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Don't discriminate
Just don't do it
All it is, is hate
Hate is made out of other hate
and hate only fuels more hatred
You pour gasoline on a blaze of loathing
with every discriminatory comment you make
It doesn't matter
if they have done something you believe is wrong
because you have done many things that are wrong too
it is not for you to judge
so black white brown both or polka dotted for all I care
gay les straight bi or into adhesive sloths (we adhesified furry little sloths need a little love too)
man or woman or sloth
punk emo crazy nerdy weird loser REALLY weird bookworm or literal worm sloth or adhesive sloths (like me)
nature freak or homebody
axe murderer or a cereal killer or a cheerio killer
it does not matter who or what they are
they are all human too. or all sloths. that too.
Just don't discriminate
and share the slothified love of adhesiveness
accept everyone as they are
even if they hang from trees and move in slow motion all day like me
even if they are rocks
because rocks are great
in fact this one time, I found this rock and man, it was absolutely hilarious it should have been a stand up comedian
okay well not a STAND UP comedian, because I mean... rocks can't actually stand up... but like a really hard and Sedimentary roundish stone shaped sit down (well more like lay around like a rock all day) comedian
Wait, what was I talking about?
oh right, don't discriminate!! :)
against other humans or other sloths.
or adhesive sloths.

...I'm not crazy! my mother sloth had me tested!
yeah, I kind of need a life. I've lost a lot of brain cells falling out of my tree when I confuse my arm with a tree branch, grab it and almost fall to my death... anyway, hope the underlying message here gets across.
lots of love to the adhesive sloths out there! repost if you are an adhesive sloth lover!!!
Mitchell Apr 2011
Trying hard to keep my head
On tight so not to float off
I take these nights with nothin' to do
And write things down so not to feel blue

There is a fight in us all
A fight to block out the silence we all rarely talk about
To hear the crack of the crow outside this window
Is the only stinging blow I've grown to know

To be born in this time is to be born in any other
With the flushing meadows wide with green flashing pride
And the cunning river roaring for all to know and carry
With mother nature smiling all the while admiring

Working through the hours, the minutes, the seconds
Knowing that the open road will soon shout to beckon
Sendin' me out to the great dying unknown
No use to imagine the sights, wouldn't be right

In these forms of high art, high living, all expensively feelin' ******
Where promises of a God were said to be lingering here
But all I'm feeling in these lonesome parts of town
Is nothing but the drop of pin that makes no sound

Take me to a place where I wear no face
To live a life that will die at mid tomorrow night
Take these hours from me and I'll fight for the light
With bloodied knuckles clenching flirty nickels

Tonight these walls are lonesome, *****, and stranded
I'm feeling the touch of what it means to be branded
Tucked in a corner with all the rest of the world
With a head held up but a soul hanging low

Father listen hard when I start speaking to you
What are your next steps in life, what are you gonna do?
There ain't much time for making money in this worried world
You always told me to pick up the heels, fake to be real

Trains exhale their gases screaming screeches outlandish
The sides of my head are tilting as my sides are roundish
Feet are swelling to the size of ripping watermelons
And the eyes are rolling back never wanted to achieve millions

But the tears that smell of whiskey rye
And the breath that wreaks of ashy lies
Has always been the love I've been searching for
Slowly leading my life to a quiet rippling lore
Roxy DeNoir Jun 2013
I think I may die tonight
I don't think I will get this through
The blood is dripping from my sheets
My hands are turning blue

I sewed together the scabby ends
Of my wounds with searing pain
I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes
And felt my salt tears fall like rain

My pillow is a rock under my neck
My breathing shallow and fast
I cannot feel my legs or feet
Is it midnight? no, it's past

There is no window to distract
I cannot see anything anyway
My pupils enlarged to blackened spheres
There is no blue left from yesterday

A chill settles on my bones
I cannot move but I can feel
Freezing fingers climbing up my bed
The terror I sense is real

The spider legs of nightmares grab
And stab me everywhere
Inserting their thick needle feet
Into my wounds so bare

My feet are gone- detached from me
My legs are numb as well
My torso going colder as
My mind catches fire- what hell!

The pounding of my failing heart
Fills my nearly deafened ears
My hair is pulled out strand by strand
My burial is getting near

I can see my gravestone in my mind
An arching roundish one
Graven deeply in the rock words read
The psalm of my life done

"A teenager-no more than 17
Was taken by death today
Fate saw this child's time was up
And bid the Reaper come her way"

Well the Reaper came and cut her off
From this world of hate
He wrapped her up in his black silk
And delivered her up to Fate

Fate looked down and saw a girl
Of beauty far supreme
Death usually withers the face
But this smile glowed and gleamed

Fate leaned forward taking in
The girl who smiled so wide
It was not natural for happiness to last
But her future Fate must decide

Fate looked at her servant Reaper
Young and still in his prime
A lonely fellow who longed for nothing more
Except a friend he could keep for all time

Fate stepped down and pulled back his hood
And took in his handsome face
He wasn't the scary reaper you
See represented in that Earthly place

His hair was black as ravens wing
His eyes as blue as summer sky
His skin pale as winter snow
His Phoenix wings stretched out to fly

Fate looked at the girl
She was a beauty indeed
It must come from a heart of gold
A kind heart aged 17

The girl's smile was wide as the Milky Way
Her eyes shone like the sun on the moon
Her hair flowed like a curling waterfall
Her cheeks were roses in bloom

Fate nodded and gave the Reaper
The hand of the beautiful teen

Then all the visions faded fast
As I woke up from my dream
Sally A Bayan Oct 2014
We gathered, like we were in a huddle
Doing Yin and Yang movements in a circle...

A lighted candle was in the middle.
We closed our eyes, we were concentrating,
Slowly, internalizing...
Stillform Shibashi movements followed
While thanksgiving prayers were solemnly offered...

Out of nowhere, 
Two furry, roundish creatures leapt from behind
On the red-yellow flame they almost landed...
Both stretched...and ******.... and stretched,
As if they were doing the movements with us...
Suddenly, they were up and about...
One was raring to have fun, while 
The other could not focus on cleaning its tiny snout.
On a gay mood, they went on rolling within our big circle
Not minding they could be burned by the gentle flame. 

We, the quiet ones,with a bit of fear, 
Were just watching,
Captured by their honest fun, 
Exercises started fading...
Back and forth, the two creatures went romping
Hitting the feet of most everyone in the circle...

They were seizing their moment
Overflowing was their adrenaline  
In the open air, they were reckless, uncaring..

Under the morning sun, they were shining brightly
I had silently asked, at first,
"Who would need one black and one white mittens?
"Who would have thought, with their tiny heads hidden, 
They were two furry, purry playful kittens?


Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
***It's been a while....
For Lady Jane, for Brie, for Gus
and other pet cats here on HP...***
Elizabeth P Jul 2013
Physically,
I'm not much.
Green eyes,
Roundish body.
Not much.

Mentally, however,
I am all.
Intelligent
Quick
Kind
Loving
I am beautiful.

Are you?
Don't sell yourself short and always be you. Have a nice day!
i won’t forget the times when i made roundish letters
in blue-black ink
as if i were crushing blackberry beads
perfumed and wild
and in the eyes of that man by chance
it was always the same toulouse-lautrec painting
with my watery blue dress
like a cloud in an armchair the color of rose petals
frozen rotted in november
with his checkered hat thrown
accidentally over my raincoat
i wondered too much
why he squeezed the whole sun between his teeth
while laughing
i continued to write about the dreams
like white dead pigeons
my lord
with the heart shielded between wings
Alin Jan 2016
Oh the enchanting
Silhouette of the winter bird
appearing
On such January morning
with a tail
Implying the precise degree
of an acute angle
Between two **** branches

You are making an imaginary roof
for your sweet roundish oval head
Fitting it exactly
under a perpendicular space
equal to the height
of the opening
of one missing panel
of my venetian blinds

through which I am peeping right now
safely below the closure points
Of a spectral  line

Made by your precision
to manifest
a beauty of an
illusively two dimensionalized
Isosceles Triangle of a
branchy reality

These ever changing orange blue
dashes of an upcoming
Early morning With smoky fumes
are wisely making the volatile
roof for your house

an opposite line
halves to deliver
two adjacent lines
at a perpendicular point
to reserve permanently
its never changing cosine

and still it seems to be
Preserving  some of the
fading brittles of stars within

Ah such a home is to be!
where you can peacefully
Fatten and
Rest the tip of your
Belly
to say
This dot of the tangent
Belongs to me
Inhaling
Exhaling
And changing
to a new colored
vitreous roof
of yours

Unmoving
there
Like the buddha
of all silhouettes
Sculpted to
Guard skies only

Oh wise bird
Please
Will
You stay here
And meditate
For me??

I said carelessly
through a slightest
slip of the tongue
and tired body

but before I could
realize and correct
correct it as:
And meditate here
With me??

He instantly turned
his head towards me
And flew
Away

Rightfully :(

Leaving
Me
Helpless
Looking
at a reflection
of my silly longing
Between
The deserted
Space
Of two skinny
Fragile
Branches

Once served
As a melodious
Golden
Cage
Fruiting
Seeds
Of
Reality Dreams
of an Old Tree
based on the true story of my January the 1st :)

Happy New Year!
Mike Adam Apr 2016
Oh we have met before my love
we met and merged before
became one many times before
spring fever shook the
tree of desire and the hot
red mist descended and
lusted in our eyes

Bodies entwined
vine and tree become one
once again in breathless love
come see the parting of the
limbs of tree and clinging
vine venerating old old bark

Oh how have we met beneath the
full budding trees
dripping red dawn the dew all
honey sweet the sweet dew

Sap rising kissing leaves to life
veins throbbing chrysalis
bursting to life the bears
and bees ******* honeyed flower
caressing the breeze oh this is
how we met our endless cycle of
love and being

Natural children we play in
natures rhythm we sing
the day the bright sun-blue day
we sing and whistle the black
night stars into twinkling being

This is how we met full summered
in the honeydewed grass of orange dawn
the unnaccountable wind (whence, hence?)
and yellowing golden crimson leaves
blown by the gleaning breeze to
nitrogen the earth at tree feet

Oh yes my love well met we were
caved furry bears nuzzling the winter
emaciating the cold steel dawn and
clung together in sleepy hungry comfort

In all the rhythm of our seasons
oh how we have met and merged
and being one enfolded
in the breast of world
in the sensuous fall and resolution
of the roundish cyclical earthly ball
Wk kortas Feb 2017
It had, so he recalled, no pretensions of being something
So grand as a lake;
Just a roundish body of water, not particularly suited for diving
Nor of any real attraction to a fisherman,
Nothing there save the odd chub or sunfish to languidly pull one’s line,
Its recreational attributes limited to a postage-stamp size patch of sand
And one solitary rope attached to an equally lonely old truck tire,
Neither being of guaranteed fitness for the task at hand.
He’d gone there for one reason, and one reason only;
There’d been a girl, one late spring and a subsequent early fall,
And at times they’d gone there on the occasional sunny day,
Traversing a twisting two-lane stretch of county road
(The blacktop sprinkled with North Country sandstone,
Giving it the pinkish hue of a rainbow trout
Angrily flopping about on a dock)
In order to get waist-deep in the water for a few minutes
(The pond never really warm enough
To swim in with malice aforethought)
Before settling on blankets to drink cokes
And eat the sandwiches they’d picked up
At the ancient, Mayberry-esque general store just west of town
And to speak in hesitant and uncomfortable half-sentences
Concerning accidents of birth and death, speculative half-made plans.

In the end, it all went no further than talk,
At least after the inevitable transition
From the fleeting, furtive evenings
To the harsh, unremitting light of day.
In truth, he’d always had one eye fixed beyond the horizon,
Beyond the lumbering, lumpy old Adirondack foothills,
Alternately comforting and claustrophobic,
All the time paying heed
To some some whisper, nagging and ethereal,
That all this was simply some momentary way station on the path
To something finer, something substantive, some end of the road;
He’d no way of knowing that the murmur would remain,
Soft yet persistent, long after he’d left that cold cow country,
Rumbling on as the calendar proceeded and the hairline receded.

His work, as it happened, sometimes carried him
To the stark, sparsely populated environs
Situated to the north of the Thruway,
And he would, almost in spite of himself, concoct some excuse
To take himself back out by the old pond,
Still unprepossessing, the same tree sporting the rope-and-tire swing
(Some descendant of the one he had known,
But in the same uneasy state of disrepair),
And, now and then, he’d pull off onto the shoulder,
Leaving the car to walk down by the water’s edge.
On one occasion, he’d had the mad impulse
To dive into the water head-first and fully immerse himself,
And had gone as far as to take off his shirt and tie.
He’d checked himself in the end, of course;
There were any number of water-borne nasties
Courtesy of beavers and Canada geese, most likely leeches as well.
He’d dressed himself, and headed back to the car,
Making a note to himself to remember the hair-pin curve
Just this side of Hannawa Falls, gruesome stretch of road
Which had claimed its share of undergraduates back in his day,
And he’d always thought it sad how many bright futures
Had tumbled over the guardrails and into the ravine
To be held like dark secrets in the underbrush.
Annika J May 2019
That feeling
That I can't describe

When I know someone is genuine

It's physical
And emotional
It's happy
But calmly
Without any flourishes
Or bubbles
I feel it in my chest
A feeling of connection
It's...warm?
Not quite the right word
It's lukewarm
But bright
And roundish
Kinda like a sphere
Sitting next to my heart
Centered in my chest
There's love
But little magic
It's pure
Unfiltered
Connection
When I think of someone's face
I see open eyes
Open to watch another
But not wide with shock
I see a small smile
I hear a voice
Clear as a bell
And indeed
I think of pure
Golden bells
Not twinkling
Not ringing
Just a single
Unbroken note
I think of gold
Or is it orange?
Yellow?
Orange with a yellow halo?
It's energy
But not radiant
Not growing
Not destroying
Not dark
The feeling I get
When reading a classmate's essay
Or reading a good fanfiction

All this
Does not capture the feeling
But at least I tried my best
It's not Friday and that has already put a damper on whatever day this is.

Friday is the holy grail, the handrail I hold onto.

I need a holiday, I need to get as far away from whatever day this
is and do nothing in particular.

other than that and assuming the world is still roundish and hasn't gone flat, I'm okay.

could do with another coffee though.
The following doth constitute
combination of fact and fiction
unfortunately not sentences
referencing overactive spousal glute
though sphincter roaring
could muscle us into ample loot
(after wife explodes open bank vault)
versus *** spire ring writer root
ting to live nsync ecologically
viz hypothetical analogous member
of indigenous people named Yakut
living in scattered settlements in northern Siberia.

Impossible mission to clear space on the bed,
when yours truly feels dead
tired, nothing does magic trick
than position fathead
of mine (me noggin actually small and roundish)
with brow emblematic of being highbred,
cuz sleeping quarters
overrun By Teddy Bears And Beanie Babies.

Twas the bright idea of zee missus aye air
and I dedicate this poem
yes tis correct, if you bare
lee remember this mister
did formerly she-push-lee duck clear
addressed said spouse
"my little buttock blaster” endear

ring pet name applied for obvious reasons,
(her posterior end pulsates with putrid plume),
and before she begat two 'ere
rip press ably lovely daughters),
anyway thee wife I fear
to publicize contracted a benign
strain sans incurable glare

ring house cleaning malady,
(thus far no unpronounceable hair
raising name affixed
to non contagious ill, nonetheless
accursed conditioned fanatically
jumpstarting organizing unkempt apartment,
whereby to keep tear filling
misery drowning ocean
of sorrows distant at bay,
scrubbing stubborn stains
from clothes, dishes,
and gamut of hibernating
Ursine horde (née motley crue)

that come breathing alive
Nsync with Beastie Boys bay
sic City Rollers Culture Clubbing babes
upon first spring day
engrossed in this, that,
or some other sweeping floor foray
(analogously to Velveteen Rabbit)
shedding matted "faux" fur gray
winter coat when warmer temperatures arrive,
where humongous fur clumps would lay
comprising sudden empty raft

of shelf space minus a may
zing globules, oh...lemme get on track,
regarding poetic melee,
whence frenzied fever "cleaning bug" née
major virus afflicting wife,
would necessitate impossible task
whereby strapping former
feisty Norwegian farm gal
in straight jacket indeed livingsocial

would be no game to play
boot tiring and cruel task of her life Yukon say
24/7 daily challenge devious skullduggery
Smokey and the Bandits
an imp posse sub bill
outlaw gang, who lived like
Aristo curr Rats along the quay,
which unpredictable time frame

thine remaining lifetime sans wife oy vey
would frank lee zap
every last oomph of mine
if able twin door remaining with spouse,
meanwhile 'till she obliviously
plucks persistent sprouting
stranded silver follicle
tiller broad forehead resembles
a minuscule tarmac way.
Justin S Wampler Mar 2021
When I'm swollen and pulsing,
the roundish spot on your hip,
your skin under my fingers,
my tongue between your lips,
light from the setting sun
spread across our tangled limbs,
bits of lavender I keep finding,
your perky peaks beneath the sheets,
my tender remnants in your hands,
the congruent mixture we make
on those certain kind of days.

Paint me in your purples and pink,
and I'll soak it in.

— The End —