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JLB Dec 2011
You’re a groovy tomato dancin’ with loose-tongued disco fries.
Chillin’ in limbo, sippin’ on sangria, and eatin’ on my pride.
Racin’ on a superhighway with scorchin’ thumbs and eloquent lies,
But my guts are wrenchin’ and my eyelashes are flashin’, much to your surmise.
I drank your love like a dino, now I’m bringin’ out your prehistoric side.
Baby, I can run your city with a stogie and a ****** dancin’ in disguise,
But this ****, it don’t mean nothin’, or at least not what you’ve implied.
Natalie Przybyla Feb 2014
According to my mom and dad, when I was little, I used to say that I wanted to be a garbage truck driver. Yeah, I know — literally dumping trash and pumping gas isn’t something a typical four-year-old girl wishes to grow up to do. It impressed me how the men rode, clinging onto the back end of the truck, pushing buttons to crush the unwanted goods to dust. Although I am sure it would have been more appropriate for a young lady to look up to Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, I looked up to those men because they appeared fearless and strong. I never really liked the “girly” things my parents and sisters gave to me. In fact, when Barbie smiled at me through a plastic window, I took her out, tore her head off and threw her body to the dog. I should have loved the color pink and liked the smell of daisies; I didn’t. I was ridiculed for hating both and told I shouldn’t be so different.
When I turned six, my grandpa gave me a book about prehistoric beasts. I couldn’t read well, but I liked the pictures and the long words with plenty of strange letter combinations. Words like “pterodactyl” and “brachytrachelopan” fascinated me, and made me feel exceptionally intellectual just to know how to pronounce them (even if I did so poorly).  When asked, I proudly responded, “I want to be a paleontologist when I grow up!” Adults praised me for being so intelligent at such a young age, and I felt special. But one day, I learned that bone diggers don’t make much money. So, I changed for a few extra thousand dollars a year.
By the age of eight, I decided I wanted to become a veterinarian because that’s what my best friend wanted to be. She loved animals and said we should help them because they can’t help themselves. I took a bite of the pie graph, “Occupations Wanted By Children.” It tasted bland and watered down but it made me normal to want that for myself—even if it wasn’t my own dream. My friends and I babbled about having every species imaginable for pets and loving them more than Romeo loved Juliet. But when my mom told me that I might have to  euthanize animals, the pie tasted a lot more ****** going down. I decided I should search for another job.
Around twelve, I started writing a journal. I named it “Joyful” because that’s what I felt the best emotion was and wrote in it occasionally during my sixth grade year. The pages were cluttered with names of boys I had crushes on and i’s dotted with hearts. I modeled my naivety through my entries but it was motivating how I could see my style and thoughts developing over time. My entries went from “I love the sky!” to “When a cloud drifts just in the right position next to the sun and makes that golden ray, I feel as if God’s finger is pointing down to a specific thing he created and saying to us on Earth, ‘Hey, see that thing over there? Yeah, I made that and it’s beautiful. It deserves respect.’”  I have smashed windows in the writing process and let in drafts of fresh ink. I am aware that being a writer in most cases makes a person financially deprived, but that won‘t affect my aspirations. Writing has been my dream since sixth grade and even now I know I’m not perfect but at least I’m pushing myself to be better. I’m changing for me.
No matter how adamantly I’ve tried or how much I realize that writing is sometimes harder than brain surgery, I don’t seem to slice it out of my life. Societal success is measured in dollars but if dreams had monetary value and salary was how badly a person wanted to make that dream come true, I would be paid more green than the Earth has blades of grass. I shouldn’t have to explain to people why I don’t want to be a garbage man or a paleontologist or a veterinarian, or why I don’t want to live by their popular choices. For all I know, I could be the best waste manager that ever had the pleasure to take away last week’s paper. I could strike it rich by discovering a billion-year-old algae. I might save the next Lassie or Winn Dixie. It isn’t up to other people to decide what I want to be when I grow up (if I ever decide to). Instead, I’ll write in spite of everyone else — for the ones that didn’t follow their dreams and strived for physical wealth. If I am to be paid in blades of grass, I will live. And I will die knowing I am one of the few to see a such a gorgeous, glistening, green meadow.
Follow me on Twitter: @laniate
Tumblr: whateverdoubleloserr.tumblr.com
RAJ NANDY Aug 2015
Dear Readers, President Theodore Roosevelt wanted
to save this marvelous Natural Wonder for posterity! So
the Grand Canyon National Park was set up in 1919. In
1979 it was declared as World Heritage Site! With the
portion “Sun rises and sets over the Grand Canyon”, -
I have concluded this poem. Kindly take your time to read,
no need to comment in a hurry please ! Thanks, -Raj

CONCLUDING THE GRAND CANYON
STORY IN VERSE – RAJ NANDY

INTRODUCTION
Literature about great natural features include
two personal types of writing;
Description of things observed, and impressions
of what is known and seen!
The story of the Grand Canyon takes us back
to the Pre-Cambrian Age,
When violent forces were unleashed from within
the Earth, during its formative stage;
When mighty forces of erosion began to sculpture
her undulating landscapes!
Therefore, I begin with a quote about Erosion,
From the great poet Alfred Lord Tennyson; -
“The hills are shadows and they flow,
From form to form, and nothing stands.
They pass like clouds, the solid lands.
Like clouds they shape themselves and go!”

TO RECAPITULATE PART ONE:
In Part One we have seen, how movement of
earth’s tectonic plates unleashed violent forces
from within!
It formed mountains and lakes, shaping our
landscapes, which now appear so peaceful,
grand, and serene!
Over millions of years the forces of erosion in
the form of wind, rain, sun and snow,
Sculptured earth’s evolving features creating
majestic, panoramic vistas as we know!
Geologists now opine, that the Grand Canyon
was carved out by the Colorado River, -
cutting through ‘layers of Geological time’!

THE COLORADO RIVER CARVED THE CANYON:
In the state of Colorado, from the high country,
Where snow and ice lasts well beyond the dawning
days of Spring;
There the majestic peaks of the Rockies form the
perennial fountain head from which springs, -
One of the great rivers of the world the Colorado;
Which travels 1400 miles through seven States
reaching the Californian Gulf west of Mexico!
Now during prehistoric days, the pristine Colorado
had flowed almost along the same path as today!
But after the magical rise of the Colorado Plateau
some five million years ago, (Refer Part One)
It had blocked the river’s path making it flow
south-east into the Gulf of Mexico!
Few Geologists now opine, that this diverted river
had formed the pre-historic Lake Bidahochi,
Which later drained out to form the Little Colorado
River, which today we get see!
But the cut-off western portion of the river (named
Hualapai Drainage) continued to eat away through
the Plateau’s southern portion,
Through a gradual process known as ’Headwater
Erosion’!
For the river flowing at a steeper gradient along
the ‘Grand Staircase’ of the Plateau, carried
stones, rocks and debris,
Which formed the cutting tools, deepening the
Canyon over countless centuries!
When the softer sedimentary layers of the Plateau
below the top rocky layers gave away, - it resulted
in several rock falls!
While flash floods and erosion continued to breach
the sides of the canyon walls!
Thus over millions of years the width of the Canyon
gradually increased;
While the gushing and untamed Colorado River
chiseled through the depths of those Cyclopean walls, -
running deep!
Now the ancient Lake Bidahochi which had breached its
banks, had captured our pristine Colorado;
And their combined power increased the volume of
water and river’s chiseling power, with its rapid flow!

ENDANGERED COLORADO RIVER :
It is unfortunate that today, the Colorado no longer
reach the mighty Pacific as in the olden days!
With the progress of civilization and the spawning
of big cities,
Like Denver, Las Vegas, Phoenix and Los Angeles;
And to cater for the agricultural farmlands and the
Industries,
Many dams got built to divert its water and to
generate electricity!
Thus over a century of overuse and abuse of this
precious natural resource,
Gradually choked up the great Colorado, as it
became a mere trickle at the end of its course!
Ecologists now debate, while USA has launched
‘Save the Colorado River Project’!
Let us now cheer up by getting back to our
Grand Canyon’s scenic beauty,
Before concluding this wondrous Canyon Story!

SUN RISES AND SETS OVER GRAND CANYON!
To see the sunrise from Mather, Yaki, or the
Hopi Point, - located on the Southern Rim,
Becomes a life time experience, better than any
surreal dream!
First a glimmer then a glow, when a faint blue-white
sheen begins to show!
As the sun gradually sprinkles its light, streaks of
crimson red spreads across the eastern sky!
Soon orange and yellow shafts of light, light up the
Canyon walls up high!
Squirrels scurry out of sight, and birds twitter in
the sky!
The Hummingbird hovers like a helicopter, and
Big Horn sheep are also seen;
The Hummingbird which can even fly backwards,
enlivens this early morning scene!
The sun now rising in its resplendent glory,
showers the canyon with its kaleidoscopic beams;
With streaks of yellow, gold and red, it chases out
lurking shadows from within!
Like a curtain lifting before their eyes, the tourists
view this panoramic sight!
As the Grand Canyon awakens to greet the day,
With cameras madly clicking away!
The great ancestors of the Hopi tribe, Hopi
meaning both peaceful and wise;
Had inhabited these areas some eight thousand
years hence!
Their scooped out granaries and tools found inside
Canyon walls, - have an ancient story to tell !
The Spaniards were the first Europeans to reach,
in search for gold which they never found!
But for the Hopis the Canyon remains, as their
sacred Holy ground!
When those Spaniards saw the Colorado way
down below, from the Canyon’s upper rim’s side;
They said that this thin blue streaked River, was
barely five feet wide! (In mid-16th century)
The average width of the Canyon is around 10 miles;
While the River at its narrowest point is 600 yards
wide!
The Condor the largest American bird, catching an
upward draft circles up high;
Like an uncrowned monarch he surveys his kingdom
below, nothing escapes his watchful eyes!
Temperature at the Canyon’s floor is 20 degrees
higher, when compared to its outer rim;
Supports an ecosystem of plants and animals,
With the river as chief nourisher of all things!
Evergreen pines and furs grow along the cooler
areas of the Canyon’s outer rim;
While cactus species are found on its arid floor,
Their exotic flowers bloom during Summer and Spring!
The Northern Rim a thousand feet higher, offers many
spectacular sites!
But the Southern Rim remains open throughout the
year, while the Northern closes during Winter time.
From the Hopi Point west of the Canyon, the visitors
enjoy the beauty of the silent, sinking sun;
When the sky gets diffused with vermillion red, as
darkening shadows engulf those Canyon walls!
The mighty Canyon with its Cyclopean walls,
perhaps the playground of the Titans from eons past;
Shaped by some mythical Vulcan, shall remain till
this World continues to last!

CONCLUDING THE GRAND CANYON STORY:
I conclude my Grand Canyon Story by quoting a
poem I had once read;
Written by an Anonymous author, whose name
I had failed to get!
“BUILT WITH PATIENCE OF ENDLESS TIME,
YEARS ERODE AND SHAPES DEFINE.
LAYERS YIELD THEIR COUNTLESS AGE,
EYES CAN SEE BUT CANNOT GAUGE!
STAND AGAPE WITH AWE INSPIRED,
IMAGE READS OF LIFE TRANSPIRED.
CLIFFS REACH OUT TO TOUCH THE SKY,
PATHS LEAD DOWN WHERE RIVER LYE.
COLORS, SHAPES AND SHADOWS MELD,
HERE, A PLACE FOREVER HELD.
WALK AWAY YET NEVER PART,
BODY LEAVES BUT NOT THE HEART!”
- Anonymous
……………………………………………………………
ALL COPYRIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR RAJ NANDY
OF NEW DELHI, E-MAIL: [email protected]
KINDLY READ PART ONE OF THIS STORY IF YOU HAD MISSED OUT!
THANKS, -Raj Nandy
Annette Bishop Jul 2013
Harvest moon
mellow-magic-full
Quiet and smiling

Ritual-keeper
sheaf-reaper
time-and-scythe

Prehistoric
­gold
Geovanni Alfaro Feb 2013
Under the influence of giants
Its just alot of different kind of the same thing
Replicating our gods
But its all just alot of different kind of the same thing so it seems.

Maybe we created a god for hope
I know it all started in prehistoric times
For control

My mom she toils and works after coming home from work.

My dad he relaxes and spends his time running in the ocean trying to catch her eyes
But she's too busy in her own lies
Talking to an invisible invincible God.

You will see me working in the factory
It's in my blood
I'm a high school drop out trying to start my own revolution.
With a little help from hell its the only solution.
Or in the streets looking to smell spilled blood
But what am I waiting for...

Under the influence of gods
It's all alot of different kind of the same thing
How are we influenced by giants if we haven't seen them roam the halls
Yet we are destroyed by them as if we were all Mexican ******* ******.

It's all a different kind of the same hardships if you tell me.
cd Jan 2013
i found a fossil at the creek today.  phylum: brachiopod.  diameter: nine millimeters.  forty-one ridges carefully molded into an area smaller than my pinky nail.  if you look fast enough, you almost can't see the prehistoric evidence perfectly stamped into the rock like a watermark, proving the validity of the once living organism practically no one has heard of.  now all i need to find is you.  i envision us meeting in a library where we'll both be skimming, bro... buc... bukowski.  love is a dog from hell, one copy left.  you'll grab it's warn out spine and offer it to me with a smile, your hand against mine slowly rewiring my veins into the shape of your fingerprints.  the rest-- history.  one day, i will present you with this fossilized relic as my way of saying: you will be in my heart forever.  the way i see it, you've always been there.  i can find pieces of you in the security of my father's arms, in the forgiving eyes shadowed behind my grandmother's rose-tinted glasses.  you're in every dew-encased blade of grass i've walked on with bare feet, every body of water that has swallowed my pale skin entire.  i breathe you in by the mouthful, from shallow gasps of discomfort to deep gulps of serenity and everything in between.  decades will pass and still, my affection will not decay the way my white tic-tac teeth are bound to, i can promise that.  i will find you one day, mon chéri— i just hope you like rocks.
K Balachandran Mar 2013
Huge boulders, blocks of rocks,
shapes of prehistoric memories,
strewn all along the hillside,
merging with the meditation of green,
arranged in mysterious patterns,
evoke the presence of timelessness.
Like a  hidden message for extraterrestrials,
the rock garden beyond time stands,
against the backdrop of a hill,
an ascetic in its disposition.
A Jain* temple observes complete silence,
on the bank of the vast pool of tranquility.
*An Indian religion, predating Buddhism, prescribing a path of non violence to self realization .Observance of silence and periodic fasting are given much importance, as effective means to control mind.
Rangzeb Hussain Jun 2010
Cranes cruelly claw back the Earth's green turfed hair,
These machines, these metallic prehistoric beasts,
Their sharp jagged teeth coldly rip
and tear the Earth's fertile face,
Poles, long and hard and gnarled and rigid,
They plunge viciously into Her soft soil,
These steel shafts of Man's insatiable desire ******
day and night without pause,

This lawless raw **** is ignored,

The crime comes to a gushing ******,
All the raging lust is funnelled
into the Earth's sighing thighs,
She gasps for air but her mouth is heavily gagged,
The Earth, her blood, black as the darkest galaxy,
It is siphoned and pumped away,
Sometimes it is into the sea spilled,
Have you seen the pelican king sinking?



©Rangzeb Hussain
Nic Burrose Nov 2011
blurred through the mumbling atomic cafe
i thought i heard you say
i am become deaf
destroyer of words
but you were breath
become butterfly effect
spiraling within the stereophonic white-noise drone
of a static radio station
tuned to the music of the silent colossal rotation
of the planets, stars, sun and moon
behind the drawn curtain of a vanished polaroid

still these beating hearts to a murmur
slow these breathing lungs to a whisper
and attach the cello strings of your bloodstream
to that glittering confetti cloud of satellites
strobing, circling the sphere of our atmosphere
strung out on geo-synchronicity
the turning tunnel of the tides
the aeon-spanning volcanic swirl of magma
subsonically writhing
beneath the magnetic pull of the ocean floor
and just...listen...

can you hear the flaming  crackle
of the fire burning in our bellies?
if we slit our stomachs open
the flames that spill from our hari-kiri'd entrails
will fill the darkness in the corner of our closet
and burn it to ashes

in a dream
i saw us laughing together many years from now

when the blast-furnace of our blood, sweat, tears and acid dreams gapes wide
we will laugh in it's face
at the absurdities
of death and taxes

and as the years push through
we will laugh
as we go blind in our old age
growing brighter than the glow
from within the dollhouse home we assembled
from sticks n stones

and we will grow gray together
and fill the soles in our shoes
the holes in our soles
with the dirt, rust, ash, concrete and angel dust
of these city streets

and we will laugh like pyromaniacs
as we **** on burial plots
soil our own graves
and erase our fingerprint smudges
from the blueprints
of our jailbreak escape plan

flames will erupt from the holes in our heads
consume us
spread in a tectonic shock-wave
and lick the pale toes of angels and dreaming junkies
hovering on ghost clouds of ***** soot
just above the foot of our bed

the outlines of our bodies will liquify, disintegrate
and reform as the jagged teeth of a cityscape skyline
crowned crookedly upon the head of a crippled pigeon
ascending in a stuttering climb
towards a heaven
that does not exist
for us

shaking ash and bone-dust from twisted feather
our flames will spread further
devour prehistoric forests
**** roots and tree trunks to bare bone
and march in a coronation parade
upon the city gates
behind a revolutionary brigade
of angry red army ants

finally, those flames
will surround a broken boombox
lost behind a landfill-mound
of moth-chewed cardboard moving boxes
containing the soft stains of dream and memory
tagged, painted, and graffitied
in white out, in sharpie
duct tape peeling from perforated speakers
the flashlight-sized battery compartment
an empty coffin

i didn't cry the day you died. i'm sorry. the reality that you had passed away at barely twenty-five didn't really hit me, even at your eulogy and that still haunts me. they say that denial is the first stage of addiction but I assumed that you knew that death was a possible side-effect of your prescription. about two weeks after your wake, it hit me like a train. i was riding the n judah to the end of the line at ocean beach when I passed a throw-up piece that you had painted a few years before in the train tunnel near haight and cole. it was a big letter "a" in lowercase with an exclamation point next to it. i once asked you what it meant. you shrugged and said, "i just like the shape of it," and something clicked. it was then that i realized (that)

the flames of our light, love and laughter
move faster than the speed of life
and those flames pass us by in the blink of an eye
if we're not quick enough to catch 'em
and return the letters like stars
we borrowed, typed, stole, scribbled and scrawled across the pages of the sky
back to the sprawling library of the night
where they belong    
where we belong
Like Oedipus I am losing my sight.
LIke Judas I have done my wrong.
Their punishment is over;
the shame and disgrace of it
are all used up.
But as for me,
look into my face
and you will know that crimes dropped upon me
as from a high building
and although I cannot speak of them
or explain the degrading details
I have remembered much
about Judas -
about Judas, the old and the famous -
that you overlooked.

The story of his life
is the story of mine.
I have one glass eye.
My nerves push against its painted surface
but the other one
waiting for judgement
continues to see . . .

Of course
the New Testament is very small.
Its mouth opens four times -
as out-of-date as a prehistoric monster,
yet somehow man-made
held together by pullies
like the stone jaw of a back-***.
It gouges out the Judaic ground,
taking its own backyard
like a ****** daughter.

And furthermore how did Judas come into it -
that Judas Iscariot,
belonging to the tribe of Reuben?
He should have tried to lift him up there!
His neck like an iron pole,
hard as Newcastle,
his heart as stiff as beeswax,
his legs swollen and unmarked,
his other limbs still growing.
All of it heavy!
That dead weight that would have been his fault
. He should have known!

In the first place who builds up such ugliness?
I think of this man saying . . .
Look! Here's the price to do it
plus the cost of the raw materials
and if it took him three or four days
to do it, then, they'd understand.
They figured it weighed enough
to support a man. They said,
fifteen stone is the approximate weight
of a thief.

Its ugliness is a matter of custom.
If there was a mistake made
then the Crucifix was constructed wrong . . .
not from the quality of the pine,
not from hanging a mirror,
not from dropping the studding or the drill
but from having an inspriation.
But Judas was not a genius
or under the auspices of an inspiration.

I don't know whether it was gold or silver.
I don't know why he betrayed him
other than his motives,
other than the avaricious and dishonest man.
And then there were the forbidden crimes,
those that were expressly foretold,
and then overlooked
and then forgotten
except by me . . .
Judas had a mother
just as I had a mother.
Oh! Honor and relish the facts!
Do not think of the intense sensation
I have as I tell you this
but think only . . .

Judas had a mother.
His mother had a dream.
Because of this dream
he was altogether managed by fate
and thus he ***** her.
As a crime we hear little of this.
Also he sold his God.
M Valdemar May 2013
I'm not some  primitive canine with a prehistoric pedigree
I'm a modern day narcissist with a here and now
Tendency
Austin Morrison Feb 2017
Since the day I met You I knew You were no ordinary girl. It's not because your hair was more colourful than the northern lights or because your smile was so dorkishly adourable.

You see I would never really get nervous around girls, and I already knew you for a couple of years so the thought of there ever being something died a long time ago.

so I still cannot understand why when our hands interlocked that Wednesday morning, in that empty feild with nothing but us and the crickets, You managed to transform the butterflies in my stomach to pterodactyls, the frog that was once in my throat has been swallowed by a tyrannosaurus.

You made the feelings of a first crush come back to life, I relived it over and over until first crush was changed to first love.

But when you kissed me, when you kiss me the creatures in me became prehistoric. Their bodies burnt away with nothing but remains left behind, And their bones were used to build the foundation of the feeling that I still have today.

You know most people say when they have a special kiss they see fireworks, but girl when I first kissed you I saw a meteor shower.
Matt Jul 2015
My visit to Jurassic Park
What a shock

And my how those fences spark

And be careful
Of those prehistoric sharks

If you go wading in the sea
Don't expect to live past 3

And raptors roam
Across the forest floor

I wonder what else the park
Has in store?

Brachiosaurus eating leafs
From a tree

What a beautiful creature
It seems to be!

But stay away
From those long legs

They can stomp you into
The ground
Like little pegs

Well I enjoyed my trip
To Jurassic Park

I did not dare go out
In the dark

I stayed in
The park's Atomic shelter

Better than running around
That park helter-skelter

Better safe than sorry I always say
I left that park
And lived to see another day
Jurassic Park, dinosaurs
Alan Maguire Feb 2013
Are my words turds ?
basically, do they stink ?
but sometimes I convince myself
and actually think

Think that they are grand,
great and gigantic
and even more awesome,
than that ocean called the Atlantic

But maybe, they're just steaming piles
of disgusting dog ****
floating in bowls of ***** dog soup

Eaten by gargoyles, goblins and grinches
and ludicrous birds known as blue berry finches

So, if you finish my book
then well ****** done

You truly are heroic
and should be crowned
Emperor of the fifth Golden Sun

You should receive ten million dollars
and the keys to un-discovered cities
be loved by mythical beasts
and fluffy white kitties

I hope you shall live for one million years
and be taught the language
used by prehistoric grizzly bears

You should be allowed to time travel
with that famous movie car
because you Sir or Madam
are truly a star
Brycical Apr 2013
We're following the full moon
Morrison crooning "LA Woman"
dancing around the burning fire pit
remembering a prehistoric time when
we helped share light with the tribe
through heavy exhales
the lung-piercing smoke signals
sashay toward the midnight stage in the sky.

As we dance around the fire
orange embers laugh crackling
illuminating the dark midnight
all are thankful for brief moments
of smoke blanket warmth on our backs
waiting to be tucked in by the glowing moon.

Too soon do we trapse back to reality
smashing glass bottles
to satisfy some primal urge
for ancient chaos screaming energy echoed
in caves and canyons years before the pyramids were even an idea.
A Mareship Sep 2013
The back of my head
Is looked at more times
Than I dare to dream,
On buses,
or
Before the lights go
Out on the cinema screen.

That’s the first
Place I want you to touch


Where my hair tapers
In wisps,
With your thumb
In the dip of my brain,
Touching across the centuries -
Go on
Push a fingerprint
into the prehistoric
Me.

Mould your hands into
the backs of my knees,
Hold them
like shields,
And fight all of
My body's wars with me.
The trembling there
is love,
my love,
and not
a
tremor.

Nudge the wild treasure
under my arms
like an animal
with your wet nose,
go searching for
the smell of gold,
buried
in the black sand,

take my hands
and love my blue veins
like little ribbons,
follow them like rivers
to the sea,
to my mouth,
to the mouth of the sea,

spread out my sails,
my shoulder blades,
and swim
with your fingers
to kiss
under my ear,
that bit
where
chandelier earrings
hit girls,

and find the
backs of my thighs
and paddle
there,
as hard or as soft
as you like,
just enough
to keep me
floating,

then up up
an inch or so,

a little circle,
as though
you're rubbing
spilled tea
into a wooden tabletop,
a circle
a little 'oh'
my head pressing
swearwords
to my pillow.
inspired by this article in The Guardian this morning: http://www.theguardian.com/science/2013/sep/07/neuroscientists-***-brain
rsc May 2015
Pressure puckers &
a migraine blooms
parachute leaves looming
from my mind,
moonscapes of bare rock.
I've been waking up in a tomb again,
mouth mummified &
crusted over with drool as
my body jolts up at 6
6:45
finally 7:
I rise from the dead once more.
Yeats spoke to the Beats & he speaks to me,
feet creaking old floorboards
in a house with no internet.
"Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'"
I ate artichokes for lunch on pizza &
lost a piece of my soul down
the toilet of the coffee shop bathroom.
I came out of the womb once & I think that was enough.
I cough up brown mucus
& I'm glad I quit smoking.
One of my ribs pokes out
& picks my lunch for me,
pointing rudely,
leaving blood on the gleaming glass.
People around me discuss
the value of places they've never lived
& a homeless man sleeps with his mouth open.
I drink an infinite iced tea
that refills itself whenever I get thirsty &
a prehistoric potted plant
belches dinosaurs back into existence.
I clean my teeth to become
the princess of the salad greens,
eating olives with the tips of my fingers
the way monsters eat eyeballs
in the nightmares of children.
Everyone shakes,
terrified to look at each other
mouths bleeding confetti & glitter.
A remedy to bitterness: simple syrup.
I want to write love letters
to the boy who broke my heart &
still has all the shards.
I found out yesterday
that I'm a woman of hard angles,
that my moon might always be fighting
to whole its halves.
My calves are sore
& I'm glad I quit smoking.
I'm afraid of empty bird cages &
waking up without a tongue.
My lungs do a dance under my rib cage
& shake my skeleton out of my body.
Hot toddy & we drink on Tuesdays.
Any available body will do.
Picasso's blue period never seemed more lifelike
than when I try to jump
head first into the nightlife.
Nothing can be proven true
but I think my respiratory system
is at least not false.
If I believe hard enough,
I can feel my pulse.
Mahatma Jones Feb 2015
uncommon sense -
this bitterness is all my own as i ponder
in this loneliness i've made my home
an empty room - looking like some prehistoric wonder
watching over seasons as i crumble, grumble, stumble
and mumble something crude about my desperate situation.

logic states: actions create an equal amount of reactions with sometimes dire consequences and honestly, i can't remember the last time anyone's looked at me
as if they could even see what's left behind this veil of relativity
what's left of me...

sadly now, the figuring of light is all that matters
as delicate yet brutal figures draw me near
an elegant and prehistoric wonder
i wonder why we had to learn of this vast theory of changes
light years away, lost amongst these promises and whispers...
(c) 1995 PreMortem Publishing
Santiago Nov 2015
"Caught In A Hustle"

[Verse 1]
They say the odds against me, are crooked and impossible
Like I was born with a hole in my heart is an obstacle
I was left to die by the doctors, in the Children's Hospital
But I never lose hope, success is psychological
The world is volatile and the street is my education
Shaping the nation, like the blueprint of a mason
While Shawshank record deals get you ***** on occasion
So I'm focused on my economic situation
I'm like the little kids on TV that dig through the trash
I hustle regardless of the way you talk **** and laugh
A lot of ****** drop science but they dont know the math
Because their mind is narrower than the righteous path
It's funny how on the block ****** will **** you for cash
But never raise the gun and cry out "Freedom at last"
The cold war is over but the world is still gettin colder
Atlas walking through the projects with the hood on my shoulders
I would like to raise my children to grow to be soldiers
But then the general, would decide when their life would be over
So I work hard until my personality split
Like the black panthers, into the bloods and the crips
They said I would never be ****, but now I sit and reminice
Like Yeshua ben Yusef flippin through Genesis
Ignorance is venemous, and it murders the soul
Spreading like a virus running rampant, but out of control

[Hook]
So if I should ever fall and get caught in a hustle
Let them know that I died while I fought in a struggle
From the hoodrats to the rich kids lost in a bubble
Spray painting on the streets and at the subway tunnels
Write it down and remember that we never gave in
The mind of a child is where the revolution begins
So if the solution has never been to look in yourself
How is it that you expect to find it anywhere else

[Verse 2]
Immortal Technique in the streets, back on the hustle
cause three strikes will get you life for stuffin cracks in a duffle
Upstate behind steel gates intact in the scuffle
Razor blades stuck on the side of pencils, hacked to your muscle
But the emptiness is what bleeds you to death when it cuts you
And its the lawyers, not the inmates scheming to *******
Trying to fight the system from inside, eventually corrupts you
But thats what you get when you put a corporation above you
And it's the people that love you that seem to hurt you the most
Sometimes when they die you find yourself cursing their ghost
But you make success, nobody delivers your fate
Sometimes you give and you take
Since prehistoric vertibrates, crawled out of the lakes
And thats the truth about life
Or to do it to ghetto and your car, rims, and your ice
Because even though we survived through the struggle that made us
We still look at ourselves through the eyes of people that hate us
But I'm going to make it regardless of the ******* up charges
And semi-automatic barrages, that empty the cartridge
Post-traumatically scar kids that try to be brave
Because ****** backstab each other just to try to get paid
Turn cannibal like nights during the crusades
Afraid of responsibility; addicted to greed
Beating their girls purposefully losing a seed
As if we were bound to the destiny we used to recieve

[Hook]

I used to wonder (I used to wonder) about people who don't believe in themselves
But then I saw the way that they portrayed us to everyone else
That cursed us, then only see the worst in ourselves
blind to the fact the whole time we were hurting ourselves

I used to wonder (I used to wonder) about people who don't believe in themselves
But then I saw the way that they portrayed us to everyone else
That cursed us, then only see the worst in ourselves
blind to the fact the whole time we were hurting ourselves

I used to wonder [echo]
One of my favorite songs.
Catrina Sparrow Nov 2012
run into the crested shorelines where the greatest empires have fallen,
and kiss the tides of the salty sea in hopes of calming your clumsy pulse and flippant thoughts.

stretch your legs.
limber up like a prideful little boy before a rigged game of lava-monster...
and run!

run like your shoes will never untie and your heavy feet will never misfire.

run to the reams of yellowing pages you cling to,
full of ball-point memoir metaphors and pithy,
expressive descriptions of the beautiful women you've trained yourself to hate along the way.
don't get friendly with your paintbrush when you reminisce this time.

run.
full-fledged, snot-nosed, scared-shitless-grinned
sprint.

run to itchy cotton bedding drenched in the stench of day-dreams and nightmares;
peppered with heaps of insight they've yet to diagnose,
and one cold pillow
that can never seem to lull your static head to sleep or fully support the weight of your heavily burdened shoulders.

run like it doesn't mean anything for once;
like a wide-eyed kid who's never seen a map or compass,
he just zigs and zags through the seemingly limitless emerald velvet at full speed as he navigates the backyard in pure and honest bliss.

run to sun-soaked golden fields where the night sky tints itself purple to reach the perfect shade of darkness,
and your breath hangs low on the tops of the tall grass like the fog hanging over a prehistoric low-land,
and the stars shine like slicked-up pebbles about to let you decode the mystical secrets they hold...
and everything comes clear
and clean
and calm.

run free
and wild
and nameless
like it's the only thing you've ever known,
until you're ready to run back into me.
i wrote this one for a boy, with rain puddle eyes and the most sincere smile i've ever had the pleasure to know. this is for the one boy i've ever felt could truly see me. proving his intellect, he fled, and i haven't seen him since. this is just a plea that maybe, hopefully, some day, he'll come back to me.
Jenay Breden Oct 2013
Twisted vines and  blood stained canines
Damp caves and sulfur mines
Prehistoric nocturnal brain waves
Caught the sun in burned out eyes
The lonely pull chains, mud caked stains
Singing, swinging on Saturn's sings
Derek Yohn Dec 2013
Sitting in the circle of confession,
i am unmoved, at inaction,
only minorly involved in the
process of others, an observer
of them and processing me.

          God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things
          i cannot change,
                    (people, places, things)

i am quiet and respectful, knowing
that for some this is all they have,
that i am fortunate,
that we never flirted with disaster,
we openly courted it.

          the courage to change the things i can,
                    (me)

i hear the voices in the distance,
but i can't connect, my mind
wanders, thinking about prehistoric
jewelry in museum cases, broken
pottery shards unearthed with
great effort from ancient graves.

Were these items symbols of broken
promises?  A ring:  till death do
us part...a vase:  i will carry the
water for you...an arrowhead:  
i will protect you.  These things
hold a value that words
cannot ever truly convey.

i don't really understand how it works,
the promises i broke were the ones
i made to myself first, all the
others were incidental and yet
so equally destructive...

my track marks have faded with
disuse, but everything that it was
and i wasn't are now forever
tattooed under my skin, something
that is always only mine to
observe and behold, something
terrible and yet darkly beautiful.

          and the wisdom to know the difference.

i empathize with the lost, but
i do not share.
They would understand, but as
they learn more
i comprehend less,
and i know where that road leads.
So i remember when i should
be listening, and i will keep
what i have earned.

          *Just for today.
"It works if you work it so keep coming back..."     --the unofficial end of the Serenity Prayer

and if not:  "Fake it 'till you make it."
Auroleus Aug 2012
I had *** with your mother last night.  
She was a hairy, sweaty mess.
I took her down to the corner bar
And bought her a couple pints.
That's all she needed.
After a couple hours
I was down her throat.
Your mother is a real freak.
I wanted to create a romantic atmosphere
But she insisted that we just **** in the dirt
Like animals.
We behaved like primitive heathens
Lusting in a prehistoric heat.
Teeth gnashing, hair pulling, sweat beading;
It was like all the civilities had been shed
And we were acting without the aide of a
Cerebral cortex.
In the morning, you strayed silently
From your room and sat down at the
Kitchen table.
Silence.
Dorothy A Jul 2010
I am a woman
and proud of it
But somewhere inside
in a dark hole of my soul,
like a hidden cavern,
lies a prehistoric caveman

He wants to shun the world
He wants to brood
because he refuses to allow
himself to be too vulnerable
or too naked

There are times
I wish I was a self-sufficient soul
going it solo
hunting for my own meat
and not needing to associate
with the rest of the  world
because life is not always
peaches and cream,
but anger and tears

Islands look like paradise
until you find out
it is just you
It is then I realize
that nobody is his or her
own best friend

Just don't let that caveman
know I said that
Lucy Tonic Apr 2015
These pastels have gotten paler
You refuse to pale in comparison
I'm a tourist
As I mend the stitching of your soul
And watch you lose control
And somehow this song
Makes it personal
Makes it orbital
Makes French sirens
Sound like butterfly wings
An exotic vacation
No beaches needed
As we disco dance
In a trance of city lights
Resounding from the cove
Of secret species' who
Never do as their told
My body still aches
But I killed a prehistoric fish today

All is well if you keep
Sticking me with pins
I've already had the needles
I've already had a phallus
To suspend all their malice
Yet I still breathe warm-blooded
And cold
***** me before I ***** you
Survival of the fittest Adam’s and Eve’s
You’re all the things I want but don’t need
My seed is your worst enemy
Ian Stern Apr 2013
Prehistoric rhetoric
Preserved in hydrochloric

Finally exhumed
It was always presumed dormant

The question wants no  answer
And curiosity caused cancer
Ahh but fun IS taking chances,avoiding any rational advances
There's no reward without a risk
Impulsive entertainment on a disk
Carpal tunnel
Twitching wrists
Yeah,
Adolescents
Should have guessed
Mike Bergeron Oct 2012
The dirt yawned
And swallowed the weather
While we sat patiently
Waiting for dawn.
The clouds were a landslide
That dragged us both down
Like synthetic feathers
In a hurricane.
We did not find OZ,
There was no other dimension,
Just cold, abusive soil,
And four billion years
Of built up tension
That unleashed upon us
A prehistoric frustration
With the lack of chaos,
And the predetermination
That replaced it.
We clutched at roots,
And ripped off our fingernails
Scratching at sandstone,
We lost our skin,
And inhaled the souls
Of a trillion decomposed
organisms.
Our bodies split
Like light through
A million prisms,
But our spirits
Kept up their plummets.
Into a chasm we fell,
Like grains of sand into
An expanding universe,
So inconceivably small,
So irreversibly without control,
So peacefully.
Our energies squirmed
In imperfect circles
Around each other
As the fall
Turned stationary
By perspective.
Other pairs joined us,
Attracted to our spin,
Until we formed
A new world,
To god's chagrin.
Äŧül Apr 2013
Traditionalism is what they follow,
Prehistoric is how they live,
Caring none about real human beings!

They depend on human protection,
Yet they pray the lifeless idols & establishments,
Statues & religion they call them and waste money on them.

They would do their own important work,
Tell me to better stop writing these blasphemous poems,
Praying, remembering the lord & idol-worshiping is all they care about.

People like them won't donate directly to the poor,
They say that they put some money in the places of worship,
Idols - their idols is who they live for and survive by.

My telling this to my countrymen or anybody in the world is vain,
They would still go to on or more places of worships,
Think that it is not idol worshiping and again not serve the needy directly.

They can only criticize me for writing blasphemous words of pain,
They would even fight with or **** me if they got hold of me,
But they won't stop idol-worshiping and start serving the poor directly themselves.

A Messiah calls the idol-worshipers,
To avoid going to places of worship,
To come and serve the real world,
To realize that what you are losing,
To help you realize the value of humanity,
To make you realize the value of the real world.

If you're not scared of change then join me in this new religion,
Here we don't worry about God/Ishwar/Bhagwan/Rabb,
But we do things that make The Power Happy,
Do social service and cleaning their houses,
Help the needy monetarily/practically,
Instead of just donating somewhere,
Shun donations to the places of worship,
Go to the needy personally or parcel them happiness,
Make sure that the courier service/other establishment you use is 100% genuine.

Avoid those agencies who are supposedly in one of the common names of The Power,
Hire a company/firm to actually make your donations reach the needy,
It'll be very helpful for the humanity which is prime & real,
Try this by whatever methods you find genuine,
You'll feel yourself elated & calm,
Take my word,
Seriously.
10 Stanzas (including this) Advocating Why Theism/Idol Worshiping Is Not Always As Good As They Make It Look Through Their Words, Their Grandeur & How Your Donations Might Go In Vain Instead Of Reaching The Needy.
The Money You Donate At Places Of Worship Can Sometimes Fail To Reach The Needy.
I can only request you to get out and serve the needy by your own hands.
I'm now rendered disabled to travel to the city.
I can only try to say the words I have always felt.
I used to do as much social service as I could.
I surely going out today, take food for them & massage the legs of elderly lying on the platforms & footpaths.
I owe my life to the people, it was the blessings of the social service that I had done in my first life that I got this second life after the serious accident.
That's all I want to do - social service.
This is not sad at all, you'd agree, just too different from what you read daily.
P.S.: If there're no needy in close proximity, only then I'd suggest that you donated.
My HP Poem #196
© Atul Kaushal
Mellow Ds Feb 2011
So, here we go,  again.
Defining the prolific tranquility of my fellow men
Reproducing the rhythmic reflection like a Godsend.
We'll run along this tightrope until the world spins
And by the end of the night we'll slip right out of our skin.
Blasting the brainwaves like a fully automatic bass,
Kamikaze wasteland, humans waste, self-destruct without a trace
Just give these DJs a little space so they can give you a better taste!
And don't let us argue semantics so we can find the truth encased
In the back of the skull, underfed and oversold.
Truth be told, no one would like to feel that cold...
And you can deny it all until you crack and you fold,
But you know that by now you would have lost your soul!
Scandalous heresy mission, I'll describe the world I've envisioned
No carbon emissions, because there are no more cars to sit in
No more music, because there is nobody to listen
No more prison, because there are no buildings to live in
Until we've built it ourselves, and then we excel.
Civilization rebuilding itself right out of a living hell,
Like a phoenix, in a nutshell, and not a soul will tell
The truth about the world before the acid rains fell.

The world spins on a tilted axis of evil,
Over-trusted in the hands of incompetent people,
Lazily ignored by all the church and the steeples
Taking the arms of the weak and the feeble.
The rest of us wait until the bombs begin falling.
We no longer care, and frankly, God's stalling.
The end of the world is constantly calling.
No more of the bodies all twisted and sprawling.

I sever my hand to prove that I can still use my eyes;
You'll understand when you begin to open your mind
And if you really don't want me to do this, just give me a sign,
Maybe I'll do it anyway to disprove your design.
I'm losing time, someone come along and feed me a line.
Sever my spine, open my jaws wide, skin off my eyelids,
Why? The truth is inside these pockets of lies
And you can find it in the sockets of my eyes, it's fine.
As long as you can understand why the smog
Becomes a distant cousin to fog and road-hogs
Morph into another distraction from the absence of birds,
And why roads replace the forests until they no longer work.
The cities will be made of buckets and cans and bags of sand,
And supply and demand will win out over the prehistoric plans
To re-instill the aristocratic mastery monopoly pills
Produced from the radiated depths deep within the hills.
Buildings from old bits of iron and sheet metal pieces,
Our voices on intercoms to rid the world of its diseases,
And finally ignorance will not attempt to sway or displease us
And the love of the people will reflect that of Jesus!

The world spins on a tilted axis of evil
Over-trusted in the hands of incompetent people
Lazily ignored by all the church and the steeples
Taking the arms of the weak and the feeble
The rest of us wait until the bombs begin falling
We no longer care, and frankly, God's stalling
The end of the world is constantly calling
No more of the bodies all twisted and sprawling
(c) Ryan Bowdish 2010-2011
Xan Abyss Apr 2017
Confined inside the tundra
Frozen beneath the dirt
Uncovered by a digging team
Unleashed upon the earth
Ancient in Origin
In Nature, a War Begins
Prehistoric Breed
Awakens now to Feast

From the soils of Lapland
It is freed
Citizens of Denmark!
Run and flee!
Terrible Lizard
Frenzied Feed
New Dragonslayers
Make it Bleed

It stands five stories tall
Armored scales, unbreakable
Weaving a path of destruction and hate
Nothing but death in its wake
Scandinavia meets her fate
Progress made a fatal mistake
Acid venom and neon flames
We will never forget the name...

Reptilicus!
Rising...
High North Kaiju
Reptilicus!
Rising...
It will find you...
New season of MST3K on Netflix!
Michael Marchese Oct 2016
All weapons of
   the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
   this pen I wield
The power to
   articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
   to detonate
The conflicts waged
   gambling mankind
My perfect hand
   is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
  like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
  battlefront
With metaphors
  of mindless drones  
Like similes
  to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
  and IED's
Can't build bridges
  like ABC's

Or tear them down
  with death regimes
By rusting through
  the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
  verbal grenade
With ****** noun
  scorched-earth tirade  
On militant
  cold-blood elite
King cobras know
  I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
  resolution
Winged raptor
  devolution
Prehistoric
  barbarism
Literacy
  cataclysm
Stockpiling
  extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
  fallout stones

My Hiroshima
  prose explodes
With nuclear
  bushido codes
Released from my  
  katana's ward
To free my press
  from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
  imagery  
And samurai
  epigraphy  
Expressions of
  my ronin soul
Omitted by
  the daimyo
Satsuma is my
  poetry    
My final draft's
  Nagasaki
  
Ink cartridges
  strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
  or background check
And ****** every
  live round free
Of innocent
  blood elegy
And killing sprees
  of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
  black and blues
A Number 2
  pencil dependent
Obsolete
  lead-head amendment
Open carry
  shoots a blank
Empty shell case
  at my think tank
So grip this peace
  then **** and pull it
**** my diction
  write the bullet
David Bojay Jun 2014
gulping unprescribed vyvanse, to focus on material mind deceiving things on social media to see what all the fuss is about

social media is a place for the "malaventurados" locked in screens, purposely

why are they scared to explore the wilderness

be one with  nature, breathe the air people from a million years ago were breathing, breathe the same air dinosaurs were breathing if you believe in that prehistoric timeline

isn't it great?

we're jailed in technology, in "innovation", in "better solutions to meet new requirements"

we're walking on innovative grids thinking it's okay to cherish the unrealistic programmed websites made by those who weren't saved in time

exploring the internet, is like exploring ways to lose the key to freedom, to lose the key to the feel of soft grass on your feet, to lose the
to key to the feel of air brushing against your skin

be one with the air Adam breathed
be one with the good and evil
be one with the sun that looked over at Jesus Christ when he was being crucified
be one with the God you believe in that loves you as much as Cane hated Abel
be one with the earth, because today is a new chapter in the earths rotation
today's a new series of self made bibles for artists to grasp, and paint on a smooth textured canvas
today's a new TV show for poets to emulate in sentences along with metaphors, comparing love to pain

be one with what's been here for you all along, from the ocean that's plentiful with everything you need to be happy
wrote this on during my algebra 2 final exam, it was all scattered at first
Catrina Sparrow Nov 2012
a heavily decorated door creaks open to disturb the silence-
"why don't you turn on the light?" he asks her,
but she likes the shape of the night;
the way the sky hugs close to the earth and resembles the bell of a glass cover over a cake on a bakery counter.
"life is sweet like that..." she sings,
"like a pastry on display,
something sweet that we can taste."
there's a certain way of looking at it.
your eyes half closed,
one hand high on a hip and the other clasping a cigarette.
"yeah,
i mean,
i guess that makes sense..."

"one ******* roll!"
of the drum,
of a car,
of our calendar.
things have changed.
the universe is stretching,
the earth has grown;
and so has she,
into a species of flower that can't be grown indoors no matter how many lamps you point at her face-
she needs the sun...
and the wild.
let her grow free in the sun of foreign hillsides,
by a creek in the meadow she's dreamt of for years...
with the fruit farms.
"yeah...the fruit farms." she smiles.
she's always wanted to sell fruit on the highway a few miles from the farm she'll own,
on land she bought,
in a house she built,
feasting daily upon earthly treasures she grew
in the dirt
with her hands.
let her feed you a story for breakfast;
a picture she'll paint with scenes of her dreams that she only occasionally shares...
when the mood is hopeful and kind and she's not worried about anyone laughing.
listen to her heart;
type-writer keys over the hum of radio space.
rest your head-
ear pressed to her chest;
listen.
like curious neighbors in the backyard in the sleepy hours of the weekend between breakfast and lunch,
coffee and cartoons.
let her show you one of her dreams.
a prized,
***** pebble she keeps cradled in a pocket full of lint.
she's an old soul...
peering through dirt colored eyes just as wide as a child's.

"it's been a long time since i've seen the ocean..."
she whispers to herself under the last drag of her third cigarette.

but she hates the beach,
and the crowds of the vain who gather there to worship starving,
sacred bodies;
she just likes the sound.
the throaty yell of prehistoric waves breaking over zagging shorelines.
she says the sound "helps her dream."
it doesn't "help" her dream,
nothing helps her sleep...
it just makes her think;
of unimaginable beasts that have swam in our seas,
and the shape she's been told that the continents once made.
she thinks of mer-maids and voyagers and the rustic ship that brought her great-grandmother over at age thirteen...
this time she's not dreaming,
just remembering things that she's never seen.
her ***** feet need a stroll through the sands of a pristine scene-
she's heard such thing used to exist.

she mumbles, "it hurts to know that nothing is sacred..."

but she is.
a mess of tangled heart-strings and sentences,
she's sacred.
and so are the four tiny walls that hide her from the world.
Wanderer Mar 2012
Old telephone lines like fossils prehistoric, outdated
So many cOnversations by glowing screen
I could have been something you were really good at
Rhymes and rhythms shared over many mediums
Canvas, air, virtual, paper stain love
It's always the words that stick around
A mind can change anything into what it wants it to be
These pages turn yet still they remain unchanged
Tattooed, scarred into lyrics and get away car(d)s
I miss you
Whispered a mantra across the thin skin of your spine
Tingling the hemispherical split of right and left
Blind on one side, defective
The vision of freedom all at once clear then blurry
Catorax agoraphobia with a hint of I-will-not-open-for-anyone
Wish I could get the taste of unrequited desire out of my mouth
Burn clean the haunting of murky waters
Your sharp incisors still emerge from those depths to keep festering the wound
yangliu Aug 2013
Rangers edge of the city


August before the arrival, cloud water hearted, Yula drift, long Sasa, Laji a monk's footsteps, I walk alone, walk in July.
Breeze disrupted my thoughts, I will stand in which to stay, at what station will also continue to drift, but life was however, learned to understand life, to understand life, learned in this way and the way the landscape room becomes indifferent, learn to be a wanderer. (Yiwu export)
Standing on the junction of the season, I do not know the years makes us hurry, or we go hurry.
Earth road, Journey, life mountain water a ride a ride, who can use words of happiness and sadness to resist the pace line prime years. I like the night, a person can go to find quiet in the memory, to the longing to stray, along the way, seen the earthly noisy, bustling seen the world, I think I should be quiet, give yourself a little heart lake, let my heart sink to the bottom of the lake, guarding a suitable melody, so that I can put down his heavy heart. Let yourself get a little dry soul to rest, get a little water moisture.
How many nights like repeat such feelings.
I do not know, tonight the cold moonlight cut the silence who dream? (Yiwu buying agent)
I do not know, who are independent of Migiura up for ages?
I do not know, a cappella blowing a flute in the moonlight hurt much Red?
Youth wind gently blowing, will we gradually grow, gradually happiness, sadness gradually, gradually, we are lost.
Our short life is to experience something, meet some people came. Some encounter in life, like gentle wind, snow, like (yiwu export agent) purity, should meet, then please cherish each other, give each other a warm smile, a warm hug, Xiangxi too, cherished, Should really gone, maybe not leave any regrets, I remember your world I have been to in my life have your shadow. Vicissitudes of time to write more than just wandering, there was a Shizumori, a quiet beauty. Sketch moonlight, I write and draw, describe all the thoughts became a ****** pieces of painting, set into roll of a roll, hidden in the depths of my heart, you can go to wait until spring, waiting to all things prehistoric, waiting for the world to the next reincarnation.
Life, melodious, memory or stranding, go learn to really make a person do a lonely wanderer. I was alone silently took years before the trip, like the horizon of their Su Yi Strider, became a vagabond, wandering around the world.
David Nelson Sep 2011
Jungle Jim

I step quietly through the foliage
each step one foot in front of the other
thorny bushes reaching out to grab me
large webs with entrapped insects
being very careful watching intently
poisionous snakes are abound
an occasional grunt from gators
warning not to come any closer
they guard their young viciously
my exploring buddy Jim warning me
about the wild boar seen lately
large prehistoric looking birds swooping
and making screeching sounds
finally I hear I got it I got it
the treasure we had been seeking
now to retrieve it and make our way
our way back out of this jungle
look out for the huge spider I yell
and Jim ducks just in time
we finally see the clearing ahead
whew! Wasn't sure we would get back
dam Jim next time be more careful
next time hit your 7 iron instead
now what did you get on that hole?

Gomer LePoet ....

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