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Die For MeDie for Me.
Go my grandeur, compose my blood
For you, my every drop and hot
Nothing comes o'er my still led and naught
I'm long since lost, bled, of woe
Go herald, call her in red
Suffice to be sweet, bring her solace
Haven her bodice in her bed
Savor her, where I can not
On darkened floors where I have bled
Bask her in your own
Yours where mine, were mine divine
Advise to her, how lead me home
Love me back, I'd not be alone
And not, I'd tear my eyes
Score the earth with salt and rose
Weep, that I can't reap, that nothing grows to outshine you ripe
Nothing glows brighter, save the home I'll soon know
Lo to my prose, hark to my verse
Yet be fed savior the words that I'd said
By tears of love, my dear, in red
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
Long live that man, who sings to his own lyre.
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 that
A little me carefree and wild, 'guiled' by the glint in my eye, wiled by the guide
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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