I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Behind the proud mask of heroism War is only the rotten maw of death Brooking no question or criticism From the lungs of the skeptic, it gulps breath
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Summer evenings Are apologies for the Insults of winter
As banal, waking life loses its charm And the horizon of being draws near The domain of dreams seems a more fertile farm
A patina is fragile by nature With some abrasion, it quickly dissolves; When the tiger is revealed as paper The revelation the patsy absolves
The poor are obliged To struggle to sustain life Rather than change it
“Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good & Evil, Chapter VI
The clumsy apers of genuine craft Gather apres talk with their publishers Dismissing their asper critiques as daft One pares his fingernails while he ushers
If only I had recognized you Drunk on the new wine of romance As a betrayal artist A priestess of bad faith All disappointment
Another year has passed Never to return Not to be altered or refined Immovable as a mountain, obstinate and taciturn
The bell of liberty is sundered now No longer audible is freedom’s ring To mend its broken form, we know not how For it is cracked, along with everything
Operators, or verbal false limbs. These save the trouble of picking out appropriate verbs and nouns, and at the same time pad each sentence with extra syllables which give it an appearance of symmetry.
Write something awful Then atone for that blunder Through better writing
