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AJ Robertson May 2013
solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.
Isabel Jan 2013
there are a lot of words that begin with un
and
most of them ****

unlucky unloved uninvited unaccepted unachieved unacknowledged uncomfortable  unadmired unheard

but there is one word that starts with those two letters
that can make things all better

understood
Exhale Your Mind Jan 2014
What's going on?!

With these beautiful dark women bleaching their skin and hiding their features.
Reaching to a point of shame from these beautiful creatures.
They don't believe what the bible says, so they're their own preachers.
While God designed them to be beautiful queens,
living the unachieved dreams of their african ancestors.

Daughters of Africa, daughters of slaves.
Free in the physical, but mentally chained.
Darkened by the morning sun.
Brightened by the evening moon.
A smile that captivates homeless hearts.
A strenght that fascinates hopeless minds.

Dear beautiful black woman,
Know who you are.
Black is beautiful. Black means strong.
Skin tone that matches the earth.
Curves that catches the eye.
Walk like a goddess and talk like a queen.
When you enter a room
let your appearance speak, let your presence prophesy:
"I'm worthy, I'm proud and I'm beautiful"
U
.
Unknown
Unaware
Unrefined
Undefined
Unwanted
Unachieved  
Unappreciated

Life is like a cash register, in the sense that change comes from within. The words above/below describe my outlook on myself (past/now). For me to fill the voids described above, certain adjustments had to be made. Notice how the words placed above can easily be changed by removing a specific letter or two.. change begins with  “U”

Known
Aware
Refined
Defined
Wanted
Achieved
Appreciated
maria Jun 2019
You ask me what are my goals.
What I'm I supposed to tell you?
That I don't have any goals?
That I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life?
That I'm so confused?
Why is that?
Maybe I'm just focused on survival.
Maybe because the dreams I once had, proved to be fake, proved to be silly.
written on August 31, 2017
Edward Coles Jan 2014
My voice falls limp,
carried reluctantly
across synapse-space,
landing upon the deaf brick
and insulation. Even this,
this inanimate audience
breathes fog of indifference,
into the speech
I call my song.

They trace shapes,
doodles and musings.
Anything to amuse above
these listless words,
this dead-pan circuitry
of sound, of chorus,
of rote strings, broken chord
and the misery of
unachieved catharsis.

Still, in humble melody,
I mumble through another verse,
fingers rolling in bands of
forever, walking up and
down the root notes,
as if scales were naught but
a busy mind, stilling orbit,
thawing memories
in the motion of music.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Elouise Roux Nov 2011
So young was I,
Back then.

Tight buns with tutus,
An undefined fuchsia on that stage.
Curtseying along for the applause,
Branded by spotlights.

Typically oblivious,
Like others prancing in the herd.
What shackeld influence had,
Diluted our impressionable
Selves.

A petals detail grown
On such feeble foundations.
Stemed from those early teachings,
Of the parents own unachieved
Dreams.

So young I was
  Back then.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Alex Courrier Nov 2015
This purpose I seek
Continues to elude me
All I can hear is the words
From foreign mouths
Compliments, accomplishments
But still satisfaction is far from close

Goals tossed aside
Like flood damaged novels
Except for one
Dusty, old, and unachieved
One from my childhood
Tucked away for safe keeping
Inside the hidden nook of my mind

One day, I will find a person
A person whose mind reacts
Perfectly with mine

So my journey begins anew,
But misleading pursuits led me
Far from where I needed to venture
Years it’s been, but I found a new path
One that I thought would lead me
To a delicate spring, peaceful and joyous
I still don’t know if this path is the right one
However, I continue with my hopes held high

10 miles in, now I see it
The path, it’s blocked
Preventing any passage lays a gate
Constructed fairly recently, but solid
Solid as stone and no way around it
I could turn back, choose another path
But the image of the spring is so near
My faith cannot falter
And so I wait

Sitting on the stairs leading to the gate
Listening for the chains to move
Lifting this portcullis
But what if I wait to long?
What if another arrives?
No, I must not question
I must find my use
So I continue to wait
Hoping that for once
I can continue on my journey
And for once
I can stay
Happy.

Right?
Amy Perry Dec 2016
There are more things
That are not things
Than there are things
That are things.
Potential is a powerful,
Abundant resource.
To tap into the
Unknown, uncharted,
Unachieved, departed -
And introduce it to
What it means to Be -
Makes every artist
A midwife.
Without the great alchemists -
The artists, the dreamers,
Visionaries, poets, musicians -
Those who enter into
Akashic Records
Like a library -
We would only ever have
What has already came to be.
Like a technical computer reality.
Art brings us closer
To the cusp of Life.
Mother Earth is the greatest artist
I've ever known.
Being Human means
Being an artist.
Our Mother may soon
Scold us
For coloring all over the walls.
Making an artist takes time.
In the Universe,
There's plenty of that.
abp
Jim Kleinhenz Nov 2012
They say old hearts do not
like old dreams to go unachieved
and uncalled for. They say,
when the winds blow with a finesse
unheard of, and the trees shiver as if they knew
what was about to befall them,
and the black cats all creep into shadows
even darker than they are—
the toads will be asleep under rocks
no one will ever know the names of,
dreaming old dreams of gold
and silver men, with gold and silver hearts
who can neither dream nor sleep—
nor do they want to.

© Jim Kleinhenz
NitaAnn Jul 2013
I began writing to express myself in the written word. To ‘speak’, in writing, of things from my past I was unable to speak aloud. Healing through writing... I needed a place to express myself that was not in a written journal that could be found by the wandering eye of someone in my real life.*

I reflect on the past year, and I do not reflect back with words of healing and strength and self-empowerment. Oh, I would love to write with the grace and eloquence of a woman who has gained the much sought after wisdom and perspective through this painful process, I thought that by now I could face and somehow outgrow the painful things that happened to me long ago.

I wanted to be able to look back on 2012 as a year of personal growth, from a place of asset and growth from my pain. I had wished that by 2013 I would have the ability to distance myself from this pain, that I could hold my pain and not let it consume me as it has for the past few years. But, regrettably, that is not the case.

But this year has not followed the path I had set forth, the goals I had set for myself remained unachieved. I did not want my writing to sound as pathetic as it does, I did not want to continue being buried alive in this pain, and I am so disgusted at the woman behind the mask, and I am filled with hate for little girl who aches with pain and continues to feel hopeless and alone.

Sadly, instead of feeling like I am on a ‘healing’ path, instead of being able to express myself in real life, instead of being able to take off my mask and be real, instead of being able to ask for help when I need it, reach out for help when I am drowning; I am now surrounding the brick wall I built long ago with barbed wire, and hired trained guards to patrol the perimeter, for reinforcement.

I wonder which side of the perimeter the therapist will end up on...I know he used to have the pass to enter into my world, but then a perceived breach revoked his credentials.  And I wonder when I will finally just pack it all up and just fade away. In a sense I have already done so emotionally ~ only the shell remains.  

*I am pathetic. I am last week’s leftovers that should have been thrown away long ago.  I am tired and I don't want to do it anymore. I am not the woman I wanted to become...not in person, not in written word. Tonight, I am wishing for something to turn me into dust and ******* away...
Mitchell Mar 2012
Summer cracks his bra
On your nightstand
As the leaking light of
Morning makes its way
Over your bed sheets

I tell of things that
Have been
Will be
And will be
Again

And so
With the breaking heart
And
Drifting love

One sees that
All things
Must pass and
Move on

With

Or

Without you

And asking why
The sun sets and
The moon rises
Forces a smile upon
My crackling
Firecracker
Face

Dear void essence of
The minds of the mad man
Pressing finger tips
To the ink as
The light bulbs snap
And flash spreading the
News like a puddle of
Spilt milk

Diamonds in her eyes
With the mystery of the
Ocean echoing life
Into every cavern of
Drifting time

Silhouette of a life unachieved
The lost cause the whole
Family is
Talking about

Dear Brother:
Where have you gone?
Why have you left us?
When will you be back?
And if so,
Will you be the same brother
When you first left?

Cascading fire cut flat
With the midnight moons
Dripping tears of sickness
Atop faces numb to the
Feeling of gratitude

Near to home

Near to death &

Near to life

Nearing the fork in
The road all
Lovers who venture
Forth together

Must decide

Where next

To Go
SelinaSharday Feb 2019
Reach Beyond
Da Mist..
Ohhh arrgh ooh I can't reach this unwanted.
Sighs tugging I can't figure this Mist.
I'm aware of the solemn because of this lone.
My internal lag is weighing my heart with emptiness.
Seems I no longer fit.
With all the wanted clicks.
Please um hello um anyone..um someone.
I need a heart message I can't reach deserted.
I need a specialist maybe a therapist.

My minds on an island called secluded.
While my nerves feels comfortless.
Is it cold now or is it only me.
When I drink it feels like a glass of withdrawn.
No one for special dinners meals eaten alone.
Temporary escape are lil chats on the phone.

Sobs water flows from my cheeks that spells uncherished.
I'll get a cup to catch these tear drops.
The sobs seems like they'll never stop.
My body feels so love malnourished.

I'm happy with my desired creative solitudes.
It's my lonely mist that drags my soul adrift.
My need to be supportive.
And to get support, to feel accepted and appreciated.
My want for deep connection.
And to give sweet affections.
Feels like unopened gifts cast away unshipped.
Stuffed with love unreceived..Forgotten places unachieved.
Sulked alone hidden deep within.
Trying to reach beyond this Mist.
Reach my heart touch my soul remove this mist.
Gabriel burnS Jan 2018
I’ve seen shooting stars,
Their, bodies, burning undesired
Thrown away
Like banished tears
From the dark pupil of the sky
I’ve been holding the hand of
A decade worth of dreams undone forever
So they could achieve dreams of their own
Before my gaze
I’ve held their ghosts in my arms
I’ve been standing at a full “I mustn’t” worth of distance
From their lips
I’ve been filling in vain, the bottomless glasses
Of the most beautiful words,
That spring from the electric spark
Beneath the ribs
I’ve been leading the guerilla squads
Of my beliefs
Against the empire of Impossibility,
And its most decorated generals: Doubt,
Insufficiency, Wrong…
I’ve lied face-down, hands tied behind my back
For that traitor, Restraint…
But now… I forgive him now…
And now, Empires fall on their own
Now those dreams unachieved,
Meticulously paint their eyes
Wrinkled from the salty trickles,
That realization has drawn towards me
For I’ve always known that…
Loving is now or never
You cannot wrap it in tinfoil
And freeze it for later
Yet, they, those morally unattained, chastely righteous dreams,
They do arrive at Knowledge station
Aboard the Intuit train,
Atop the tracks of true common sense,
Alas, too late.
My loving is given now
To Fulfillment,
For it chose now to never
And caressed my scars of restraint
With warm fingertips
And kissed my see-through “I mustn’t” from the other side of the wall
To melt away the distance to my bloodless lips

*This one, I wrote first in my native language. Here is the original in Bulgarian:

Защо нямам съжаления...

Гледал съм падащи звезди
как горят снага непожелани
Изхвърлени
като прогонени сълзи
от тъмната зеница на небето
държал съм за ръка
десетилетие мечти
завинаги несбъднати
докато те постигат своите
пред взора ми
прегръщал съм призраците им
стоял съм на едно “не бива” разстояние от устните им
пълнил съм напусто чашите бездънни
на най-красивите думи
извиращи от искрата електрическа
иззад ребрата
водил съм партизанските отряди
на вярата си
срещу империя Невъзможност,
именитите й генерали: Съмнение,
Недостатъчност, Нередност...
лежал съм по очи с ръце закопчани
зад гърба ми
заради предателя Въздържание…
Но сега… сега му прощавам.
Сега империите падат сами.
Сега несбъднатите мечти
гримират старателно очи
набраздени от солените струйчици,
които осъзнаването е изтеглило
заради мен…
Защото винаги съм знаел, че…
Обичането е сега или никога…
не можеш да го завиеш в станиол
“за после” във хладилника…
Но те, морално несбъднатите, целомъдрено праведните мечти…
Пристигат до гара Знание
с влак Усещане по коловози
истински здрав разум…
Прекалено късно.
Обичането ми вече е дадено
на Сбъдването…
Което избра сега пред никога
И погали белезите ми на въздържание
с връхчетата на топли пръсти.
И целуна прозрачното “не бива” от своята страна на стената, за да стопи
разстоянието до посинелите ми устни
A Aug 2016
Please take me to the ball, where I can gaze upon masks of all colors,
Lay eyes on decorated representations of what every guest wishes to truly be on the outside,
View every gem and thread lined cover for things kept secret.

Please take me to the back room, where I can gaze upon what you conceal underneath,
Lay eyes upon the things you wish to hide-not always with deceptive intention,
View every psychological scar in which you fear exposure.

Please sit with me while I tell you why both of these are beautiful, even if occasionally (or frequently) painful.

Please listen while I account for the fact that what is so often times covered is not always something to be just that; for a lifetime of oppression against an unarmored face and a bare heart so often attract wounds.

Please continue to be attentive while I put into words the fact that though they hold the ability to be seen as insincere, these masks reflect the true desire of what one wishes to put out in to the world, though yet unachieved just below; for a lifetime of oppression against an unarmored face and a bare heart so often attract wounds.

Please grip silk ribbon now,
and lace up, or undo.
For if you wish to discuss the action of either, when exhausted of secretion or vulnerability,
I will be here,
in this back room.
Mos Jan 2018
There was a woman who sat alone
Pondering whether or not she will fill anyone
Would each breath she takes becomes anew to another?
The glass now becomes half empty, as a pessimist would see
For fulfillment is unachieved wholly by the dependant party
There was a woman who sat alone
Trying to morph her skin to fit the vase for his flowers
An exquisite art piece made for a girl
Quite younger and prettier than her
“I’ll be anything”  
“I’ll be anyone”
As long as the taste of love falls from his lips to hers
But you can’t ever look past yourself, not with the way you felt
There was a woman who sat alone
Pondering whether or not she will fill anyone
And with that a man sat next to her
Glass half full
Now this isn’t a story of romance, or desire
Rather the pursuit of self happiness
For the sun already showed itself through each others beings
But together they became a galaxy
We aren’t giving up until we’re free
We aren’t giving up until we’re free
Tis not a dream like sleep,
You’re a tangible human in an endeavor to live
And I, in an endeavor to live alongside you
“It’s a beautiful sight to see you alive”
Nora Jan 2015
Take me back when didn't feel estranged from my skin and bones.

I am too you young to feel dragged by my throat
when I stutter under my breath

Forgive me for my adolescent mind, I do not think I have grown up yet.

I hide because I do not want to hear the tone of your voice saying my name.
Making me hate the day you named me.

I make myself believe that I am protecting you but I am only protecting myself.
I am selfish and I have been lying to you.

But my love we have lied to each other consistently


I am here.
I am your fears, your guilt your stress your forgotten imagination.
I am not your reality.

I am you nostalgia for a lie.
I am your unachieved dreams.
Your failures.
Your regret.
Your denial.

I am not what you are.
I am not what you want me to be.
I am not what is in front of you.
I am not what is in front of me.

I fear the day when it’s too late and my sanity forces me to dig in the grown just for the touch of your skin against mine.

Why are we so afraid?
When will you stop?

I am not going to stop reminding you that I am your daughter.
Grey Rose Nov 2020
I wasted my time watering a rose that will never bloom.
Every day I woke with the false hope that my dream will come true.
Every day I slept disappointed and heartbroken.
I've become addicted to tending to it even if it didn't want me to.

The rose withers.
Yet my dedication does not die.
This flower represents more than my hard work.
It has always represented my unachieved dreams and the beauty that life hid from me.

The flower becomes long dead but I remain in denial.
As a vacuum widens within my heart.
I continue to work and pray for a miracle.
Something died along with my rose.
A lot died along with my rose.

A miracle occurred - I uprooted the red corpse; destroying everything that I have ever idealized.
I look at the dried broken petal and I see everything that I've ever lost.
Yet I continue tending to it.
It now bathes in my tears.
I write this after my first heartbreak in highschool.
helios May 2019
purple nails
don't belong on
mountaintops
where the ground is
too far from the
clouds, it's hard
to breathe when
reality can no longer
support my weight
and sagging , stopped and
held down by pressure
of the goals unachieved,
two years ago promised
but now it's 2018
winter doesn't bring snow
and new year doesn't
bring change anymore
i wrote this back in nov 2018. i was genuinely goin thru some stuff then and it's almost nice to think abt how much things have improved since then :)

dont know what the purple nails things was abt but im not gonna change it because i want to keep it the way it was ok :-)

edit: this is depressing now
Elle Oct 2019
So late have you fallen under a banished moon
Everlasting we fought the spheres of our own humanity
A thing unachieved so soon
We ran rampant over the Earth's blue daze
and scribbled over the democracy of time
An imposing and commanding craze
that drowns the howling wolves
Gods1son Dec 2019
2019 is about to be over
This is not the time to be bitter
because of unachieved goal(s)
Do not allow regrets to fill the air
Even if the year looked unproductive

Consider it a blessing to be alive
'cause that's an opportunity to get it right
Let the successes and/or lessons of 2019
serve to boost your zeal
Choose to be fired up from within

Fill your heart & mouth with gratitude
Thankfulness is a door opener and
A catalyst in attaining higher altitudes
2020 promises to be bright & fulfilling
Get your spirit right & be enthusiastic

— The End —