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Children of PalestineDusty feet, kicking the ball,
Vigorously shouting 'goal'
Laughing running, scoring,
The evening sun, setting,
Looking up to the skies,
They see glistening stars,
Bringtly shining, falling down,
The stars seeds the floor,
And the laughing is no more.
Rhosyn cochRhosyn coch yn blodeuo,
Gwaed yn rhedeg,
Trwy'r mynyddoedd hen.
Red rose is flowering,
Blood is running,
Through mountains old.
CuriousEvery night he stares out of his back window, staring at the darkness,
He does not care for curtains because he does not sleep
his skin is like a thin piece of paper, smooth but cold
Instead of washing himself, he brushes varnish over himself.
Yes he is a peculiar character, at eight am he pours a drink
the drink he poured was turpentine as he enjoyed the kick
twitching away in the corner he plays with a plug socket
due to small long fingers he could easily do so.
Instead of gum he chews razorblades, and that's him
nobody knows his name as no one cares to know
therefor he lives next door to someone
poking a hole through your wall, spitting blood
mutilateddarkness bleeds through the walls,
chains hanging, wrapping cold bodies,
distant echoes of scraping metals,
steam filled lungs are abnormalities.
uncertain presences of soulless entities,
glaring eyes following my silent steps,
recycled cold bodies made in refineries,
twisting, bleeding, ripped out biceps.
mutilated, deformed, dark and evil,
screams of a thousand trapped bodies,
clotted blood fills the cold veiny vessel,
darkness bleeds through flooded arteries.
I feel corroded
I feel manupulated
I feel enraged
I feel used
red as the pounding heart
scaring flesh and skin
mist over the river
boats to the other side
the meaning of life
what is the meaning of life?
This is a brief written work so that you can get to the point quickly.
imagine yourself in a bubble and in that bubble is your existance, now imagine that bubble could pop any moment now, think of all of history of artist, musicians, poets, writers, sculptors and leaders..... GONE just like that, no trace, no memory and not even history itself because time ONLY exists within the boundary of that bubble, your life meant nothing, you might even have been an imagination or a computer programme, a test even, this bubble could have been created by something far more powerfull that can harnest the universe, such external force and that external force could tell us why we were created within that bubble, so that leads to a answered question in that bubble.
But the problem still remains, why does the external force outside the universe exist? sure you would probably find another second external force outside that external force i just mentioned, this problem would
A view of the world today by Brian Mountford
The trouble is the gradual decline in government policy and infrastructure that arises from the collective works of individual elitist crettins. If it wasn't for politicians and money power crazyness spurred on by a self perpetuating media propaganda machine then we would have probably solved most of the worlds problems by now.
Take America for example, the worlds first super-power, they had an extremely large responsibility to elevate the rest of the world up to a higher standard when they gained access to technoligical ingenuity and resources unavailable to other nations. Unfortunately however, they completely squandered their resources in a selfish manner which has driven the country into an economic death spiral which has led to invasions of the nations that they should have been helping to develop infrastructure (which means easier access to trading of resources for all nations, better education, lower crime rates, less global poverty and disease etc etc) and so the rest of the wo
Reaching out in to the realm
Unknown of what I may find
Complex structures to overwhelm
Systematic patterns of the mind
I grasp onto the never-ending
My eye opens up to a new dawn
The body suddenly begins to ring
I defragment into divine to spawn
I am at peace, I feel alive and I feel tall
All seems transparent and clear at last
You are I and I am you and we are all
And at last the cogs are winding fast
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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