07-29-2016, 03:46 AM
@RiverNotch: Things would certainly be going better for him if he'd not let go. The religion of God is much more compatible
with the religion of romantic love than truth. Truth is responsible for more suicides than illusion (I'd be willing to bet).
And moving right along... I love this poem:
un4seen Fxs - Ann Vickery
Typographical err Or makes me live you more
peach day; all the fruitiest
salad days of my unastounding youth
fresh firm to ouch, sluice running rivulets
down my hum-dingers
leaves of green a sticky miss. Wilt. Upturned facia to cuss,
my inner coast dealings on display,
here they are 4 all 2 cc. Can I
whistle fluent profanities to you if my mood autocorrects
song to joy always as
sing tomboy
and says you are a hut?
Moonlight soon after by compost Lord pig’s van,
my blind blissful germ and his bland loaves. Fly this motion
through a sow’s and years. Take a sissy stile
from Marlena, garbage revival &
tolled mine leaven in blue angle. Am I four ever tagged
to you displeasing Parisienne evening? Tear open the pain
and butter freely while warm. Home-maid is best
for service cleaning while you make light work of it.
Love looks more and more like louvers
when you try to sms this ♥ and find only glasnost.
Common ownership is now a closed window.
[txt] only tampering provokes sudden fonts:
I am wooden blocked.
@lizziep:
you said: "Everyone's waiting for you to post a poem, you know that right?"
Everybody? I hardly think so. But it's nice thinking you are (unless it's the lying-in-wait type).
But that may be awhile. While I passionately love poetry (read it compulsively), I don't write it.
I've tried in the past, and though my poetry wasn't that bad (or good), I didn't enjoy it. My pleasure
comes from reading it. But who knows, I've never been able to predict myself (or anyone else).
with the religion of romantic love than truth. Truth is responsible for more suicides than illusion (I'd be willing to bet).
And moving right along... I love this poem:
un4seen Fxs - Ann Vickery
Typographical err Or makes me live you more
peach day; all the fruitiest
salad days of my unastounding youth
fresh firm to ouch, sluice running rivulets
down my hum-dingers
leaves of green a sticky miss. Wilt. Upturned facia to cuss,
my inner coast dealings on display,
here they are 4 all 2 cc. Can I
whistle fluent profanities to you if my mood autocorrects
song to joy always as
sing tomboy
and says you are a hut?
Moonlight soon after by compost Lord pig’s van,
my blind blissful germ and his bland loaves. Fly this motion
through a sow’s and years. Take a sissy stile
from Marlena, garbage revival &
tolled mine leaven in blue angle. Am I four ever tagged
to you displeasing Parisienne evening? Tear open the pain
and butter freely while warm. Home-maid is best
for service cleaning while you make light work of it.
Love looks more and more like louvers
when you try to sms this ♥ and find only glasnost.
Common ownership is now a closed window.
[txt] only tampering provokes sudden fonts:
I am wooden blocked.
@lizziep:
you said: "Everyone's waiting for you to post a poem, you know that right?"
Everybody? I hardly think so. But it's nice thinking you are (unless it's the lying-in-wait type).
But that may be awhile. While I passionately love poetry (read it compulsively), I don't write it.
I've tried in the past, and though my poetry wasn't that bad (or good), I didn't enjoy it. My pleasure
comes from reading it. But who knows, I've never been able to predict myself (or anyone else).
