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Don't Exist Mar 2015
The One with the Timberland Boots
Those gigantic feet
Which I peek
Was close to mine
Though I had to sneak

The stench of my odor
Coming from my ***
Was making me
Insecure very fast

But luckily the stalls divide us
Our bowels and touch
And all things that blind us
Except for the smell
Of course that was true
But with our smells combine
There was nothing coming through

Between us…

The love that we made
That came from pain
Has thus began to fade away
Including me who had to go

But I will never forget
The Timberland Boots
Who sat near me in company
Throwing my insecurities off the roof
tomsout001 Mar 2013
Germantown is (basically) where I work! In fact, it's part of the county I live in (Montgomery). I think a lot of the outage has been restored up there but I could be wrong. I live in Bethesda but am staying in Rockville right now and there are a ton of trees down where I live that is probably hindering the restoration effort.

Large sized shoes, like Mens Shoes Size 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, and 22 are very hard to find in retail stores. I know, my 15 yr old son wears a size 14 shoe already, and I'm anticipating them to continue growing for a few more years. He plays all kinds of sports and we have resorted to only ordering shoes online because we can never find his size in stores.

We also found one a few weeks ago. If you have any concerns about your own health or the health of your child, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional. Please review the Privacy Policy and Terms of Use before using this site.

A good quality pair of swimming shorts is made lightweight allowing you freedom of movement. It should also be engineered well to prevent the annoying air bubble that can get trapped in a pair of shorts when jumping in the water. It also should dry very quickly so that when after a break from swimming, they will not be dripping wet, leaving puddles everywhere.

We buy toys for (babyandyUSA-March-11) children and families in need during the holidays. I want dd to understand that, while we have worked hard for all the things we have, we are also very fortunate to have good jobs and that we sacrifice some things to have others. are lucky to have a beautiful house, food on the table, a healthy family and so much more.

Ever since I been pregnant, I haven been able to go to bed at night without onion Toms Shoes Sale rings. Is this a normal craving? ~Depends on what you doing with them. Do I have to have a baby shower? ~Not if you change the baby diaper very quickly. Okay, my bestfriend is getting married. She doesn't want to just go to the court house (not active member, so temple is NOT an option) It's her first marriage and tomsoutletus she want a real wedding. Now, before you laugh at that number, she is -borrowing the dress-between me (being a bridesmade too) and my other friend, pictures will be free- Her boss is making her flowers, she just has to pay for the flowers-She's going to use the LDS church (so no reception hall fee) -My MIL is making her cake.

A light lunch which includes such things as beer, *** punch, tequila shots, fresh fruit and a Mexican buffet lunch or sandwiches is served before the ship drops anchor. Everyone then dons masks and fins and jumps in for a wonderful afternoon of snorkeling along the pristine reef. Underwater cameras (my Pentax digital is AWESOME) are strongly recommended and can be purchased at the marina gift shop in case you forgot to bring one along..

Well, I sympathize with everything that each of you has said. There are so many levels to being a working mom and losing your job. I'm still just weeks into all this but every day is a struggle. Now regularly attracted in all the assortment, Timberland Hunter wellies Socket which have a totally special orange coloured coloration option Timberland Boots for the four corners. I need all the orange colored. If you have any concerns about your own health or the health of your child, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional..  2013-03-12.
Primrose Clare Mar 2014
the halcyon timberland rest
a cottage with gliding vines upon its wall
tasted soot and first snow,
knew the land where all grass grows.

I am a piece of mild apple rotting in merry hues
upon skeletons of twirling tree roots.
I peek skywards to the ripen boughs
and the mirthful hopping birds  
of gold and yellow, of ruby and dream.

Amidst a silvery silent
sun rays make its glow of gold
with the sapphire ocean's salt.
Hear the wealthy sea soughing from afar?
in quiet burrows the rabbit takes its ample rest
as deep and soundly as dormant butterflies
in the green harmony bushes;
with the subtle, halcyon seawaves' singing...
A fine lullaby indeed.

I'm trapped in sun scourged  skin
Fighting to get out. Screaming for  benevolence
Confound by the  phobia of my appearance
Struggle for success should I be a street opportunist
Sale dope like my Dad did
Walk the line between life and death can you believe my dads dead
A walking  stereotype and be what there assuming
You ever try to swing at a fast ball disguised as an underhanded pitch
Swing and miss pain sets in
I'm bleeding in hopes of true equality
You see my people were still in chains
Deaf to the freedom bells
Colonials were children of a country
Battles fought for freedom released from there parents reign
My ancestors were  stripped from  soil dragged across the sea
To new plains force to be slaves
Some my view this as tasteless and lame
But it’s the truth
Asphalt skinned products working in fields barefoot no timberland boots
I send prays up and salutes out to the troops
Cause if we switched shoes
 I’m not sure if I would do it for you
Cause I don’t see innocent faces
I see innocence taken
Cops are cruel cults cause communities to be complacent
Conditioned to be racist
A people treated like Jesus stripped naked
A people where knowledge use to be sacred
Now money driven like I never made it to my graduation
But you see this money I’m making
I am caking
Cards of independence
An illusion it’s really assistance
Do we know that its fraud
To trade money for independence cards
Taking tax money doesn't erase the odds
Liberty by the hands of man is flawed
I was formed in this soil pushed out of America's womb planted my feet from birth
Kiss with this dying flesh destined to be treated like dirt
America a false independence since its start
You will only find freedom in the face of God
Pursing him with a  passionately postured heart
Angels sing when we say yes
Independence in Christ he paid for our freedom with his flesh
Despite all the political jargon
Screaming and freedom marching
Gods independence is like stars and space its infinite
Earthly independence in all its splendor compared to that is limited
Latching to this life's liberty is like licking
a limp liquored in leprosy
A  detriment is a  understatement
Put more hope in a representative than Christ . below the mason dixon an under states men.
Wars get fought for freedom
Bodies stack up for freedom
Money gets spend for freedom
How does peace gets forsaken for the sake of freedom
A fable is still a lie..
I wonder if animals in a preserve can recognize that they not in the wild
Gates open and chains broken when aligned with Christ in his Kingdom
Rachel Elizabeth Mar 2013
How I long to be like you, White Oak
Standing tall and regal
You fulfill your niche as an edifice of omniscience
Wearing proud your burl as if it were a purple heart

But perhaps it is a purple heart,
A Timberland Medal of Honor generated from bacteria and plague
The burl you boast is a bulbous scar
Informing your onlookers “I survived”

I too am still standing, White Oak
I’ve weathered my failures,
Teach me the trade of your bravery, muse of Mother Nature
Show me how to wear my battle wounds like a diamond ring

When they come to slice me open
The exploitation of my innards will taste nothing but familiar.
Inspired by a White Oak I saw during a field trip to Johnson Woods, Orville OH a few months ago for my writing class.
Meg B Jan 2015
My life constitutes of
a dichotic shift as I
a state of self-assuredness
and self loathing.

When I am assured
I am sure
that my eyes are a
golden brown,
my smile whitened and straightened
with perfectly painted lips.
My eyelashes curl upward
as I give you my most intriguing smirk,
inducing you into giving me
those copies for free
and saying "Ay girl"
as I cross the street.
My jeans hug my hourglass figure
like a girl from a video,
and the compliments find themselves
going my way.
My brain swells with
knowledge and an almost-eery insight
as I predict your admiration
and find myself compensating as to
not appear
I hold myself with the highest regard and
refuse to let a man
make me feel inferior,
to judge me by my exterior because
I am superior to that
My wit is quick and
you can bet I'll put a
Slick Rick in his
place if he is even fit to
keep up with my pace.

But then again
I look at him and see
him frowning at my
symmetrical, but overly round
thinking that there might
be other ladies in this place
with a smaller frame,
with a flat stomach and
a tame sense of style,
not a fedora or Timberland boots or a beanie,
not someone who cackles when
she laughs
and talks even more loudly and
obnoxiously than she chuckles.
I'm not smooth enough to
keep your attention as
my obsession with Harry Potter accidentally
gets disclosed,
as I feel my skin-diseased cheeks
bleeding through their concealer and bronzer mask.
A law school degree sounds boring and
braggy as I grasp
at straws, at my only backup source of comfort,
as I attempt to woo you with my brain because
you clearly aren't into a size ten.
You glance out of the sides
of your eyes as you buy me a drink,
or you tell me you aren't
ready for a relationship
even though we've been
sleeping together for a year;
"it's just not you, it's me"
is what I finagle
as a girl named Hailey
posts a picture of you with
your arm around her size two
waist and top-heavey Double D's.
I let down all of my walls and
you forget my birthday,
and I stay devastated over you long
enough for you to
forget my name.

I'm two-in-one;
I'm confidently lacking in confidence and
disapprovingly disapprove of
anyone's opinion of me
but my
I wanted to head to the African Union to speak my mind
So I wrote a letter so they could respect my kind
Then I thought maybe if I go to the paper they'd hear me out
Seeing as the newspaper is the bastion of the spectacle
But I got hysterical, as they told me I should come back later
So I voiced my thoughts and pulled out a hailer

Here's the story, the revolution is in labour
Africa is a child who needs hospice, he needs to go to theatre
But many would turn a blind eye so maybe this is a show that should play out in theatre
But maybe that wouldn't be enough so a black story should be told on a white sheet called the cinematic theatre
African child get your 3D glasses and take a moment for some introspection
This is a dedication which needs intrinsic meditation
So instead of fainting, here's a painting
Do you still treasure your body like the gods said you should?
Do you remember the time when the San were working on wood?
Sailing the seas and they would later be called the Grimaldi
They could sail the seas don't believe the whitewashed folly

African Child do you remember your clesetial roots?
Or have you been embossed in the culture of Timberland boots?
Do you still grow your hair for your follicles are receptors like an antenna
Or has the weave been weaved into your scalp so much that you only see white tapestries
Your afro was your beauty and now all you have in your head are glued and knitted seams
Martin Luther had a dream but the only colour that succeeds seems to be the one that gleams

Are we to remain a colonised progeny and have amnesia when it comes to our galactic ancestry
Yet we're quick to receive European ideologies
Soon after that we earnestly accepted American anthologies
And yet we know little of our African anthropology
Have the forgotten ancestors ever received an apology?
For accepting foreign religions and capitalist industry

But no they have all been reduced to slaves, what of our chiefs and sages?
No a millennium African would be quick to skip those pages
Instead we find wisdom when we're in cages
Our ancestors we've put in a box and that's not our original coffin
Through the coffers of the soul you see them in your past lives and they have been trapped in an X-box
Yes they are animated and we are left mentally incarcerated in the television plasma box
You would remember that many who still held the truth were given small pox

So I say on this day, make things of clay
And stage your play of our beginnings - breathing in sun rays
Hold onto to your dread locks for some dread that that so many uneven black threads can lock
Made to believe that whiteness is intelligence and blackness pestilence
Well spell out your excellence in trance states and let them call it deliverance
African child, wake up, the planet needs you
You have been the seed Alkebulan
Way before Scipio Africanus canned us
Rid yourself of these heinous cancers
Hear them the Martian chanters
They are ululating calling out all ascended masters
We feel the sacrifices of the yajamantas
We are one with nature and we bleed with the sun
Rise and grow to unite the world for beyond complexion we are one.
T R Wingfield Dec 2016
I found a boardwalk in the woods
leading, seemingly, to nowhere,
In a timberland swamp I knew from younger days;
Decaying and rotten, likely long forgotten.
I wondered how long it had been there, abandoned to its fate:
being quietly mocked by the still standing timbers,
as yet spared the sawmills blade,
for its needless sacrifice, as its strength is weathered away; used but unrequited, wasted, faded and unmade.

I followed along its decrepit path
as far as I could make,
and laughed to myself and thought,
"Such is life's disarray."
Crystal Freda Oct 2017
Leaves flee in the dusk
near a fine ending in this evening
bringing a musk
in the air in a fragrant mist.

Surpassing the land
lies radiant shades
held in the midrib or strand
fluttering and drifting in the wind.

Up high in the gentle breeze
leaves take flight and travel
Leaving their safe place in the trees
all embracing the taste nature brings.
Chloe James Apr 2019
Chilly timberland.
A silent, little mouse squeaks
as a fierce wolf howls.
Another one...
Fecund , Sun drenched coppice , Marsh Hawk pursuing eyes , mid-afternoon iridescent Dragonflies , half turn of the ever evolving earthly -panel , a fragile , cobalt soap bubble teetering from parasitic occupation
Felled timberland bridges , Warbler performers , days of pungent Pine -and Water Oak umbrellas
Persuasive vapors commanding the senses from every direction , spun in -the pastureland , seeking the fall of the stratospheric canopy , poetic tales -of the inverted world
Copyright May 12 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Theresa M Rose Jun 2014
I sit alone along a stony brook.
I weep, for all my lonely sorrows.
I conceive of what my life has took,
And, I wish not to know any tomorrows.

I gaze on down into the flowing water's stream
And as I sit in my tears, I conjure up a dream;
And as the stream accepts my tears,
I try to ponder what this dream could mean.

I'm walking in a timberland,
and it set near a woodsmen’s mill.
And, with the flowing water's rushing sound,
it makes this dream seem real.

I see a miller's wheel, and it's turning high and round;
It squeaking high above my head.
And, when the water flows down down to the ground,
It is then, I see the water is red.

The water is red.
This seems strange but it is true.
And down there in this deep red water,
A soft little white lily grew .

It is as white as snow,
And as white as new
And here it is dwelling,
Inside this deep dark red pool.

Oh poor lily,
Now, it is changing to pink;
For of this cold flowing red water,
This poor little lily did drink;

Poor little flower,
This little lily is heavy from its drink;
It goes down down under the water
The lily did sink;
Into its red red watery grave.

I Reflect back on to my stony flowing stream.
I do ponder of what this image could mean.
A tear falls from a burning eye;
I sit here in my melancholy
And, I wonder why;
Firewalker Nov 2014
Your love is like poison,
I thought, as I lay sprawled on the cold gravel
Blood and tooth free to travel, and play in the dirt

Gary Wright & his band Spooky tooth fill my mind,
You broke my heart, so I bust your Jaw

Great Album, loved the “70”s

It started around a month, a century, a week? I don’t know? I lost track
I was in the forbidden palace, the gritty, and the grimy.
You know the Joint,Yea the Soul Sickness,
The place I keep running to, The black hole I cling to, live-in and bath in.

I’m one of the lucky few, not to get it

I must have been at the wrong place at the wrong time,
Force Majuer here you come, the Rush,
pulse-pounding sensual stick of dynamite,
looking for someone to light your fuse,

Yea, I’m weak, need a match?

Oh yea we’re the perfect couple,
we beg, we devour, we bleed our disease into each other.

It’s never enough; our enough doesn’t exist and never did.
Satisfaction is never guaranteed

You crave more,
I need more,
you want more,
I desire more,
more, more, and nevermore

I asked you if you love me?.
You told me, you don’t know what love is?,
but we have something special,
As you grind your hips into my lap and lady love entered my veins,

Lust disguise as passion?,
A void filled with love?
But your love is poison,
And I’m dying a slow death,

I watch from the ground,
Your mud-caked high-heeled shoes,
and his new timberland boots walk-away

Yea, the one who busted my face

I pick myself off the ground; brush myself off, stumble into the palace,
Look around my sancutary, notice a barfly, buzz, buzz and buzz right out a broken window.....I order a shot of antidote.

Ivan Brooks Sr Feb 2018
In my poverty songbook, I wrote
Fear nothing but to do some wrong
Yet I wrote nothing about being broke
All because poverty made me strong.

From birth, I've sung the poverty song
It's about a unilateral fight against poverty
I know the road to the summit is long
I'll rest at nothing until I dwell in prosperity.

There's a verse in the book about perseverance
It's the main reason for which I wrote the song
In there I thanked God for His grace and Providence
For it's within his grace where we all belong.

In my poverty songbook, I left out a lot of things.
There ain't a single verse about laziness and self-pity.
I instead included a request for a Timberland and wings
These two I'll need to get about and do my hustle duty.

The quest to escape poverty is the reason people like me made it...I used it as a yardstick and a prism.
Her Saturday is slowly inching away ..
Eyelids grow heavy , timberland begins to darken ..
The music of life slows a beat , thrilled voices drop an octave ,
gradually cascade , methodically erased from creations sweet song ..
Sometimes late afternoon is a silent movie , droning on till the final curtain call ...
Well intended thespians have no stage , the leader of the band is without a public address , the speaker no podium , the lion tamer with no whip to crack , the pastor with no flock to lead to the River Jordan ..
The poetess with her priceless Saturday on paper , tucked away in a shirt pocket , to be absorbed and read aloud tomorrow ...
Copyright February 23 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The click-clack of the clanging clockwork,
Its ever soothing song caused her mind to slither,
Into the same sweet sleep-like stage,
That she had known all her life.
She knew that soon she would have to say goodbye,
For forever she would be forgotten,
In her timeless paradox of hopelessness,
When everyone around her had died.

Flash forward foursquare years and a fortnight,
Her life in the lavish, lively, timberland,
Would once again have to end in a quick manner.
She would have to pack her precious belongings,
And part ways with every crazy moment,
Of her simplistic, temple-cleaning way of life
For moving had become a way of life on its own.
A bittersweet fact that she could never overcome.
The life of never fitting in with the world around her.
A sorrowful, simple, somewhat sadistic life she knew,
A punishment to herself for living as long as she would.
An eternity with a cold, almost black non-beating heart.
Home of afternoon coppered timberland
Dancing wire grass and shimmering tin
Egrets in the house of deep blue sunsets
Dove songs riding winter winds* ...
Copyright November 19 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Harriet Shea Sep 2019
Roaming in the wilderness, softness
underfoot, cool whispering of the
woodland breeze kissing her cheek.

Free spirit of the wolves, her other
friends, devoted, true, warm
creatures of the timberland, follow
her where she roams in grace.

Tranquility fills her heart, while she
roams the powerful irresistible
timberlands, crossing the streams,
gazing at the majestic mountains.

Evening brings a new world into
play, all becomes alive under the
black velvet skies, where stars
sparkle like diamonds.

Being in the wilderness is like
a captive bird set free, nothing
so comforting for a soul so cherished
in a world of miracles each day free
and new.

Living is magnificent, coming alive
where the wildflowers sway, the weeping
willows hugging the rocks by the flowing

No Place she rather be, only with her
friends, mighty wolves of the timberland
smell of leaves and branches freshly in the
air, rain falling softly re-nourishing everything
of beauty and life.

They call her 'She-Wolf of the Timberlands'
roaming bravely with her faithful friends of
the wild, head held high, with a song in
her heart.

By DerenaBree
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.what's that Jack Kerouac book? Buddha of suburbia? more like Hospitaller of suburbia, by the looks of it...

and there's drink and there's drink,
and there's drink drink drink,
and drink...

              am i in Valhalla already?
what's up with ms. Amber?
  that liquid deity of whiskers & the ost key?
    another loose cannon!
           but not orthodox canon, though?
  sign me up for a power nap...
     back in 15... once all the fame game
fizzles out...

      **** me... back on the ***!
like i said to this black guy
  going out with a white girl
in a Liverpool St. pub...
  so... watcha drinking?
   *** & coke...
oh come on...
  that's a ****** name...
   so i eyed him,
thank god he was donning an excuse for
****** hair...

  look!         blackbeard!
you're drinking a blackbeard!
       what was i supposed to say?
nice minstrels?!
the girl giggled,
   the pair left,
but i was still stuck with this
Irish Indian mongrel who asked
the Wong question...
   where you from?
  but really really from?
some people put me down as
a German, either the hairline,
the crop itself, the cheekbones,
of the jaw line...
           **** ****** off before
i even began to express my like
for the engineering that wernt
into the Hindenburg,
before, you know, Led Zeppelin
took off...
   ha ha!
i'm starting to appreciate
the dementia cinema of old people...
better than LSD...
these memory flashbacks...
           i could pig snout that ****
all day long...
      oh right...
i have half decent memories...
my bad...

   i'm not english but i do know
that when a casual strange
expresses "sorrow" with the word sorry,
the act that appeases saying
sorry, if half intention,
but the sorrow in the word
utilized? it's not there, never was...

or how about -
that's nice: ridicule, par excellence...
does engish have to boil down
to Darwin and not ontology?
which means?
i guess ontology is frightening
to certain peoples,
other than the jolly rogers of
being constantly bothered by it,
like the german...

wait... i thought the Anglicans
were cousins with zee Germans?!

my bad...

           as the saying goes:
either one liners at the Edinburgh
festival, or a decent narrative,
no punchline,
      a disorientating coming together...

     last time i checked...
walked to the supermarket, passed
a tom boy on a bench imploring her
phone for ****** expression...
walking back with *****
of decent 7% beer, asked to sit down...
offered a lighter...
talked for about 1 minutes,
asked it - not yet her
to come back to mine...

played her some jazz... drank
a bit, smoked...
ended up ******* her in
the garden...

****-naked in the moonlight...
instead of ******* into her mouth,
pulled out, did it in my hand,
and then threw it aside...

walked her home...
while she drowned in my hoodie...
she implored me not to drink...
   i said thank you,
but that's not going to happen...
kissed her forehead,
received a ring
    woven by a neck bracelet...

turns out she was a she...
a transgender
   Filipino tom-boy wearing
a sports bra...
          messy ****...
as all pick-ups are concerning
a public space like a park,
and 2 hours later... ******* in the garden...

but i have to admit...
   i was waiting for the Thai surprise
once i reached into her underwear...
lucky me or thrilled me...
what's it going to be?
       an oyster...
  or floating Alaskan timber?!

dating... ha ha!
    Camden Town...
      next to the station...
sly drinking a pouch of *****...
    oh yeah yeah,
trying to write a poetry  book...
     blah blah...
so what's more important to you
than accompanying two girls
to this other nightclub?
no much...
    but i hate being late...
  i decided to have a drink with
this guy who asked if i was gay
as we discussed whether
Rick Rubin was a better produced
to Timberland...
      ending with:
   why do people stare at you?
with the reply: i just have one of
those punching bag faces...
so she gives me her number...
          i text it the next day...
             hey, ms. Amber is always frisky...
with, or without the Valkyries...
  whoever they are...
     if are, at all...

       and thank god i actually competed
with an American over a French
exchange student when i did lose
my virginity,
                then the desert...
then a brothel in Poland,
with a centipede of Ukrainian girl's legs...
way past the Moulin Rouge cancan
                       2 hours...
              no ******* at any time...

           but please! Sancha!
  Sancha! i want my DVD back!
         i want the Machinist back!
                 couldn't you have at least
had the *******'s decency after 4 *****
with me the 5th...
to lubricate?
               what was it, ****?
          that's the second girl i slept
with that somehow appreciated
both a dark room, and doing it under
the bed sheets... ****!
can't breath!
     how can cocoon *** with the already
dark room, rather than darkened
say, dimmed lights, candlelight ever
produce arousal?
               *** education has,
suddenly, become, much more intricate,
point break, standard...
        Sancha, a Boer South African
didn't have, the same ******* courtesy of
a Puerto Rican ******* in Amsterdam...

                   hence my query about ****...
no ****** would ever go along
and shove his gangrene phallus into,
what feels like... a ******* sandpit!

                  we cooked dinner together!
we watched a film together!
she invited me back to her abode!
then again...
        you know where she was hoarding
her ***?
    in an all-male boarding school...
the boys were on holiday...
down below!
                 **** me! what a revelation!
spending all the year
with adolescent boys...
   a man older than hear
didn't excite her!
           ****! **** **** **** ****!
i never saw that coming
at the most reasonable explanation
why i was pseudo-***** by
a dehydrated oyster!

             if you spend so much time
with boys who have only just
embarked on a journey of testosterone...
and you're getting all that
schoolboy affection from them?
no wonder a man who's older than
you will not turn you on!

          that **** i went to a *******
and know what the etiquette is
like, when you've just ****** 4 and you're
about to **** a 5th...

       good to know...
                         what's MGTOW again?    
does it have anything to do
with listening to a choir of monks sing?
Byzantine, Templar... anything?
oh right... not really...
          oops... i'll be on my way...
right about...           NOW.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
i never understood this...
why would some driving
a black Mercedes, honk,
apparently recognizing me?

have people become subdued
to... looking for friends
in strangers drinking
beer while walking
in the night?

never mind...
  this, that, and the other....
toward and from
"thinking" outside the box...
let's nuance
what "thinking", "outside", the "box"
actually implies...

αθεα -
           don't know the specifics,
but it's Greek...
so... but it's Greek...

    i translate that as:...
oh... wait...
   VAT... not FAT... i.e. that
            and VER.... and not FER...
i.e. there...

****, there was another one
of these unexplored graphemes
in the English language...
V'eh point,
  not F'eh point...
like... what's the difference
between Φ and Θ?
an iota... and a locked door...

cheap joke? yeah... cheap joke...
more like a joke that became
a choke...

so it's like...
i Θink about ΦilosoΦy?
or I R?
Timberland style?
**** gets confusing...
          is this Wahhabi not wasabi
in pseudo-Korean?
what... you mean
that penicillin horseradish from
old squinting eye?!
that ****?!

oh... you didn't know that not all
white people have inherited
no? want a tissue?!
          these tricks don't work on me...
you want to cite ancestry...
i'll give you the three names
of my former "fathers"...
Russia... Prussia... Austro-Hungary:
or... Habsburgs, for short...

as i'd tell anyone:
now... take your ****...
and move along.

            the only "thing" that's
to become undermined psychology
is an octopus...
oh look... you scared the poor thing...
lucky for me... she just
squirted enough venomous-ink
into the water...
and... oh look...
a blank space...
kind of like a brick wall...
but more refined, like Beelzebub's eye...
a myriad of a kaleidoscope -
which implies: enhanced splintering...

but seriously...
the whole concept of:
to think outside the box...
      what box is there to begin with?
what's with all the specific requirements
to "think" an "outside" for?

sure... if you worded it as:
now i don't even remember...
oh, right...

to think outside of a box...
   but there's just too much cascading
prompt with the direct article,
the verb-impetus, which,
gravitates toward using a direct article...

F'eh / V'eh point...
to actually "think" outside the box,
is to... think... about, a box...

                which is a goddess i mind...
to "counter", or, rather,
coincide / compliment αθενα...

so yeah... take your post-colonialism
******* elsewhere...
    unless you're an Ukrainian...
or Lithuanian, Latvian or Estonian...
bye bye.

— The End —