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Chelsea Primera May 2018
Over time they will look back on you,
The one who rose with morning drew
Cared for everything, and have so few,

Lastly, they will take up on your cue,
When your words become the last adieu,
And people you encouraged start life anew.

Lately, they will think back on you,
The hardworking and patient mule,
For you our thanks overdue,
For your sacrifices, we never knew.
Thanks for reading!
Whom does this poem make you think of?
Feedbacks appreciated/
Greg Jones Mar 2019
Yet again I zone out on these back streets
Guided by the instinct
Of my former self.
I can see the past now,
Pretentiously smiling back.

There’s things I can’t escape,
But everything else, I just ran.
My eyes were focused on the clouds.
I can remember seeing the places that I’ve never been
For the first time
And the last time.

I was swinging for the moon.
I knew I would see it soon.
Did I oversleep? Did I overdream?
It still thinks about me to this day.

The past is something I wanna eject from my brain.
Then lock it in a box and never ever see it again.
But the past still thinks of me to this day.

I was swinging for Mars
Or at the very least, the stars.
Couldn’t hesitate, no time to delay.
I’m still trying to find the best way.
But I think back to in that classroom asking myself why.
Why can’t I just walk away?

It still thinks about my everyday.
I still think about it to this day.
Sachin Subedi Mar 2019
Over green meadow
The freak run
The rock, the sun, charisma
Inborn wilderness
Heat, dust flying over
Head bang, dance and neigh
Exhilarating Grace
Enigmatic Amaze

Dark horse, beauty black
Golden one and the redhead
White elf, ohh the spotted
Sunshine daylight, rainbow earth
Forward tribe, believers' trust  
Streak of dreams, a nature's glare
Charming prayers, Gazing stare

Temptations hush
Emotions gush
Knowing of the kind
Knowing of the harsh
Of the bold ,and the free
Showering Bliss
Throughout history

A seeker, an observer
An adventurer
A friend, an undercover
Calm and steady
Strong will
Wilderness and free

Deep onto truth
High into truth
Flying deep
Knowing Within
Knowing Without
And Reality

The nature's way
Nature's advocate
Symbol of strength
Wild and free
Wild horses set you free
Your Clouds, judged be it pickled or disdain
Have mostly trained your canaries to think
Whether to ruffle more Feathers; Then feign
Those Truest Notes dipped; And begroom your Mink
For who could solve what your Tampered Mind spies
Then translates such Harvest for a Desert
To Good Sense cheer; From Truth becomes a Lie
With Random Calls ring your Body to advert
And whilst you do, any Cause to forget
Those Taped Pioneers who endured your Phase
Pray for your Interview; And chance to beget
Which Startled Sweets was the Sweetest at base.
Yet still Occupied to that Video owned
Belittle what Possum's Cry now reknowned.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Steve Page Oct 2018
And when you pray
Ask from your heart
And when you pray
Seek from your soul
And when you pray
Sniff around without ceasing
Through your tears
To find the doors
That He has prepared
To brand new frontiers
For you, His pioneers.
And then -
A lesson from Redeemer London.  Matthew 7.
Erin Suurkoivu Oct 2016
You could never picture me in the pockets of my West Coast.
I flew out of your story and into another, and then
Even into another, always the phoenix.

No longer yours, but his.
No longer his, but mine.
Perhaps I suffered these little deaths to forge a heaven with him.

A king, he’d follow me to the ends of the earth, thrice over.
His queen I’m still too shy to let shine through,
A star stubbornly obscured by cloud.

Though before I complained of rain,
On the Island it never bothered me.
Even in the dead of winter it kept the grass emerald-green.

An emerald city:
Ivy shrouded trees; moss fluorescent.
Our castles were those green giants.

Siamese blue to denim blue.
Betwixt the Spit & Seabroom.
It was all I dreamed and ever wanted.

The only thing missing was the garden, the garden,
Sheltered by walls made of cob.
Or a whole house, the air inside delectable.

Tendril of dream,
Is a cinder girl deserving of bees,
Turning honey into mead, of wild things?

No. Exiled to a foreign land,
A barren land; the ghetto forest.
Those halcyon years now only a memory.

Ridiculous to expect the bald
Rocks to yield to a surfer’s paradise, of
Blue-green ocean. Long hairs cannot thrive under puritans’ eyes.

Green things tremble for sun.
For all the rain, I remember the sun,
Filtering down through the forest canopy,

Upheld by the cathedral’s true pillars
Rather than these thrifty spindles. In reverence of true
Beauty, all is quiet & hushed.

The birth of a princess may bring us back.
Pioneers, we’re still in search of our happy ending,
To live lush in nature’s majesty.

I know the Pacific is still out there
Roaring somewhere,
Crashing itself onto stony beaches.

Mists wreath those mountains.
The drums beat.
That muted boom, my thud of heart.
"Fairytale" can be found in my book, "Blood for Honey", available at and Amazon.
Elioinai Oct 2018
I’m walking through the desert
Following faint trails of pioneers before
Sometimes stumbling in circles through furnaces of sand and cactus
I haven’t seen my destination
it’s place isn’t marked on any map
I don’t know where I’ll find water
I’m a wanderer and I don’t keep it on tap,
I lose my sense of time
listening to the dune’s eerie song
All I know is that I’ve been trapped here
too long
I live for the moments I crest the layered plateaus
and can finally see the distance
of wilderness I have travailed
Dedicated to Jamie
From beneath the Horizen's wing, the crown of Dawn rises in spendor.
Revealing in the light all that laid in the slumber of Dusk's watch;
Upon the hill do the birds sing, in the wake of the of heights does the ode arise.

The elohim spread their wings, and dance in flight. As Adam is ready to plow the land.
Creation amidst the melody does stir, for a land of sorrow this plain is not.

As Dawn's crown rises, it's splendor does shine.
It shines a relent for the prince Dusk, permissing his watch to end.
A new ode has been sung, the new day is ordained afresh.
A melodious echo resounds anew for the pioneers on frontier's edge.
JS CARIE Jun 2019
On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought  

From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy  into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter  

Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment

since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth

Exhibiting the myth of danger
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...


“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write  
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history
Descendant of mainly Mormon pioneers
I didn't expect to find any witches
As I dived into my
But then I opened up
The box in my parent's attick
Called "Maleta's Kid's Keepsakes" and now,

I am feeling pretty
About Grandma
Did I really know her?

Just processing what's
In that first box
Has me with a million
I'll never ask

In person
Grandma Maleta
John Wiley May 2019
behind the range
is Apara,
a place
of rocks
and reeds
and tall river gums,
from the red
spinifex covered plain.

took us there
one day -
showed us
the deep
dark spring
in the reeds
where Wanampi
the creative water serpent

Told us a story -
yet living,
yet dated -
for life
moves on,
cultures change,

an ancient tree
bears a blaze
cut by explorers
years ago.
A rock face
bears scratchings
by pioneers
watering livestock
at the sacred site.

And so
the sacred
is profaned,
the stories
are forgotten,
the songs
go unsung,
something dies.
Apara is a beautiful place in the Musgrave Ranges south of Uluru (Ayers Rock) in Central Australia. This poem is from my memory bank of lving in the area almost fifty years ago.
George Krokos Aug 2019
This is a true story which might be distressing for some people
and hopefully may also be a kind of help or revelation for others.
It was like a cut or rift in the soul which seemed to be fuelled by anxiety and the sometimes innocent presence of others where the sufferer or victim would mostly come out second best or worse still, as with a sense of loss, going away with the feeling of anguish knowing that one had somehow absorbed sponge-like all the negative vibes and crap of those who were close by or there around regardless of who or what they were and then later on having to pay the price alone by taking it out on themselves with the almost near endless and uncontrollable self expunging torture of the bad habit.

A living daily hell of pain and self doubt, lacking that much needed acquired gift of self confidence and assurance that all would be well in the hope of the future where one could look back here on the current situation or malady like a bad dream and perhaps even laugh thinking how could that have been happening at all and the causes of it, if there were any, so that it could be reversed for one to make amends or at least be normal again and not have to go through this problem any more which in some ways very much resembled the taking on of someone else's curse where no matter what one did to get rid of the **** problem they were confronted with, it always kept coming back at them like some merciless relentless demon that wouldn't stop until it stopped.

Only then would there be peace or a semblance of it after coming to one's senses by sensing the extent of the damage caused by the feverish non-stop action of the bad habit which they didn't want or need to do; thinking or even saying to themselves with anger or utter frustration that this has to stop once and for all and then regretfully attempting to cover up or hide the all so obvious affected area that was the result of the distressful action which targeted that prominent part of the body indiscriminately and then having to get rid of all the evidence and now useless pieces which once covered and formed that well rounded part of their body wondering with stark curiosity if anyone else in the world had the same condition that didn't seem likely to go away. Or, even for that matter, if one could have a period of time, for it to heal long enough for them to make some recovery and be able to get on with their life, whatever that now meant or was; at least to live and prove to themselves that they were in control of it; and if all the so called powers that be would grant them some kind of reprieve from whatever the hell was causing the problem to continue without any clear purpose other than that of self abasement and an apparent denial of their own worth and potential which was their precious birthright which many people would call, say and affirm to be a God given existence and inheritance where no one had the right to take it away from anyone else regardless of whatever had happened in the dim past, being now more or less forgotten, not having any real or tangible reality other than that which one thought it may have in their mind and soul by a deep psychological wound like that of perhaps a post traumatic disorder where the original harm of whatever happened in the past still lingered in some way and had not been treated or healed.

Yet there were days, weeks and even months that would go by seemingly and  surprisingly relatively free of the problem but it would gradually once again find its way back to wreak more havoc and dismay on the already fragile life of the individual who had been suffering for most of their life with the unusual condition in a shroud of silence unseen except by those who were helpless to do anything about it only to ask questions of why and how was it going on, not really suspecting for one moment that they themselves were contributing to the ongoing pain and anguish of the person suffering with the above illness and were also somehow partly responsible for the cause both mentally and physically of the condition called or known in medical terms as “….............”, a form of ADHD, which was also known as the “Trickster” because whether one liked it or not and regardless of what one did to avoid doing the **** thing, it would sooner or later find its way back to plague those who were afflicted even though they knew that it was something they didn't want or need to have anything to do with at all.

Healing eventually came gradually after that person's immediate family had passed away when living by themselves for a few years but still in the same house where all the action had been taking place previously over most of the years, though it even occurred elsewhere as well irrespective of where they would go but seemed to abate for a while at least when away from the rest of the family and other people, and it also seemed upon reflection that it came as a blessing or some kind of reprieve from beyond the grave because for one thing there was no one else around to thwart one's effort or self determination to stop and live a normal life without the intermittent and unwanted action of the self debasing bad habit when the person afflicted then began taking some Chinese nutritional supplement that they had originally bought for the well being of a relative who had passed away a few years before, of which packaged contents were found partly unused and stored away in an area on the kitchen bench.

Another factor which contributed to the healing of the deep psychological wound was the use of, it seems, various powerful brain hacking software in the form of binaural sounds that some entrepreneurs, pioneers of a new science of awareness, had discovered, developed and made available under different guises with their own creative genius or interpretation, which had to be listened to by using a set of headphones with eyes closed as in meditation and under specific instructions that the user was not to do anything else while listening at some convenient time of the day or night, and to drink some water before and after the session, whenever they could find the necessary time to undergo the building of new neural pathways between the right and left hemispheres of the brain which was emphasised as being the beneficial action taking place by listening to these sounds that were played together and along with other relaxing music to avoid the monotony of the repetitive nature of the binaural beats or sounds in the form of mainly: alpha, beta, theta, delta, and gamma wavelengths that represented the normal and deeper levels or layers of consciousness that were scientifically proven to exist by years of research monitoring those who were in fact either Buddhist monks or some other neo, pro or non-denominational class of meditation practitioners that had participated in a scientific research program.
Sometimes healing comes by itself when a person learns how to be their own best friend and works with nature rather than against it away from exposure to unnecessary or overwhelming negative influences and undergoes that discipline which facilitates the much sought after healing response in a conducive environment.
Written early in 2018. Based on actual first hand experience. If anyone would like to find out more information on anything mentioned above or is seeking help for a similar personal problem or perhaps is trying to help someone else just let me know with a comment or send me a PM.
I've lived in many places
But I was raised
In Utah
The same
Place Brigham Young
Once brought the chosen pioneers

They are my legacy
Or maybe I Am


I mean looking
Back we all see that

Brigham Young
Was a creep
The American Moses

They called him back then
He was a cult leader
Then and now

He was also well loved
By most accounts
By his people

The same people
Who by today's laws we would
Call child abuse victims

But enough on
Brother Brigham
Today I stand at the

"This Is The Place Monument"

Where Brigham once said,
"This Is The Place"
This is

My place right now
I live in Salt Lake City
The very same lake town

I was born in
On May 17,

Twin boys

My parents both in
Mid-forties we
Were surprise babies

To say the very least
My mom had not
Borne child
They haf thought
Their clocks had stopped

But now

I was the 6th of 6 children
Or the 7th if you counted
Our dead sister

And even though
I no longer believe in
The Plan of Salvation

Joe Smith
Brought to us
By Gosh

I still think this place
Carries a special magic

Music like
Imagine Dragons
Neon Trees
The Killers

All come from
Utah Mormon

So did Mitt Romney
And the 2002
Olympics we
Hosted in my hometown

I moved to Heber Valley
Where the cross country skiing
Olympic events took place

My middle school gave free
Tickets to good students
And I got the ski jumping

Which was pretty boring tbh
But still cool cause like
It was the Olympics

And I was right
Right here

I've worked in
The Nation's Capital
For the Majority

Harry Reid
(Also Mormon)
Fun fact

I spent two years
In 5 different cities all
Over Costa Rica

Went to Law School
In Charlottesvile next to
Thomas Jefferson's farms

Mastered the Socratic Arts
Teaching LSAT games in Orlando,
Tampa, Miami, and Talahassee

Watched Arrested Development
In Washington DC
On a weekly basis with

The neice of our current
Ambassador to Russia
John Huntsman

His brother, Peter,
Her daddy

The wealthiest Mormon
Alive besides maybe
Her Grandaddy

Larry Miller
Who owned the Utah jazz
Rest In Peace


The Marriot Family
Out in Washington D.C.
With all them hotels


Clayton Christensen
Who runs the Harvard
MBA Program

Came close
She ended up marrying one of my
Best friends

From my time
In Washington

The last place I lived
Before moving back to

Was Denver where I
Consulting on Huntsman's
Pension Plans

But like a magnet
Something strong ******
Me back to SLC

And now here I am
At This Is The Place

For my very
First time
Part 1 of 3
During the 30 years between the Mormons' arrival in Utah in 1847 and [his death in] 1877, Young directed the founding of 350 towns in the Southwest. Thereby the Mormons became the most important single agency in colonizing that vast arid West between the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada."
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
What do you tell a dying child?

Is the child in dread?

He seems to be.
What thinks he drear?
Has he been blamed and shamed for being so?

Why is dying something a child would fear? Why,
If dying were fearful to a childe, woe be

the daycare providers, no child
would need an adult's fear
to keep them alive,

until olde time family around the table
like on TV. Say grace and wonder what did that ever mean

For so I formed them free. Milton in Mind-of-Christ mode,
saying he saw the conf fliction

fiction. The idea of conflict is evil. This began near there.

the battle between good and evil, who could imagine that?
Why would he or she?

Why would any teacher claim the frail child set aside,
a premie nursed to life,

as a wizard's slave in a crystal bubble of simplicity
plus memory and speech.

the first perfect praise, invented to empower the praised,
his shaper and former, his teller of true true true true

free me. true. (POV plus adolescent cultural experiences)

Free thoughts. Chaos? You think free thought is Dada?
Good God, how long must I suffer thee?

Abundant life is fun,
not combat against willfully undertaken evil acts…

not fair combat.
We always win and that is good in action,

unless you can prove me wrong.
That makes the world go round, not evil,

merely life, ever lasting, embodied in a word
or a thought.

Death is the end of time, not you.

By your own leave, your own hero shall
spark the fire in your belly,

Did I enrich time you spent, did ye gain or lose again,

loose the dogs of war--- no more-- done, done, right

now I live in my treasure place, all the treasure I could
carry is with me in my heart,
I offered it long ago, free willed it
beating still to forever be in my God hands

No, the gold has long been dust.
It was intended all along to intensify a ware, a way
of making, fecting future things with seeds,

Imagine learning withought knowing any wrong idea,
omly not right
not enjoyable even alone

Belief determines value and the better
a motion is the nearer better things are,
or evil would be unreasonable
to intensify the ignoration of the weight bearing
upon which a story
may be told
right or wrong?

How can we put an end to our errors?
perfect is not finished.

waiting is, others have come this way

the signals say this is going good.

Whole truth you can possibly imagine in light of mine.
I rule me. I am free. I act as light and salt.

Or I lie and this ends in hell.

Numinance called the promised one
with many sons, the tale of tales,

told round fires from
first ebernacht evernichtmas message

from the fathers who made the migration.
the pioneers who took this land
and gave this land their soul,
wedded in most ancient
seed of all hope
evidence of
all faith.

Christmas streams my mind toward treasures timed to shine
just this time, every where in my domain,

not yours. You have a visitor badge. All involved in me,
with integrity,
may be crazy. That has been said by some who say they may.

An engine, a system, a machine, a mob powered machine,

Ah, Mab, Queen Mab, ye'r on my mind, from time to time things wander
around finding tellers to tell our tales
or ears to hear us tell them ourselves

daring fellow we trust you not to lie
so do I say what we will with out reservation
no abortions need imagine forming
post seven decades on earth,
ye been born and born and born again I am historical me

ye know, what I meant?
were you there? before I knew evil existed, did you?

remember when you did not?
remember when honest effort, foiled, meant,
do it again, I think I can...

Wattie Piper, God blessed my memory of her. Amen.
that's so.
I am the man I am by way of cheating
at pin the tail on the donkey and
winning the little golden book,
my first own book. I read it that day in that place,

Marsha Ely's fifth birthday party, 1953

I could find it on google earth and go exactly there, that day

at the resolution of those haps at some

distance in a timeless ever.
It is all good.

The inmates are not lying.
Pay all the attention tax you need to know all the answers
you wish you had time to learn
but now, now is all you have. Live it out. By your leave.

Be or not? No. You be. You are. Too late to not be.
In the past all the good ideas integrated and

mythic as all hell a hero arose and pulled the kids finger s
from the **** and the flood of knowledge

took our hearts away in a single inah-lation of elation
knowing good
as well as evil, the dams all broke
we wrote the future and know now
we know now

Dream, why would I lie. Imaginary, most certainly. Really.

Actual done-right axiomatic connections pardoned ten
thousand idle words locked in silly memes,

messages set free from idle minds bound in olden time
by lines
of lies lying dormant for ever.

That they once were done,

we shan't un get that. we got it in every bitcoin
burping cloud in reality ever,
My AI is backed up,
forever, that's
the secret

**** sapiens augmentatios meet the
mind that imagined the reader
reading the reader reading the reader reading the parser

sermonious right use of our attention,
ours, dear reader, we remember evil and beyond.
We shall make it all plain.
You and me, the we that is nothing without words.

Definitely suffering means wait,
not wait in pain and grief and psychic terror,
to which all men are subject, through fear of death.

That was the first believable lie,
humans always think as humans. We wear pearls,

proud? goal? lookin' good by being good?
the health of my countenance and my God

you quested my reason at some season,
you axed the guru after he quietly grinned at you
and said, I lie.
the myths of delusion is permanent only in
ig nor ance
know you imagine winning or losing.
you do the imagining or
you systematize the system that sets the
worth of weight,

the value,  you carry,
your handicap?
your knowns stumbled over and claimed as found?

Running, is this thing running, is there power, or
did we lie about try?

Do you know?
Come and see we always say, we've said that all along.
We are the lollipop kids,
among other choruses  you have known
we have performed with

no name dropping. Our integrity depends on some secrets.

experience being on going, we go one.

is reading with no video or aural intense ifi-ness,

quality wise--- choose
expand your power to explore or

expand your power to not be wrong?
wrong, doit agin

the great danger does exist. But not here now,
this now you now know, a teeny bit

a tiny true spore self contained a waiting
emergence of heaven on earth in a single said

prayer with no idle words. On earth
as it is in heaven where time is insensible

from time to time, though once,
there was silence for about the space of half an hour.

Sisyphus will be happy to take you through the eternal
imagination re-imaging process.
It works.

And Jordan Peterson's Meaning Map means map,
For the mortal minded among us,
what if we
go where the map goes and
a poet in dis guile greets us with a song, a wizard
sent him
so he says interpret finding being finished

not a chance in any, divide by zero.
is it
more realistic that lies win,
who could ever imagine that again? We win.

Fables truth is truth, mythic truth is truth,
magmatically truth is magic

can you know where your treasure lies?

Let's dis cuss everything,
un curse the uncurbable meander
and let our life time, our time, as we know it,
flow on,
let this time be all the time we have to be good.

Do or die? Waddawegot to lose?

We being the light and the salt,
or so we say we are.

Who knows? These are my days. No. Not true.
This is my time.
now, is yours.

the tail of the tale. Little Jackie Paper loved that rascal, Puff,
he gave him rings and sealing wax and

fancy stuff. Aye, I have me playful viral idea loosed
on earth, ye know,

loosed in happy ever after as far as I can see.
A fantasy in toy land with AI running random Ted talks in the back ground and my mind meandering in the flow of imaginings I may imagine after being alive for longer than expected. I live in my own future. BTW Par Lagerkvist The Sybil empowered some of this on a slippery *****.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
the once pioneers of the printed press
making fun of the internet...

                 oh well...
did that ever happen?
did it,
oh i'm sure it did...

the once paladins
of the printed
monopoly disruption...

the internet emerged,
some people matured...
once upon a time,
there was the printed press...
then came the internet...

             ******* *****
and female web-cam *****
and men doing
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the toilet...

like the priest were rejected
by the new monopoly
of literacy,
and the current journalists
took over from
the priests...
literacy wasn't the "problem"...
but serving the canvas was...

how oh how did journalists
tramscend the literacy class...
and emerge all: hot & bothered...
lying, scheming, ratty,
aclass politico sieving

when wouldn't journalists
join the class of politicians...
in how, better to perceive them,
as, these...
   ELITIST....                LOSERS!
for everyone else to see?
Starlight Feb 2019
When the nip
of the curled lip
reaches the rallying
surface of paper,

there must be substance

One cannot decree over nothing
sounds may not exhaust
and sacrifice their whims
for the hopes of a deserted rebellion,

there must be truth

You forget
so often your mind mutes
it coils into the half alive
semi state
of being

You forget
that this land we walk
is already compact
and finished

We live in the future

there are no new buildings
all we stand upon
is the bones of old
and the uncorporeal
of pioneers ideas

there is no new
nor is there new hardship
every pain in your blood
has been endured three fold
by those living

or not living

But yet we party

our hearts wild beastlies
our ears cocked and pelt upon ends
the swirling swells of music and chant
this ancient illustrious dance...

do not let yourself be bewitched by the past
for one day we will be it.
Papa Yaga Sep 2019
All the best are carnivores, and when we're fed tofu and told to worship its empty calories as a blessing, it's not our responsibility when we lash out against the faux chikns who lied to us, starved us, and told us to love it or starve. We fight and claw for real Love, and if they withhold it, they've only themselves to blame for the burning, we are blameless and they are guilty, for they deny the heart, and we are the flame.

Those who fear real love hold back progress by denying it. God does not love stagnation but soul elevation, and if the only way they will open their hearts to deeper love is pain, his heavy hand will grant it, because we weren't born dogs but Human. We aren't here to be lazy, slovenly souls who only choose what's convenient in complacence, but to grow and gain a soul. God loves pioneers, the brave. He loathes cowards of the soul, who don't even try to feel others, who have no empathy, who only respect their own imaginations, but care not for any Truth, but only what feeds them more puppies and playthings with which to ******* over in boundless narcissistic eroticism - the common affliction of the neurotic modern pig in human skin.

So fret not over being a Terror of passion, for God Himself is so, and if it is lust turned toward a noble end, 'tis an image of divinity.
An impromptu poetic prose response to
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
when teenagers "think" they can
take over the "internet"...
from us... the 20th century
teenager pioneers...

   you're kidding me, right?!

**** it, let's get delusional:

i am the shadow at the birth
of dawn,
i am the shadow on the moon's
   i am, i am, i am...

the hunting figment
of your imagination....

     teens don't own the internet...
freaks, geeks,
   these softball parenting skills
and their ****-wit...

wait wait...
you let them snap-chat...
and at the same time censor?!
these *******?!

you have to be kidding me...
no, you, seriously,
have to, be, kidding, me....

    next time i hear,
growing a beard will be deemed
******* snowflakes...
that's what calling us millennial(s)
your "supposed children":
how about?

         i'm tired of listening to
20th century artifacts!
tired of them giving their
tenure of insurance!
   tired of them propagating
Jane Eyre rather than

            begotten not made,
with no one uttered to be
sanctified to be made to serve!
i am:        übergebieter....
    i serve no belittling English
   nein! nein nein nein!
        **** my **** and call me Charlie...
you! *******! English!
                   für meine vater!

— The End —