Quotes about shred, page 12
Day Of The Dread
Day Of The Dread
Written by: Wilfred Mellers, Sunday, March 4,2012, @ 12: 20 PM
Rose red yet no one speaks for the dead
The blind was foolishly led
No place to lay my weary head
No one listens to the words I've said
Empty is my lonesome bed
Hanging on by a thread
Happiness hopelessly fled
By bliss I was misled
All the books I never read
So many words left unsaid
I thought I was happily wed
Precautions I should have taken instead
The heart hungers unfed
Broken it hides in the shed
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poem by Wilfred Mellers
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To Mrs. King, On Her Kind Present To The Author, A Patchwork Counterpane Of Her Own Making
The Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quickened by a call
Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair
Who deigns to deck his bed.
A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,
(As Homer's Epic shows),
Composed of sweetest vernal flowers,
Without the aid of sun or showers,
For Jove and Juno rose.
Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.
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poem by William Cowper
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I'm gonna tell you
I’m gonna tell you
By: Jean Pullman
I am sick and tired of people walking all over me
As if I’m a doormat where you wipe your feet
I’m through with being walked on
I’m done with saying nothing’s wrong
CHORUS
I’m gonna tell you this once I ain’t gonna say this twice
If your smart, your ears will open and you’ll meet my eyes
Im gonna tell you the truth
I gonna tell you what I’ll do
If you don’t listen then I’ll beat the shit out of you.
I hate this feeling that you cause
If you’re not careful I’ll shred your face with my claws
So you might want to pay close attention
It’s on behalf of your life’s suspension
No more bullshit, only reality
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poem by Jean Pullman
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The Blueprint States
It has always been significant.
That blueprint.
It describes their events!
Time released...
And to them sent.
But alterations to it...
Was never meant.
They have been trying to find,
Ways to avoid it.
Undermining the message.
And becoming annoyed by it!
And the blueprint states...
Exactly what the stakes are.
They have their scholars shouting in their ears.
Even Earth itself...
Can not get them to hear.
And they can not conceive,
This Earth living and breathing at all!
A common sense within them,
Has been ego enthralled!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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One Cup Of Coffee Is Enough
I'm the one who waits for the love
Years and years may ones returns back without asking why and what's
Holding this heart in my hands
With the sorrows with all aches
I'm the only one who waits
Alone a stranger is this poor heart of mine
Always believed in honesty of love sense
Though I know the real ones never counts Those who've gone never comes
But the awaken pity since survives in this heart
Will never allow me to become insensitive one
How can I forget the tenderness of a smile
Every bit of sense with honesty once I've shred
They used to say just for the sake of one cup of coffee is enough
To keep people's memory within hearts
And I say one glance stays there in my heart
I'm not the one who forgets the pure emotions have a place
Every bit of love sense
Stays there in my heart
I can't regret the love sense with honesty one day I've shared
Even the ones who've gone have a place in this heart
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poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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These Hands (201?)
I looked down at these hands
No longer those
Of some younger man
They made some big mistakes
On looking back
Painting bright hopes upon a man
To make a better world
Because he started out as black
I dared believe in love
But in my foolish bravery
I learned to want it too
To hold it in my palms
As fresh
As waters of my happiness
Innocent of rituals
Strangers to distress
These hands have seen some action nonetheless
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poem by Frank Bana
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Wafer
The Present: a nano-thin wafer wall
on which we wanderers waiver, stall
for time - waifs small on ant-heap tall -
soon turned to ashes spurned, shred shawl
on which we pile from fast Past’s dust,
rich dream state which maintains its thrall
to spell Man’s time-plan wherewithal -
framework contextual all-in-all.
This transient recorded scrawl
upon the wall of fate thus must
seem progam which can disinstall
itself when system crashes - fall
whose ripples often waterfall
from chaos and beginnings small -
an ore shawl for next cycle’s rust –
from an apparent free-for-all,
create conditions for long haul,
new ball-game to begin it all
again and open options call.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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I'll Be Outside In The Car...Waiting
They will welcome you.
And shower you with accolades.
You will feel embraced and accepted.
UNTIL...
You do or suggest something said,
That is in their best interest...
They dislike and despise.
With a dismissing of your efforts,
Of wanting to be too close to them.
Your jaw will drop.
And your eyes will pop from your head.
Then they will attempt to shred you apart!
Quicker than a rabid bobcat...
Leaving you with memories,
Of their viciousness...
You will not soon forget.
'Comeon! Don't be so negative.
THESE people?
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Whether This Embarrasses Or Not
Listen Carefully.
Forget merits of integrity.
And those with credentials to teach it,
But...
Somehow have missed quite a few lessons,
In the process of 'obtaining' a permit...
To be deemed accountable for their actions.
Doesn't it seem preposterous,
Absurd!
Like seeing a hippopotamus in leather hip boots,
To hear someone vehemently defame someone's character,
For a wrong that was 'supposedly' done to them on purpose...
When these very same people,
Have not shown a shred of accountability in 'anything'.
But expect to be lovingly embraced showing up hours late,
'After' an event has taken place.
To then be heard embellishing truths with extended exaggerations,
And overheard making the same excuses used for years...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Head Against The Walls
There were only a few of them
In all the earth
Each one thought he was alone
They sang, they were right
To sing
But they sang the way you sack a city
The way you kill yourself.
Frayed moist night
Shall we endure you
Longer
Shall we not shake
Your cloacal evidence
We shall not wait for a morning
Made to measure
We wanted to see in other people's eyes
Their nights of love exhausted
They dream only of dying
Their lovely flesh forgotten
Bees caught in their honey
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poem by Paul Eluard
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