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Literature Text
"I'm here, I exist."
I hate
playing the trust game with fate.
I know you're there.
But existing and appearing are two things I never equate.
I need permission
from my conditions.
As I said earlier about me and my layers,
about the optimistic and the complainers,
I'm not the representative of the eccentric
just what you pay attention to of human nature.
We live like a piano;
Vibrations cry flowing through tired arms
to keep you from falling into the fray
and remind you it's all okay
as the last note fades.
Because, after all, we can't play melody forever.
I know you too well.
You have this complex in which you have to feel clever.
Just like me.
Sometimes I take for granted that I have this characterization;
what I see is what many others want to see
maybe even feel like they can or would or should.
I can't tell if that's good.
I just do what I did in 2011:
take charge
be harsh
put the march back in March.
It's like a one way mirror;
I never quite receive the other end.
"A masculine defeat" is all I need say to describe
the way you never asked for a solution so to no solution you subscribed.
"It's all your your fault.
They shouldn't take responsibility. You never grow."
And because parent's savor this false reality
I have to imagine Jeff burning snow.
The liars do care about those involved
but they don't know what it's like to feel like a problem
who needs to be solved.
Every time nowadays I log into Facebook
I stare for a couple of minutes at the one statement for which I care:
"wolffy i think it is time for you not to be scared."
"the real wolffy is not scared of anything"
"The real wolffy; we all love you."
There's people who'd kill for to say for them that's true.
I guess that's me: the intellectual bi-sexual sentimental
the outpatient mental accidental.
Summer's swift demise
helped amplify your message.
Nothing lasts when time moves this slow
but memories self-destruct so fast.
They tell me to live in the present but I'm intoxicated by my past.
The coffee seeping through my skin
makes me realize that truly my statements are synonyms
for the way I treat myself to freedom with conformist de-conformity.
I admit it to you, Absalom; I can relate to your sense of superiority.
Except you did it with the belligerent bird
and I took the manifestation of what you consider castration
and accomplished what you did with my words.
I hope they'll realize existing and appearing are two things to never equate.
The memories are a bit faded,
but this is exactly what it is to play the trust game with fate.
But I'm Wolffy: If anything at all, I guess you feel like you can relate.
I hate
playing the trust game with fate.
I know you're there.
But existing and appearing are two things I never equate.
I need permission
from my conditions.
As I said earlier about me and my layers,
about the optimistic and the complainers,
I'm not the representative of the eccentric
just what you pay attention to of human nature.
We live like a piano;
Vibrations cry flowing through tired arms
to keep you from falling into the fray
and remind you it's all okay
as the last note fades.
Because, after all, we can't play melody forever.
I know you too well.
You have this complex in which you have to feel clever.
Just like me.
Sometimes I take for granted that I have this characterization;
what I see is what many others want to see
maybe even feel like they can or would or should.
I can't tell if that's good.
I just do what I did in 2011:
take charge
be harsh
put the march back in March.
It's like a one way mirror;
I never quite receive the other end.
"A masculine defeat" is all I need say to describe
the way you never asked for a solution so to no solution you subscribed.
"It's all your your fault.
They shouldn't take responsibility. You never grow."
And because parent's savor this false reality
I have to imagine Jeff burning snow.
The liars do care about those involved
but they don't know what it's like to feel like a problem
who needs to be solved.
Every time nowadays I log into Facebook
I stare for a couple of minutes at the one statement for which I care:
"wolffy i think it is time for you not to be scared."
"the real wolffy is not scared of anything"
"The real wolffy; we all love you."
There's people who'd kill for to say for them that's true.
I guess that's me: the intellectual bi-sexual sentimental
the outpatient mental accidental.
Summer's swift demise
helped amplify your message.
Nothing lasts when time moves this slow
but memories self-destruct so fast.
They tell me to live in the present but I'm intoxicated by my past.
The coffee seeping through my skin
makes me realize that truly my statements are synonyms
for the way I treat myself to freedom with conformist de-conformity.
I admit it to you, Absalom; I can relate to your sense of superiority.
Except you did it with the belligerent bird
and I took the manifestation of what you consider castration
and accomplished what you did with my words.
I hope they'll realize existing and appearing are two things to never equate.
The memories are a bit faded,
but this is exactly what it is to play the trust game with fate.
But I'm Wolffy: If anything at all, I guess you feel like you can relate.
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Literature
Memoria in aeterna
To say that Cassandra was an influence on my life, is like saying the ocean is big. Such simple words cannot convey the vastness, the complexities, and the intricacies of who she was to me.
She was so large a part of my life, that with the naivety of the young, I assumed she would forever be there. She was an unchanging force from my childhood, a rock through my youth, and a friend in my adulthood. It still seems hard to fathom that she is gone.
I want to tell you who she was to me:
She was my inspiration. I remember watching her draw, and swallowing up every pencil stroke. I'd ask questions, and she'd slowly go over lines, telling me the
Literature
~Torture~
~Torture~(10/10/2018/Poem 357)
My fingers upon the carved blade
A giggle of madness upon my lips
By now you are wishing you had stayed
And not been swayed by my curvy hips
I slide the blade down your cheek
Dancing with delicious delight
It is your torment I do forcefully seek
Covered in blood you make a pretty sight
I trail a finger through your crimson blood
Maddening glee as I taste it from my fingertips
Through your body you terror does flood
As down your body more blood drips
I gleefully carve your skin to pieces
Making you scream in beautiful pain
Horror my torture unleashes
As my wicked smile is utterly insane
I take some acid in a
Literature
Her
She is a
beauty,
a head turner,
a hot mess,
but boy do I love her.
She never lets me
fall,
falter,
or lose my faith
because she believes in me.
I am in
lust,
in love,
and just damn lucky to have her
by my side.
She's my
best friend,
my biggest fan,
and my lover all
wrapped up in one special package.
Life is hard,
but she makes it bearable.
She lifts me up in the storm,
and never lets me give up,
even when I think the world
has had enough of me.
I can't stop
won't stop
loving her.
She is my hero,
and I am hers.
Suggested Collections
This is an experiment with my expansion on old poetry project.
"I'm here, I exist." This is what I felt for the longest time. I feel like it now, almost. "I'm here." There's something within me that needs to get out but I don't know what. I hate playing the trust game with fate; I hate having to accept my lack of control, but I also hate accepting what I can. Why? Because it's hard work, that's why. I can feel the little remnants of when I was little, even a year ago, slipping away. I'm forgetting Sam Gruber's voice. I'm forgetting what Walden honey suckle tastes like.
I need permission from my conditions. As in, I can't trust my own perception half the time. I have this self-doubt.
All I truly want is to be happy by route of honesty and diligence.
Hey! At least this year is my chance, right?
"You have this complex in which you have to feel clever.
Just like me."
We're always trying to figure out the new idea. Maybe it's just me. It's scary: the thought of having nothing new to give to a discussion.
I am freed by my own persona and imprisoned by my limitations. Just like you, I must find a balance. My problems aren't particularly special: just difficult.
"I'm here, I exist." This is what I felt for the longest time. I feel like it now, almost. "I'm here." There's something within me that needs to get out but I don't know what. I hate playing the trust game with fate; I hate having to accept my lack of control, but I also hate accepting what I can. Why? Because it's hard work, that's why. I can feel the little remnants of when I was little, even a year ago, slipping away. I'm forgetting Sam Gruber's voice. I'm forgetting what Walden honey suckle tastes like.
I need permission from my conditions. As in, I can't trust my own perception half the time. I have this self-doubt.
All I truly want is to be happy by route of honesty and diligence.
Hey! At least this year is my chance, right?
"You have this complex in which you have to feel clever.
Just like me."
We're always trying to figure out the new idea. Maybe it's just me. It's scary: the thought of having nothing new to give to a discussion.
I am freed by my own persona and imprisoned by my limitations. Just like you, I must find a balance. My problems aren't particularly special: just difficult.
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