Not really that pretty
But lovely
Strong
flowing
She sat on the beach watching the last sunset
We were tense and sad but the sun did not care
When I remember will I think of the beautiful sun?
The beautiful you?
Not really that pretty
Striking, alive worthy of the perfect sunset
And so much more
Some people in masks of Guy Fawkes
Stood to protest Scientology's flocks
They wore them because
It gave them a buzz
And otherwise they'd get sued by those cocks
Dearest Sarah,
I hope that all is well with our family. Please send my love to little Joey and his sister Louise. By my calculations, the temperature back home should have dropped significantly due to our efforts; there may even be snow. They tell me that I'll be allowed shore leave in a month, perhaps two; I look forward to seeing you then.
The light plays tricks on one's mind; we cannot look at it, only observe it through our computers, making it all essentially invisible. It strikes me as ominous that our enemy is so powerful that it is...
"Can you believe it?" she breathed, eyes wide enough to take in the whole panorama.
Venice was empty. The sun hazed behind a gauze of clouds, glinting off the bows of the gondolas that knocked rhythmically against their moors. As we walked across the worn cobbles, I pointed out the bridge of sorrows. Years ago, prisoners were taken from some sort of religious court to their plight, and their wails left echoes that hadn't quite dispersed yet.
The plaza was magnificent, rid of all people - and the pigeons were scarce too. The bell tower was mighty and the palace...
In a world torn asunder,
I'm simply here to pillage and plunder.
I sail the blue and ride the high seas,
And move along on an ocean breeze.
Salt may move through my veins,
As women try to tie me down to these shipping lanes.
But my heart is meant to go far,
And my mouth is meant to find the next bar.
For in a world of insanity,
Little does the man good who is consumed with vanity.
So, I'll toil, and boil, and make myself trouble,
As I sit here on the edge of this bubble.
I'll watch...
I am not the hero of this story
I have abdicated my own starring role
I will live with that
or otherwise
I have chosen a poor teacher
or I have not made a choice
and that is the worst kind of choosing
She is not the villain of the story
I release her
bye
bye
become what you must, teacher, villain, muse
This is not a test
but I will take it
and pass it
with abandon and lust and glee
But it will not make me a hero
It will make me me
Woof woof. Woof woof woof woof woof. Woof. Bark woof. Woof. Woof woof woof. Bark bark woof bark. Woof.
"Lorenzo, no!" King Tremain howled, his eyes blazing with the flames of anger and betrayal.
Lorenzo, a traitor to his superior acquaintance, wielded the gleaming sword, it's sharp edges threating to destroy the feeble man who lay before it.
Despite the cries of sheer terror that penetrated the air of the castle dining room, Lorenzo's mind failed to subvert its attention from anything but his original goal. 'Overthrow the king'.
He swiftly raised the shining blade above his head and in one final burst of adrenaline, Lorenzo brought it downwards, wholeheartedly piercing the King who lay helplessly
She was stuck inside her own dream it felt like. All around her was fog and darkness. Okay, so it had to have been a nightmare. Alice tread lightly over the crunchy leaves and snapping twigs. Hands outstreched and head down so as not to get hit in the face with the seemingly large tree branches surrounding her.
She started to hear music, something she'd heard before, from her dad's record collection maybe? No. From a movie? She couldn't pinpoint the sorrow female voice she heard singing; as Alice walked more closely, she realized the song was not a song,...
Marchiel was wondering again. Wondering what Francis was up to. He was awfully quiet in the living room. She had left him alone for less than ten minutes to fold the laundry. He had been building towers contentedly, block by purposely placed block. But now it was awfully silent. When she got back into the living room the sliding door was open, and her 4 year old was no longer building with blocks. Marchiel raced to the door and stumbled over the thresh hold, as Francis, his big eyes all alight stood by the tree bleeding. An uprooted rose bush...