The bat waved her arms at the bare-bear with hare-hair, as they looked upon the loud ball.

“What flair!”
“What flare? For the fair?”
“No fare. Let’s find some spirits!” The bat went combing through the crowd.
“I can’t hear here,” sighed the bare-bear.

He fled the beating of the snare, but his hare-hair couldn’t keep up – it was penned by the drumsticks of the foul rock fowls that were shredding guitars. The blue bare-bear burst into tearing tears and was no more.


Potential imagery:
- A nocturnal bat with the body of a baseball bat, holding arms as guns
- A sad, blue-coloured naked bear, wearing a big rabbit as a wig
- A noisy party happening in a giant gaudy bouncy ball
- The ghosts of bottles of alcohols, or perhaps bottles filled with ghosts
- The bat making her way through the crowd while brushing her hair with a hair-comb
- An animal trap involving a snare drum being hit by drumsticks (the wooden sticks that play drums, attached to the knees of a chicken)
- Grungy musician chickens carved from stone, (musically) shredding guitars, making sounds that turn into shredded bits of lettuce
- The drumsticks of said rock chickens imprisoning the rabbit-wig by writing all over it
- The bear literally exploding into lots of little tears that go about ripping into things like ninja stars, perhaps deflating the ball

by V Ole
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"One must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being."  May Sarton

"The most wasted of days is one without laughter." e e cummings

"Don't fight the home team." saintmaker



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in honor of what was (maybe, probably) the 450th anniversary of shakespeare's birth, i wanted to read my favorite sonnet, #44.

it expresses so beautifully the feeling of being apart from someone, and of wanting to close that distance. 

(public domain:

xx evyn

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by debit72
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Yes it is...and come right in! =]

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To The Humble Servant From The Unworthy Heart

Oh how you have been so wrong
Lift me up when I'm not strong 
Mine is the unworthy heart 
And I've loved you from the start 

All I want for, is your love
Brought together with a dove 
I'm sorry for breaking you 
I've brought you down with me too

Oh the trials we've been through 
Will help us to stay true 
You couldn't be more mistaken 
Yours is the heart I've taken 

We've known each other for years 
So let's end this not in tears 
But if it be, then be of joy
You've turned from that playful coy 

Your soul, your warm soul be new 
Bring me along with you too 
At this place I do not know 
Broken, removed from below

The years before me are great
I fall though it's too late
To know your name till the end
With our hearts then be mend 

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Kids are interesting. My daughter had two prominent caregivers growing up. When she was an infant, she split her time between me and her father's grandmother, Nana. The reason being, because I was a fulltime student and worked part-time. My daughter was (still is) very creative and innovative, as most children are. She used to slip up from time to time and call me Nana, and call Nana, Mama. Of course, that was happens. Eventually, she started calling us both Mana- a combination of Mama & Nana. I always thought that was pretty cool. I also think that it exhibited good problem solving skills.

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From The Prideful Suitor To The Angel Above

You don't seem to understand
How I've been lost in this land
With this struggle stuck inside
I try to hide inner pride 

You come to me for comfort
But I only leave you hurt
You will never know my heart
That I've hidden from the start

My pride I hold oh so dear
I hope to make my thoughts clear
I am a stubborn creature
Who even denied the preacher

Tell me how to earn your love
Oh great angel from above
Your Devine beauty trumps all
Your wisdom will never fall

All my ghastly world in whole
Empty handed, with no soul
I humbly bring you my case
To forever live in this place

I do not deserve your heart
I plead you forget my depart
Take the hand of this peasant
Accept your humble servant

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you dropped a weight

down my throat

the blood-like taste,

metallic and rusty,

still lingers on my tongue



heavy with the burden

of unwanted secrets


overflowing, drowning in words

left unspoken


dense with regret,

i'm sinking

in a forgotten sea

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I consider myself cautious

A realist, a pessimist

Whatever you want

Because a pessimist is a realist who recognized thier morbid head

And a realist is a pessimist who somehow convinced themselves the issue wasn't in thier head but in the world

I haven't decided where the issue lies yet

I consider myself a painter

a writer

a filmer

an artist

a lover

But these are just my multitude of ways of saying the same thing

These are my shades of color to paint one face

I consider myself passionate

I am too much person bottled up into one head

I am too many opinions spilling out onto the dinner table

making my grandma worry that

I might not become a lady

I am words running across paper when I should be doing history

and chemistry

and french

thoughts and words that run into each other

and make friction

and at night when i listen to music so good

I want to pour it into my mess of a brain and run it through my veins


I realize I am neither

a realist

a pessimist

But optimism makes you vulnerable

and I'm just scared

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