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Sarah Lee Rock Feb 2014
I don't know what to write here,
But I know I need to write.
So here is my streaming thought; I am sorry if the writing is horrific.
My brother is in Afghanistan and I want to cry. Not because I miss him terribly but because he's finally become someone I look up to rather than detest. And most of all I don't want to lose him.
My sister will be off to Japan in a few weeks and it will be the longest we've ever been apart. We're going to miss each others Birthdays…
My best friend is so wildly out of control I fear that she's going to get herself pregnant and not give a **** about anything. I just don't know what to say to her anymore.
I am going to college in six months.
My grandfather is dead, and so are both of my cats. My guinea pig died a year ago.
I am torn between science and religion.
I have feelings for someone who wants me too. But I can't be with him because I'm scared of everything that comes with a relationship. The drama, the complications, the pain.
I am much to internal. I miss my horses, I miss swimming in the cold Saranac River. I miss Forget-Me-Not flowers that come with the spring. I miss dancing in the rain and listening to music while I stargaze under the Adirondack sky.
I am sick of crying and grinding my teeth at night. I'm sick of feeling like I'm not human. I am sick of caring about myself, but if I don't, no one else will. I want to be the person I appear to be. The person that everyone thinks I am, but right now I just feel broken. How can the person thats supposed to hold others up be broken?
Wk kortas Jun 2017
I have long since forgotten his name
(He was only around for my sophomore year at Dear Old State)
As he was universally known as  “Coal Miner”,
Being of all things, a geology major,
The nickname being buttressed by one heroic drunk
In whose aftermath  he brought forth, all Vesuvius-like,
A dark concoction of dirt, twigs, and some small bits of stone,
Though by and large he was reasonably diligent in his classwork ,
Maintaining his drinking and general decorum
Within sensible boundaries
Not adhered to by the general run of dwellers
In our brick bungalow of doubles and triples.

One perhaps-it’s-truly-Spring day just before finals week,
The Miner went off in an in aberrant and inexplicable rampage,
Replete with wall punching, blood letting,
And annihilation of light fixtures
Which spilled out of the dorm, across the academic commons,
And ended just inches from the Dean of Students himself.
It was the last any of us saw of The Coal Miner
Before he and his disappearance rode off together
As the stuff of undergraduate legend.
We later heard The Miner’s mother had died
Suddenly, unaccountably, down in Cortland,
Succumbing to some rare and misdiagnosed malady
(To be fair, it was one of those illnesses
Beyond the experience or worldview of small-town hospitalists)
And, with her, all his means of support, emotional and otherwise
Vanished like so much ash blown away
From the site of some ghastly fire.
To disprove the theory that God only sends us what we can stand,
The college regretted to inform him
That they were unable to provide
For the unfortunate contingency at hand,
And as such, his only mildly distinguished academic career
Was brought to an abrupt and unfortunate end.

We later heard he’d told one of the coterie of security officers
Who had wrestled him to the ground
(Thus preventing the Dean’s untimely
Though likely unlamented end)
That one of the faded, clumsy portraits
Depciting long-dead medical directors
Lining the entranceway corridor of that hospital back home
Had actually hissed to him
What do you want from us?  We’re only men, after all.
(He’d been in the full-blown midst
Of his shock and grief at the time,
So the possibility of hallucination certainly couldn’t be discounted)
And one of his hall-mates swore upon his mother’s life
He’d seen the shoulders of the founder’s statue
(Heroic bronze figure outside of Waddington Hall
Smiling benevolently,palms upturned, hands outstretched
Offering a bounty of knowledge to all comers)
Actually began to droop a little bit after it had been passed
By a screaming, bloodied, raging Coal Miner,
Though that tale was the handiwork of Tommy Mulligan,
Who was sodden and given to pure foolishness
Remarkable even by our standards,
And I later heard the Coal Miner
Was living in a barely habitable cabin
Up on the shore of Saranac Lake
Where he had become a stonemason
Specializing in the restoration of headstones
Buffeted by epochs of mountain sleet
And Midwest-borne acid rains.
Philipp K J Feb 2019
Hi, every one,  I am the captain  of all disease
A micro Guerilla war lord  you strive to finish
Within the next fifty years and with catch word campaign
“IT’S TIME" as part of World TB Day (Twenty Nineteen).

Armored with mycolic acid, we are aerobic
Aerial experts invading human pulmonic
System in colonies of MBT spectrum.

Throughout the ages  my  target is  Human beings
Of all regions from Horn of Africa,  my origin.
My task and designs are to impoverish men
Kings and his men were my targets in ancient aeons.
People used many names to call me and my legions
'White plague', 'Phthisis', 'romantic disease' were common
Crazy men wanted to die embracing consumption,
A mere ‘the poor melancholy angel' assumption
To gift on the sufferer with sensitivity height
And  to slowly die with the disease of the artist
Until Rene Laennec inventing the Stethoscope.

Men realized the lesions scope and my design and art
Doctor Koch discovered the cause and effect of my start
Men like the owner of Mammoth Cave,  Dr. Croghan,
Put the sufferers into the cave  like a pagan
In the hope of curing the disease and began
To treat with the constant temperature of cave air.

I caught the German physician, Hermann Brehmer,  
Who came to the Himalayas to cure and endure
So he proved and labeled me a curable disease.
He opened a sanatorium, a place for healing
On the mountains of Silesia to treat the ailing.

Peter Dettweiler, an inspired patient of Hermann
Started one at Hesse for the afflicted He and Her man.
Edward Trudeau too was influenced by the German
And opened one at Saranac Lake's confluence.

But still we are powerful and **** millions of people
Our success rate of terror is far higher than the steeple
Chase unleashed in the Holocaust and in Hiroshima
We catch millions in latency and adapt to change
In time and try to outsmart any adept campaign!

Yet you can approach the Creator who may have a design
To defunct and re-engineer us to change and combine
Our deadly power to release us from this cruel confine.
For me too is fed up with this turbo holocaust!

— The End —