
I live you.
I die you.
There is but one color, and it is the color of us.
There is but one color, and it is colorless.
There is one vow for two,
the vow is one!
Keeping it,
natural, easy,
time is unrecorded,
forever is immeasurable.
*There are no vows ever kept,
only lies,
passing promises of vanity.
Never is the only time
that can be recorded.*
A new world symphony
that never ends.
What then
the unifying
refrain
uniting joy and pain?
Write it down.
Write it up.
Write it and believe.
We will listen,
and care,
having been there,
both ways,
both sides now
we are
write
alongside you.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
A shallow being that simply consumes, discards and then moves on to the next host!
Every good or creative act is designed to mask that simple fact! This creature presents a chosen character and sexuality for reasons pertaining to social image.
*** is simply a tool for manipulation or pleasure!
There is no love!
Just stepping stones!
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide, self-harm, and eating disorders⚠
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how do u know if ur having a nervous breakdown
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signs of a nervous breakdown
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can u be hospitalized for having a nervous breakdown
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what's it like being admitted to a psychiatric ward
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how do u know if ur having a panic attack
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generalized anxiety disorder symptoms
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how to refrain from eating
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insomnia
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IS PATH WARM
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tortured artist
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why do I feel so empty
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i wish i was dead
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
quanta is better understood outside of physics,
on a grander scale -
quantum is a quality suggestion that
makes two (to, too) things auto-suggestive
as pertaining in the matter -
never mind - take the concept of quanta
out of physics and you get
a man readying himself for a controlled
coma having his wisdom teeth removed,
with the anaesθetician asking about
the readers' digest, the patient replying
quo vadis? / dokąd idziesz? then
the great sleep plateau - 'where are you going?'
puts any man off, whether boxer,
or paediatrician - ****** lays dead floored
for a minute, plays the dog game: play dead,
tongue hanging ready for a guillotine.
CHOP! and there goes the tail of a Doberman
(jamnik / dachshund on stilts)
and a ρoττł-
y
woo woo woo chim chimney
cha cha cha ooh
the rotting wail - rottweiler -
-ειλερ;
you never mention the u with the v due to
the chisel ease, then again, you don't
say double-o'h but say double u -
too shay frowning at a shave;
****** i'll make your language my playground
given all these post-colonial ***** aiming
for a signature and credentials,
this **** could pass the London brigade,
but take it to York, it would be a massacre
of a bureaucratic lapse of credentials...
a viking invasion more-or-less;
oh **** quantum physics, Charles Dickens
and the Victorian Era - Jack the Ripper the antonym,
both are the desired cages of energy requiring expression
to make testimony that such an age existed,
a particular congregate of expression, never universal,
boxes and pockets, however much inside one
is a question of your dietary requirement,
quantum physics is better explained with history
than hard science, and atoms, or the craze of subs,
people need a bigger picture, not everyone own
a ******* microscope or a telescope,
teach quantum physics using history:
Philippe Augustus of France mattered,
at the Battle of Bouvines - Otto IV? not so much.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
What is omnipotent,
Carries the greatest works of art,
Pertaining to the beauty of success,
Set in one's heart.
The ability to portray emotions,
Adjacent to pure love and glory,
Lies deeper than any work of art,
As it arises with a story.
Aesthetic represents life and visions,
Such a powerful piece of art,
Should be cherished always,
And never to part.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
What is omnipotent,
Carries the greatest works of art,
Pertaining to the beauty of success,
Set in one's heart.
The ability to portray emotions,
Adjacent to pure love and glory,
Lies deeper than any work of art,
As it arises with a story.
Aesthetic represents life and visions,
Such a powerful piece of art,
Should be cherished always,
And never to part.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Animistic, not reminiscent
or exotic but disgustingly ignorant
of the ******* space in the present
A poem that doesn’t have to do with emotion?
Who let him in the building, oh, the same ******* who put 85
Security cameras and the same ******* who believes
Visible shoulders will create testosterone molded boulders
In the crotches of every boy’s too low jeans
I haven’t thought schoolwork was important
Since I knew what passion meant, and I’m no different
Than any boy or girl around but I know I am not anything near lost or found
Pertaining to a missing student.
Do you ever consider the other option?
That contumacious behavior is nothing to fear
Because although the misunderstood is misunderstood
Think of who told you should
Now what if they opted for could?
Or will you settle for chopping the wood for your fireplace
settling for our settler’s stolen goods
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
What is omnipotent,
Carries the greatest works of art,
Pertaining to the beauty of success,
Set in one’s heart.
The ability to portray emotions,
Adjacent to pure love and glory,
Lies deeper than any work of art,
As it arises with a story.
Aesthetic represents life and visions,
Such a powerful piece of art,
Should be cherished always,
And never to part.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
The refreshing drink clears my throat
Clears my worries
Clears my head
Many adults may use water
And yet, I utilize the one pertaining to infants
For although I may be an adult in years,
In my heart,
I am only a young girl with a thirst for cereal,
Without the cheerios
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
You slip into the familiar seat,
You grab the clicker from next to the coffee
On the table covered with cup-stains;
You click “ON” to hear a familiar beat:
“Amber is the color of your energy...”
And click an arrow without waiting for the rest of the refrain.
The image switches to a wolf pack
Stalking some deer as daylight fades
With a British voice to narrate saying:
“They come out at night and sleep at daybreak...”
And that's all you hear of that, afraid
Any more of this junk and your mind will be fraying.
The next scene seems to be a replay,
Some golf that you remember from yesterday...
But then comes a ring for a delivery,
So you grab your cash, cuz pizza ain't free.
And by the time you come back, everything's changed,
That is, on the screen; nothing else is rearranged.
It's an ad for a show on a different channel:
The Peanuts Christmas episode plays Sunday night,
And as the video returns to the commentary panel,
You think, “'Twas just summer, these people aren't bright!”
You settle down again, cram some pizza in your mouth,
And push the button for “Next” while picking some dough off your tooth.
“Pertaining to the subject of substance abuse in teens,
Studies have shown...” drones a voice so boring and wrinkly
It does not seem to fit the handsome man.
And even as you imagine him in a Speed-O or tight jeans,
You flip onto what's next, wishing HBO were free,
And think that a movie might have to be your plan.
It's Friday night, and this is what it comes to:
High heels off, watching TV in pajamas, what you call lingerie
That seems more like something your grandma might wear.
The pencil skirts and presentations, the micromanaging boss of two,
The pathetic day fades into bliss, victory after the business fray,
Sweet victory, channel surfing without a care.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
In Rājagaha the Well-Farer lectured
On wisdom, concentration, morality…
The monks listened, devoutly, calmly,
To the message replete with practicality.
On to Ambaliṭṭikā they journeyed,
To Nālandā and Pāṭaligāma as well.
The Buddha continued to spread the Dhamma--
Or teachings--at which he was known to excel.
After passing over the Ganges,
To Koṭigāma they made their way.
The Buddha repeated the Four Noble Truths
That still guide many people today.
At Nādikā the Teacher referred to the Mirror
Of Dhamma and said to always begin
By looking first at yourself to discover
The truth that lies deep within.
On to Vesālī the ascetics wandered,
Where their Master continued to share
The power and value of mindful living--
The importance of being clearly aware.
During the rains the Awakened One rested
In Beluva, where he postponed his trek.
While staying there he grew ill, but he knew
It was NOT his time, so it kept it in check.
"Live as islands," he said to Ānanda,
"With truth as a refuge. And grasp not, for I
Have always told you that all things dear to us--
Whatever is born--eventually will die."
After the rains, the group traveled
To the Great Forest--to the Gabled Hall,
And the Buddha repeated the Eightfold Path--
A message of wisdom pertaining to all.
Bhoganagara was their next stop,
And then to Pāvā the wayfarers did go.
Their host, Cunda, served "pig's delight."
The Buddha grew ill. Why? We don't know.
Despite his illness, he continued
To Kusinārā and lay down to rest.
Music sounded and flowers fell
From the sky to honor the One-Who-Is-Blessed.
"The Dhamma will now be your teacher.
Strive on untiringly. My time has passed."
After entering deep concentration
The Great One died. Those words were his last.
Thunder sounded and the ground shook--
As it does when any great teacher "goes to sleep."
The Buddha is Dhamma; the Dhamma is the Buddha.
Because of that there's no reason to weep.
The compassionate Buddha's Teachings have spread
For over two thousand five hundred years.
His Message of living in wisdom and compassion
And loving mindfulness perseveres.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
You're a myth
I'm the conspiracy theorist
My predictions proved accurate
To bachelorettes
In need of witch doctors
I came equipped
With a portfolio pertaining
More to psuedoscience
Than pharmaceutical
They marvel
At my hypothetical
Dream conjuring
But you're more than watcher
You are the observation
Please,
For the sake of science
Let me bring
Your dark mysteries to light
The laws
Of the impossible will be rewritten
In your name
Save me
From the enclaves
Of society
With scientists who doubt
Supernature
Expose your perfection
My ambition
Claims I discovered you
Because Nobel's Peace Prizes
Aren't given to spirits
Yours kept me alive
Without medication
The cure
For all ailments
A killer of pain
A passer of time
With controls
To slow
Or explode it
I'm devoted
To the micro-
And telescopes
In hopes
To set sight
And tell the scope
Of possibilities
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
fact: our subconscious decides actions half a second before your conscious even wraps itself around the situation.
fact: peer pressure can make people do the craziest ****
fact: jellyfish are immortal. certain species can revert to an infantile, earlier stage of their life cycle when needed.
fact: humans cannot. this is one of many causes of our obsession with life and death, innocence, time, and many other subjects pertaining to similar matters; this inability is one of many forces propelling and pulling us towards the great unknown.
fact: this makes humans bitter and jaded and contemplative. this is something to continue to investigate.
fact: my subconscious is cruel and strange, having fed on a great deal of dark poetry and books I was too young to read.
fact: I get angry sometimes, and easily.
fact: I do stupid things, but it's not always peer pressure.
fact: I am bitter and jaded and contemplative sometimes, but not being a jellyfish is only one of many forces propelling and pulling me towards the great unknown.
fact: I hate you. fact: I love you.
fact: facts aren't always true.
fact: I'm sorry.
request: Please forgive me.
fact: it's okay if you don't.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
Stop to smell the roses, it simply is the best.
Stop to smell the roses, especially when they’re dead.
For a dead rose is a rose nonetheless, and everyone knows a dead rose is a rose that’s best.
A dead rose is the remainder from a life of beauty and admiration.
Unfortunately, a dead rose is not associated with any such sensations.
Nobody wants dead roses.
There is no point if they cease to be beautiful, everyone knows this
You ask, but why? Does anyone care to explain?
What makes them different but physical appearance?
Despite texture and hue are they not the same?
No, no they are not.
A dead rose is worth so much more.
For a dead rose contains a lesson to be learned.
A lesson specifically pertaining to you, a lesson to be discovered in the way you breathe, live, love and in everything that you do.
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 3:32 PM UTC
You find yourself walking home at 4:00am
On a walk to find yourself
When you find out what time it is
My creative side
Lights me up
Like street lights
Show the sidewalks
What direction
To move in
Do blue skies, rise awaken, or open
This stroll is taking its toll
On my shoes,
On my knees,
And on my soul.
All alone, this open space is my microphone
And I say
Out loud
To myself
After every masterpiece
Of wisdom, love and sorrow
“How the **** am I going to remember that tomorrow”
Recited and
Instantaneously
forgotten
I have to borrow a line
From E. E Cummings
“Nobody fails all the time”
And from late night walking
I’m now running’
Back to whatever bottle
Subject manner
Heartbreak
And street corner
That decided that my unrecorded, undocumented, untouched,
And unwritten
Work
Goes witnessed
This is not exit music
This is a prelude
Pertaining to
The definition
Of wealth
These are the things you learn
When you go walking to find yourself
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
i pity words
because words try
they try to communicate in the most intimate way possible
having all these different words pertaining to different degrees of emotions, feelings.
And by having different genres,
like being descriptive, scientific, or conversational,
but it’s always unto the ability of two people:
the conveyor,
if the words would come off strong, or strong enough
or nonchalant, or nonchalant enough
and
the receptor,
if the words are to be processed, understood, wholeheartedly
or to come in one way and out the other
and it’s always different.
you see,
words try, but they’re a medium,
and there are other avenues of expressing ones emotions,
those of which are underlying,
which can’t be articulated.
when you speak words,
it contains tone, diction, and emphasis,
which printed words try to mimic
by various styles like
italics, bold, or underlines,
but they can never quite imitate
shifting eyes, twitches
the waver in your voice, it’s depth,
you, running your hand through your hair,
or having fidgety fingers,
and your legs never seem to stop shaking.
All of this steals the spotlight off of words,
and I wonder, what do all of these things mean?
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
I was high, high above,
Then the thought of what it’s like to be loved?
Anytime this plane will land,
Imagine you are holding someone's hand,
Tracing the stars,
Looking at those tiny cars,
Maybe it feels like this; like you’re floating,
To you every touch is soothing.
I whispered to the cloud,
Someday you will be found,
I stared at the moon,
And said it will be over soon.
Funny that I wrote this,
I wrote this for the feeling that I miss,
No person that I’m pertaining,
Just missing the words Mahalaga ka sakin.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide ⚠
______________________________________________________________
The envelope
(delivered just this morning)
splits in his attempt
to tear away its wax seal
where her very breath still wanders.
Inside,
he finds a razor blade--
upon being removed
from its paper hostel,
it glints prismatically
in the Autumn sun--
and a neatly-pressed letter
accompanied by an overwhelming
medley of scents--
parchment;
mint lip balm;
*****
it still smelled like her.
With butterflies rising like bile
up his throat,
he unfolds the letter,
reading over her
spidery handwriting
several times before
her words fully percolate:
"Do not return to sender--
she's already dead."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
A bee whistles past his ear
He feels the sound . . he doesn’t care
Averts his eyes in case there’s others
Raises his hands to fix his hair
Divorced from reality somewhat: from feeling.
Or at least extremes of:
Never exceeding amounts unfeasible:
Pertaining to the limits thereof:
Plateaued at governable levels in present:
Exempt from enth
Kept in check
His whistle wet & he’s well fed
Real words strewn along the ground
Discarded leaves fallen
Left decaying: mostly forgotten
His pants look to him pantaloons
For the good they do representing him
the man chases an end necessary; resenting
not waning, he feigns stoicism
then his creeping cynicism clouds his eyes
‘u know what buddy, u can honestly get ****** he says ‘the 1st world cries the loudest; but is softest. Thinks it is toughest; it is weakest, smoothest, creamiest.’
‘u know what buddy u are honestly right’ he says to himself not wanting to admit to himself that he agrees with himself,
but despite this all, his gaze’s focus still lowers
the edges become softer
& he does what he does
he wraps up in his blanky
with his bottle; safe under cover
among some big ******* to feel warm
but the swarm of bees they circle
twitching fever; rippling waves
hope to god that they don’t sting you
as u hide & feel their sway
lapping closer swooping hawk like
collective wind; they rearrange
and then
they push left !swoop! they raise u up,
( a cloud of black and brown and yellow arches and hums, hums like a razor on steroids, seeping potent purpose, pushing, coming: close your eyes for impending hell)
leaving bumps that swell and burn, they grab, they encase, they consume, they drive, they raise and they push
and they deliver u
and u obey them
and u relinquish; u fold enslaved
they push u forward !the buzz! it wakes
it makes u groan,
u can’t ignore it
u know u need it
u’ve got to do it
u need to go
toil on & reap the spoils
another set with the walking beige
go here go there: be happy
u have no reason to not this day
just keep on going, mate my mate
lulling deep into the beige
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC