

Self-congratulatory circlejerkPhilosophy was a mirror assembled in a factory-- itself completed only a century ago.Self-congratulatory circlejerk
The mirror, naked of itself, yearned to verify its own completion.
Art is communication. If only the artist gets his work, it's just masturbation.
Postmodernism is a cum stain in an abandoned factory, baking in sunlight reflected off a mirror that shattered to see if it was whole.


Driving to a New Home with YouA dusty U-haul hugs the street. Faceless, dry clouds rise swiftly With the clear moon. Newness is a noisy lover, Moaning down I-5.Driving to a New Home with You
Oh, transition! How travel gossips. We two shrink like candles into night From the past drenched north. Why is the long ago found wanting?
Move smoothly as the wheels. Love faith, battle exhaustion. Where will the end of the road Draw near?


Breaking the RuleIt was too crowded in the theater before the man sat next to him. Too dense, too absent of fresh air. There was a polluted smog wafting around that was undoubtedly the scent of several dozen individuals breathing out into the theater, the trace of nacho cheese lingering in their saliva turning sour as it was digested, the hint of buttered, carbonated belches, the pre-existing odor from cigarettes and morning breath unachieved by the concession stand. The room was vile, dimly lighted by the twenty foot fabrication of Edward Norton dancing about the screen and the seven or eight luminescent cell phone screens that had ignored the request at theBreaking the Rule


CreateBe still, be free. Keep the tingling under control, You won't overreact, make it a decreeCreate
It's not your place to feel excitement, Not for you to feel joy, There was a chance in the past, The best you could do now would be to annoy
But ever ceasing is this feeling, Is it love? Is it fate? Is this sensation of eager determination?
Could acting on this desecrate?
You've had a chance before, and blown it. But if you've been this far before, who's to say you can't again?
Create.


Earth is BurningEarth is burning. I wish I meant that as a metaphor, some flowery overstatement that means we are only on the verge of apocalypse; that if we continue our path the world will end; that there is hope and potential to fix everything; that weve been cruel to our home, that we could change our ways and keep living, forget our conflicts, unite, and intervene in our abuse of this place. But I dont. The earth is burning and there is nothing we can do to stop it. I wish I could envision the future. I wish I could be writing this for future generations. I would love to end up being one of those key writers in history, terrified of thEarth is Burning
But only into flesh and a broken whisper.
Into flesh and poetry.
from Autotomy by Wislawa Szymborska
--
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...
And miles to go before I sleep
-Robert Frost
--
Critic.
At *devCRIT
Enter =bekkia's fantastic "Down with Clichés" contest here: [link] You know you want to. Clichés are our mutual enemy.
--
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...
And miles to go before I sleep
-Robert Frost
--
The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. --Rorschach, Watchmen
i really love the way you express yourself
good job!
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"Sorry, mi love, I know you will never answer the love I fell for you, but, I'm going to look after your smile, forever..."
--
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...
And miles to go before I sleep
-Robert Frost
--
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep...
And miles to go before I sleep
-Robert Frost
you dont have to add me but just thought id tell you
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