"roosevelt" poems
Roosevelt was worth 6, 7 million dollars
He was Tight
Frog waits
Till poor fly
Flies by
And then they got him
The pool of clear rocks
Covered with vegetable ****
Covered the rocks
Clear the pool
Covered the warm surface
Covered the lotus
Dusted the watermelon flower
Aerial the Pad
Clean queer the clear
blue water
AND THEN THEY GOT HIM
The Oil of the Olive
Bittersweet taffies
Bittersweet cabbage
Cabbage soup made right
A hunk a grass
Sauerkraut let work
in a big barrel
Stunk but Good
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I'll scale the hairs of Lincoln's beard,
Leap to the bridge of Roosevelt's nose,
Balance on Jefferson's brow,
Then plead on Washington's pate:
*America, stop ******* up.
I'm slipping on the eyes
Of this granite outcrop*!
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
Workingmen believed
He busted trusts,
And put his picture in their windows.
"What he'd have done in France!"
They said.
Perhaps he would--
He could have died
Perhaps,
Though generals rarely die except in bed,
As he did finally.
And all the legends that he started in his life
Live on and prosper,
Unhampered now by his existence.
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“The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience.”
― Eleanor Roosevelt
May mga gabi na puno ng lumbay kung saan mapapait at puno ng lungkot ang mga ala-alang hatid nito. Madalas na hindi ka nito pinapatulog. May mga umaga naman na nagpapagunita sa mga dalita at mabibigat na salita. Minsan kahit sa init ng katanghalian ay nararamdaman mo ang matinding lamig – ang panlalamig na dulot ng takot, takot na harapin ang kawalang katiyakan ng bukas na darating.
Malaya kaba’ng talaga o baka naman nakatago lang ang iyong mga tanikala? Bumabangon sa umaga’t naghahanda para pumasok sa opisina na isa ring selda. Kumakain pero walang nalalasahan, tumatawa nga pero ang totoo ay nalulungkot, nabubuhay pero talo pa ang isang bangkay pagkat walang kabuhay-buhay. Nakikipagtalik ang katawan na hindi marunong tumangkilik.
Paano nga ba ang mabuhay nang wasto at hustong-husto? Yung puno ng pag-ibig at walang ligalig na sadyang matatag katulad sa isang kamalig. Nadidinig mo pa ba ang huni ng kuliglig sa ‘twing sasapit ang hapon? Ang buhay ng tao ay sadyang maligalig. Ang panaghoy ng mga walang kayang lumaban sa dagok ng malupit na kapalaran ay laging naririnig sa ‘twing kumakagat ang dilim.
Hindi lang minamasdan ang mga bulaklak, kailangan mo rin itong samyuin para mo mapahalagahan. Paano mo malalaman ang lalim ng dagat kung hindi mo ito sisisirin at ano’ng saysay ng taas ng bundok kung hindi mo ito aakyatin? Hindi sapat na sabihin na s’ya ay iyong iniibig, kailangan mo rin s’yang yakapin at halikan. Ganito mo dapat na ipagdiwang ang buhay.
Pero hindi ito magawa ng isang tulad mo na alipin ng takot at sama ng loob. Kailangan kumawala ka sa anino ng nakaraan at ‘wag mabuhay sa hinaharap. ‘Hwag kang makipagtalik sa multo ng nakaraan dahil hindi ka lalabasan, puro luha lang ang tiyak na papatak sa iyong mga mata. Maging makasaysayan at makabuluhan ito ang dapat na maging layunin. Kalimutan ang kabiguan at maging masigasig, yakapin sa’yong bisig ang ngayon. Hawiin ang lambong ng gabing tumatakip sa paningin sapagkat ito’y nakakabulag.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
*No, no, no, Dirtbreath. I say we call the big one an elephant,
and the small one a mouse*.
Eve
I'm sure red's a better color for me.
M. Monroe
She has a face that could sink a thousand ships.
Ulysses
*Now that Hawking's dead, I'm the smartest
guy on Earth.*
D. Trump
You're too Jung to understand the Superego.
S. Freud
No. You keep it. I have enough.
B. Graham
Are you sure that's the Delaware?
G. Washington
E=Mc Donalds.
A. Einstein
Go pound salt.
Gandhi
What day is it?
Roosevelt
That's one small.... oops!
N. Armstrong
I don't remember any of my dreams.
M.L. King, Jr.
Hey, John, I can see your house from up here.
Jesus
Beaches, fields, streets, hills. Did I leave anything out?
W. Churchill
Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course I wrote 'em all.
R. Starr
It's just too big to wrap your brain around.
S. Hawking
Don't lose your head. This won't change a thing.
Robespierre
Before I was fined, I walked the line.
J. Cash
Could you lengthen the title and shorten the book?
Tolstoy's editor
What if we put the workers on conveyor belts?
H. Ford
I have a splitting headache... hmmm, interesting.
Oppenheimer
I've never liked orange juice.
N. Brown
Really? You want to blame me?
******
He stings like a butterfly.
S. Liston
#timesup #metoo
A. Boleyn
Mr. Watson. Come here. Spare me a dime?
Bell
Roebuck said he'd be back in ten minutes.
R.W. Sears
To be or to do be do be do.
Shakespeare/Sinatra
*When you call me Whitey, I get cotton pickin ****** off.*
E. Whitney
We're the team to beat!
Toronto Maple Leafs
Don't call me a Mother!
Mother Theresa
Is that a Cuban?
M. Lewinsky
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 6:50 AM UTC
Tell me where to draw the line in the sand
Between being a brother
And being a father figure
Sands of times
Life lines are drawn with a big stick
Theodore Roosevelt is smiling on a young all american clueless teenager turned young soldier worrying about things no others should struggle with
A 16 year old dealing with social rejection and seclusion
A 13 year old trying to find where holding hands stops and tongues meet
A 7 year old who has migranes daily from a father who never was
I can't drawn straight lines
A rocking chair watches the tides wash away a single phrase
Help
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Signs point in different directions
Art>
<Science
History^
Oddities¿
Art:
Every memory of every sunrise
Every beautiful melody
Here.
And so many images of her.
Some sweet
Some candid
Some sad.
How can we revel in the joyful
Without knowing it's opposite?
Every delicate poem
Every lyric yelled
Every painting
Every sculpture
And in all of them,
Her.
Science:
Models of molecules
Diagrams of data
Sketches
(Where are the equations?)
Math is forbidden in this museum.
Lectures
Theories
All gathering dust.
History:
Names.
The greatest of men and women
Julius Caesar
Constantine
Marc Anthony
Cleopatra
Rosa Parks
Elinor Roosevelt
Patton
Churchill
Kennedy
MLK
Maps and charts
Famous cities of old
Sparta
Alexandria
The halls of Montezuma
Constantinople
Babylon
Oddities:
Phantom Kangaroos
Homemade Bazooka
"That made the news?"
And Bubblegum the Baluga
The Raven Empress
Flaming mattress
Sharks with lasers
Pandas with Tasers
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
Christian louboutin NEW YORK, March 12 (Xinhua) -- The Economist Intelligence Unit released here on Monday a new research report showing that New York ranks first in competitiveness among 120 world's major cities. Christian louboutin shoes The report titled Hot Spots ranks the most competitive cities in the world for their demonstrated ability to attract capital, business, talent and tourists. Christian louboutin It highlights New York City's innovative Applied Sciences NYC project, which has resulted in the development of a new applied sciences campus being built on Roosevelt Island, expected to generate 6 billion U.S. Red bottomsdollars in economic activity. Christian louboutin shoes "New York City's position at the very top of this list is no accident: it's due to the investments our Administration has made and the world-famous ingenuity and creativity of New Yorkers," red bottom shoes said New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg. red bottom shoes New data from the New York State Department of Labor showed that New York City is leading the nation in terms of economic recovery, red bottom and the private sector jobs were added at a rate almost 60 percent greater than the country as a whole in 2011. red bottom shoes London was the second most competitive city, followed by Singapore, with Paris and Hong Kong tied for fourth place, according to the report. Among U.S. cities, Washington D.C., Chicago and Boston made the top 10. red bottom shoes
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
what i really need to do
is get a dog and name him teddy roosevelt
and sing him john lennon songs
and teach him to stomach gin
what i really need to do
is learn how to play piano
and sing songs about cigarette smoke
and lie about having a twin
what i really need to do
is find someone who calls themselves petunia
and bend low and scoop them up
and teach her to stomach gin
what i really need to to do
is learn how to play guitar
and sing songs about her knuckles
and the delicate shine of her shins
what i really need to do
is shoot dice with old black men
and hang out in alleyways
and wallow in filth and bathe in sin
what i really need to do
is learn how to play the harmonica
and sell ******* to rich white girls
and not feel a **** thing about it
what i really need to do
is find someone who calls themselves best friend
and bend low and scoop them up
and teach him to stomach gin
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 25, 2011 at 12:29 AM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
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Verse:
Eleanor Roosevelt, Rosa Parks, Ghandi, Lucille Ball
Quiet and soft-spoken
Take the spotlight
Every bone in their body tells them not to
They took it not because they wanted to
Not because they enjoyed directing others
Not out of the pleasure of being looked at
Because they had no choice
Because they were driven to do what they thought was right
Chorus:
Roosevelt and Ghandi
Rosa Parks and lovely Lucy
Inner peace is what we all need
You're not a failure if you can believe
Verse:
Steve Martin, Ella Fitzgerald, Nicole Kidman, Lucille Ball
Shy actress was an oxymoron
In the so-called Golden Age
Let's make today the real Golden Age
And stop being so mean to each other
Take a walk in another person's shoes
Play the role of the person terrified to speak
Turn a party around so you can see it the way we see it
As a battleground
As a place of judgement and fear
Verse:
Einstein, Lincoln, Edison, me, you!
Laughed at in their classes and by the masses
When they had the ideas to change the world
If you would ever let them read their books
How many people have given up their dreams?
Just because they were shy?
There has to be a better way to deal with this
And someday I know you will get there
Touch the sky, touch our hearts
And find the love you always wanted
Bridge:
Solitude
Solitude
Inner peace is what we all need
The ability to be you
The ability to be the original
Not the knock off
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R e a c h.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.
I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.
I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.
I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.
So I wrote a poem for the ages.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
let me first say, i have absolutely no idea what i'm doing
and i don't really know what this is or where to start.
i am comprised of scratched porcelain and bad dreams -
made up entirely of half-hearted attempts at sanity,
countless unspoken "i need you's",
and ever-faltering faith in myself and those around me.
i am not a poet, or at least not a good one, i don't think.
i feel a lot of things, sometimes all at once -
other times i don't feel anything at all, which scares me beyond
a level of which i am capable of explaining to you.
i nearly jumped in front of a train in april of this year. i don't know why.
my feet ventured toward the platform before it had even registered
in my head that they were doing so. i heard my best friend speak my name,
and snapped out of the trance. not a lot of people know about that.
i've been in love a lot of times with a lot of different people.
i have a fear off falling but a tendency to jump from high places.
i don't read books as much as i used to, but i'm working on that.
i'm in love right now and it's really difficult but it's nice. i'm happy.
i grew up with five brothers, so i like to think that made me sort of tough.
(but i cry every time i see a deer or a possum on the side of the road.)
i don't smoke cigarettes anymore, partly because my father hates them,
partly because they remind me too much of someone who liked them more than he liked me.
i write a lot about people who i don't talk to or see anymore. they don't live in my heart,
but the curse of memory is more often than not unbreakable. i call it leftover poetry.
then again i don't consider any of my pitiful mutterings to be poetry. just a bunch of
raggedly strung together words that sometimes rhyme a little bit.
i used to want to die and i wrote a song about it that a lot of people really liked.
i don't want to die anymore. i will never show that song to my mother.
i am much more content with watching people talk than actually talking myself.
this piece of writing feels too personal and i don't think i like it, but i'm pretty sure
Eleanor Roosevelt said something about doing one thing every day that scares you.
m.f.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
THIS Mohammedan colonel from the Caucasus yells with his voice and wigwags with his arms.
The interpreter translates, "I was a friend of Kornilov, he asks me what to do and I tell him."
A stub of a man, this Mohammedan colonel ... a projectile shape ... a bald head hammered ...
"Does he fight or do they put him in a cannon and shoot him at the enemy?"
This fly-by-night, this bull-roarer who knows everybody.
"I write forty books, history of Islam, history of Europe, true religion, scientific farming, I am the Roosevelt of the Caucasus, I go to America and ride horses in the moving pictures for $500,000, you get $50,000 ..."
"I have 30,000 acres in the Caucasus, I have a stove factory in Petrograd the bolsheviks take from me, I am an old friend of the Czar, I am an old family friend of Clemenceau ..."
These hands strangled three fellow workers for the czarist restoration, took their money, sent them in sacks to a river bottom ... and scandalized Stockholm with his gang of strangler women.
Mid-sea strangler hands rise before me illustrating a wish, "I ride horses for the moving pictures in America, $500,000, and you get ten per cent ..."
This rider of fugitive dawns....
1.8k
In December of '64,
40 years ago,
I was sitting in the Hacienda bar
on the South Side
of things
and here comes this cocker
spaniel looking
************ named
Roosevelt.
This man-man slides
in, slaps Sam Cooke on the juker,
then claps my clock with
a ************* billiards ball.
On the floor ****
tasting tooth..
It was my 33rd birthday,
but as God had-had it,
it was also Roosevelt's.
And that motherfucker-man
had been drinking
bumpy face
and smoking jazz cigarettes
since 10 o'clock
in the morning.
Let's pause. Now. Now.
Now.
Now-you may be asking
yourself what a man like me
did to deserve this disrespect-
(Grins. Sips his drink.)
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC
She has Cameras flashing,
Her Fake smiles,
Pushing flyers.
Desperation.
Her Clean Steps,
Stars etched for glory.
She has Rainbow fountains.
Tourists with wasted cash.
There is nothing here.
Yet for me—
She’s the connection to you.
.
Underneath her
I go, Farther and Farther
The escalator takes me down.
Watching, searching, waiting.
Take my hand,
Together we can walk
Her washed-out fame
The bizzare.
Underneath the California Pines,
On the darkened side walk,
the Roosevelt Sign
lights your face.
No where to go,
Strangers approaching.
Pull me close.
My lips,
Quickly pressed on yours.
The Naïve sweetness.
Your cultured ways.
August 31st.
You Fade with the metro
I fade with the crowd.
I have Hollywood boulevard.
Hiding tears that sting
I rise and rise
Up and up
There she is, wrapped by
The city of Angels.
I run on the highland,
Quickly down La Brea.
Pack this suitcase
I leave her behind.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
There is always someone
to say, "Ah, but..."
when we weep
at little tragedies.
Striding gurus
whose far-reaching sight
passes over little corpses
to seek out the Big Picture.
And you dry your eyes
and you feel foolish
for thinking little ones matter.
Big names are tossed around.
Patterns passing back
through blackened ages
History degrees
dusted off,
chins stroked,
lofty knowledge
powerfully deployed
Churchill manifests
all black and white and grim.
Roosevelt and Stalin,
and this is why,
and that is why,
and further back
to Empire and beyond.
Until it all makes sense.
It's good versus evil
eternal, universal
and nothing to be troubled by.
But still
the little corpses
in your path.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 4:28 AM UTC
I'm dead. Unlike Frost and Yeats
nothing I've said will be remembered.
Unlike Roosevelt and Lincoln
nothing I'm thinking will win the war.
I'm going to go to my grave unsung
like almost everyone. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to. There's no such thing
as being saved. When you're gone
you're done. At least 60 million
people don't believe it, don't believe
in evolution. Man, that ape,
can heap a peck of hurt posthaste
with earth movers and machine guns.
Information technology
cannot save your soul, heck,
I've tried. Every morning
I total the polloi
coming to my site for wisdom.
The number's usually zero.
A good number to know.
When my heart fibrillates
I lay my head
beside my sleeping wife.
Solace, comfort. She says,
Take your pill, fool.
In an hour at most
I'm feeling great again!
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
If I’ve ever known truth it just chaffed at the neck
I’ve been suffering all the symptoms of a lack of respect
So I must reflect then deflect all the gloomy flecks I see
Then reflect again on the lifestyle,
Of the wild life inside the childish side of me
All in effort to be free
Not free falling
Not roaming from a new ideal, to new ideal like a new calling
I 'd rather have a grand New Deal like Mr. Roosevelt's
And swim easily in this sea of changes like Michael Phelps
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
The Walk
I got red clay and grass on my feet today in the land of the Navaho it seemed I channeled one of their
Braves it seemed my eyes grew stronger the buttes and mesas the southwest had on familiar adoring that
flows with a fluidity in the driest land yet still the streaming it breaks free and flows down to the
Valley then it arrests the high distant peaks like your eyes become the bow shooting at the target straight
And true with speed it passes stationary objects it brings them to intensified life they are passed in a whirl
No longer are they so fixed as they were nothing now they enliven my heart it beats faster with the joy they
Possess magic it lies in depths of tree and scrub it appears as a wild and crazed painter of the caliber of
Van Gogh started at a certain point definitely he favored red as his base color then with differing shades
Of green he cloaked this thermal world it would be uniquely different a somber invitation to a feast at first
Glance seemingly a hard pronounced edge but a people with dark red to brown skin walked into this
World they put the finish to perfect with indigo as their primary color of dress what living moods now
Stand out against the red terrain singularly or as a tribe they clashed with this scenic land earth and sky
Had a joining place among a people that were formable there power they were educated not by
Scholarly universities but by rock streams trees and from creatures that learned to survive in a hostile
Environment it’s interesting to note that one of our most robust presidents an easterner when his wife
And mother died within days of one another Teddy Roosevelt chose the west as the place to seek
Healing for his devastated life the rest of his life is a pretty good testament to this place and it’s curative
Powers not bad for a rocky dry land thought by most to be worthless just an observation of one whom
Walked in the paths of a rich diverse and proud people I think my Cherokee grandmother would be
Proud she always talked about where we would go she took a detour and went to heaven instead in the
Meantime I will do the earth side adventures for the both of us
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 7:40 PM UTC
Yes you heard me
I hated this toy
I hated it with a passion
That was fastened
To my chest with seat belts
And burned onto my heart
With a hot branding iron
This toy was a teddy bear
One of teddy roosevelt's passions
With a patent owned by a name
I'll never know
Given to kids who are just beginning to grow
So that they have something to talk to
To let everything flow
My brother named him sgt.grizzly
And he was always busy
Telling this little teddy
The secrets of his life
I kid you not
He told this bear his world
He entrusted and unfurled
Everything to this inanimate
Object that couldn't even answer back
By now you're trying to figure out
Exactly why I hate a thing
That I don't even own
Well when that thing sits on the throne
Of a brother you wish you'd known you'll
Understand
Because everytime my brother and I fought
He brought up this stupid teddy bear
And how it did things I did not
How it listened to him
And didn't try to advise him and it sickened me
What disgusted me more than this
Was the fact that he told a toy
More about himself
Than I will ever know in a lifetime
He told it secrets I've been trying to learn
Since the beginning of his time
He gave that toy more of his heart
Than I have ever seen in him within the 13 yrs I've spent with him
And while he threw at me nothing but ****** and pins
He gave this toy an inside look on his many opinions
And while he tested me constantly
He gave his stupid teddy
A degree in justinology
The study of my brother a study in which I wish I wasn't struggling
While my brother threw me worksheets
Sgt grizzly got a free pass
Even though he did nothing in class
Justin let him pass
With an A
While I struggled to hold a D
While i fought hard
He handed grizzly a security card
And as far as I was concerned
All he ever did was put me on blast
I'll admit it I was actually a little jealous
I still am at times
That a stupid toy
Managed to know more about a boy
Who I spent majority of my life living with than me
And honestly it was insulting
Everytime grizzly got lost
I was the first to blame
Just because I was cursing and speaking negatively whenever I spoke that dreaded name
Honestly I have never before admitted
This to anyone
After all being mad at a toy
Isn't the best way for a teenage boy
To be seen but oh boy
I’ve lost the will to keep this in
So I'm simply going to sit down
And write about the hate I have
For this little stupid toy
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 3:44 PM UTC
What do I care?
if the snow is higher than
the stop signs, but
still visible for pedestrian to see
no loading or standing zone
What do I care?
that dark lonely night is approaching
and my poor heart melt every time I think of you
what do I care
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I could not, at any age, be content to take my place by the fireside and simply look on. Life was meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life.
— Eleanor Roosevelt
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
1919, peanuts and pine, and the tangy smell of cologne and sweat mixed together
Ocean water lapping at my toes, bringing me back to cleaner days, reminding me of her.
The train to Roosevelt Island, of black rail, steam and fog, lurching there and back again.
Sparkler candles from my sixteenth birthday. A miscellaneous collection of bottle caps, all donated from friends. A book of pictures.
Cable cars. Hot spicy soup. Three quests for a sunset, three kings for a prince. Addendums, beginnings, and wandering the hospital hallways. The boy with the arab strap.
That my aunt persevered, and taught herself to smile.
That the sun rises after every dark night.
That beyond the horizon lays more land, more sea, and more wonder.
That you can start again and again, and no one can tell you when to stop.
The sky right after a thunderstorm, when it's still a furious dark gray, and yet sunshine creeps through its cracks of the clouds (which I always hated, but learned to love).
The soft morning glories in my hands, showered in sunlight and love. That Nature could be so tender, delicate, and pure. That yellow was no longer my least favorite color.
The way wind brushes my bedroom windows, and the willow trees call to me, mournfully shaking their leaves.
4am, lamplight, softer than the rain. Dried flowers. Guitar music wafting down the streets of Boston.
How the only one that could forget me was me.
How I could be alone.
How I could love every small thing.
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 1:56 AM UTC