Die For MeDie for Me.Go my grandeur, compose my bloodFor you, my every drop and hotNothing comes o'er my still led and naughtI'm long since lost, bled, of woeGo herald, call her in redSuffice to be sweet, bring her solaceHaven her bodice in her bedSavor her, where I can notOn darkened floors where I have bledBask her in your ownYours where mine, were mine divineAdvise to her, how lead me homeLove me back, I'd not be aloneAnd not, I'd tear my eyesScore the earth with salt and roseWeep, that I can't reap, that nothing grows to outshine you ripeNothing glows brighter, save the home I'll soon knowLo to my prose, hark to my verseYet be fed savior the words that I'd saidBy tears of love, my dear, in red -Jesse Frodelius
Homework that people liked.I am a delirious mediator on philosophy, where upon I behold truths and confabulation alike to remedy either to what I belong to. As is the nature of all who tread and crawl. But not so to the degree that a pauper does ill to his savior, nor with the clause that a King grants to his benefactor. I am like none of the priests, or lords, or men of medium. I am a singular outside of this. Objectively I see its whole, and what I see is good. Whether I can say it is moreover adhering to itself, truth, or lie I can't discuss, for again I am separate from truth. I am outside of it outside. What I see is not always true, as we all find ourselves realizing.Truth is a beautiful being. She is fragrant of the longest seas, the smallest spices, and the greatest okra and ilk. Yet she comes on strong as those seas' rivers come. They push and battle against everything and never lose with time. Suspended by men and our ignorance, yes, but never weakened. Even the smallest spices can be blown away by th
Honest LyreHonest Lyre.Bring a pan kettle, throw them in the fire.Throw a fire a dollar, lose a dollar there.Plate a dollar nickel, never find a buyer.Likeness un-liked, useless unused, doubling doubted, truth is abused.Wise is that man, that builds himself his lair.-Bring a pot some ginger, win another layer.Win a war with honor, never find a liar.Tell a liar off, grant him now a 'sayer.'Compliments admired, brutality refused, discretion tolls "aid," Honesty less bruised.Long live that man, who sings to his own lyre.
ChildrenChildren.Suffice my vice to acclaim my pain, I shall yet not run away.I'd advise myself to quit, but my advice lacks luster a bit.My fun awaiting calling for play, my games can't wait yet another day.Fulfilled my wishes else garden a fit, I'd fit in a can with this mind of mine.With the mind I have I'd fit through a ring.Anything, I'd fit through a needle's eye.So feeble my intentions that I'd throw rage to the glass.Graze my ego when everything crashes.Glaze my mind when all rests; a little bit better that way, feels better like thatA little me carefree and wild, 'guiled' by the glint in my eye, wiled by the guide