T-kun Unusual Wordsmith III

When coming to knowing someone,

It’s best to do in small doses . . .

A MODERATELY intake of someone,

Before knowing who’s your buddy or opponent,

In a case like this,

Screw the rules!

It’s not wrong to be ANNOYED by people,

Grinding at moments,

But hey,

We’re human,

Nothing wrong with it,

Which:

Makes this man all the more of an individual to others,

In a landslide matter,

He’s best at what he does,

Laughing at problems coming his way,

Drinking along with misery because he don’t give a flying fuck,

At what the world does!

He might CANADIAN,

But it’s no excuse to what he is,

As he just plans to sabotage everything,

Because he can,

For nothing is easy to get or earn,

It’s a battle and he’s the referee of life,

And will continuing doing so,

Well . . .

I hope so anyway,

A little wakeup call never hurt anyone,

Right?

They march on. Intensity craves into the lands, through and through, departure from cascade of a hot summer storm.

With nothing but the imprints of life before, left behind; heading on, to where ever the compass leads.

The feet look nothing but straggling to keep on, with heavy weights of packs and resolve tall thin stature of hope, disappearing each breath taken by them. With the rumple of thunder strike, the nonconformists and trots of body armor cars trailing ahead or behind, to that a forever so echo through the bewilderment of afforest.

To that when the sun sets afar, the moon will rise. Yet, the bombs keep falling. Screams of fleeting life fill the air as the downpour masks it, but for only so long, as in night, it’s gone. Harbor high in the sky; blank as the faces of the unknown death.

Spotted with unnumbered of stars; just as bodies littering the cold ground of night: but soon warmth and baked by the hell’s heat of the sun. As to that again, days pass, nothing changes.

With that, the nameless and faceless men move on, stepping where their fellow man or enemy once walked upon, unknowing of who, is never clear of each, as that the difference is only notice by belief, leader, and battle jacket.

Who’s to care of whom is fallen, nurturing the lands of muster gas, iron bullets, reflects weapons colliding all for one thing, but the matters of it, have been for gotten.

It’ll whispering pass one lips for that it’s not forgotten, but, all that is sadly a lie. As even so, bombs strapped close and ready to blow, only mean for that more will follow.

Messages of freedom are clear, yet more men go, hoping and asking to a voice that never replies back, even on that of stroke of luck, it was all on person surviving, that is all.

Short wins they are all, sweet for a second, only to have an acid aftertaste, as once again it starts all over again.

For there is no other way to solve something, warriors must trek the lands, train to pull an object to scatter the kinship of an unknown face with an unknown name, just as the one pulling the trigger will know outside the world, that trained the trigger to be.

Vanishing to nothing but forming something; as days and nights passing, cold darkness with baking sunshine, a life to fall and rise, repeating history without knowing, but understanding that things change, yet not even close to the ways still programmed into one’s mind.

As the battles go on, the fleeting memoires is all one will have left. Heavy feet and armor trucks craving into the ground of weeks rainstorm, cooled by a hopeless blank night of cold praises of something to go right, alas conflicting for the wrong.

With maybe one question lasting forever in one’s mind, that what is war, structuring slowly but surely to, what was war?

A common dream left in the wake of scared battle field of world’s life.

Puddle by Maurits Cornelis “M.C.” Escher

Made in the year; 1952

Location when painted; varies areas of Netherlands

They march on. Intensity craves into the lands, through and through, departure from cascade of a hot summer storm.

With nothing but the imprints of life before, left behind; heading on, to where ever the compass leads.

The feet look nothing but straggling to keep on, with heavy weights of packs and resolve tall thin stature of hope, disappearing each breath taken by them. With the rumple of thunder strike, the nonconformists and trots of body armor cars trailing ahead or behind, to that a forever so echo through the bewilderment of afforest.

To that when the sun sets afar, the moon will rise. Yet, the bombs keep falling. Screams of fleeting life fill the air as the downpour masks it, but for only so long, as in night, it’s gone. Harbor high in the sky; blank as the faces of the unknown death.

Spotted with unnumbered of stars; just as bodies littering the cold ground of night: but soon warmth and baked by the hell’s heat of the sun. As to that again, days pass, nothing changes.

With that, the nameless and faceless men move on, stepping where their fellow man or enemy once walked upon, unknowing of who, is never clear of each, as that the difference is only notice by belief, leader, and battle jacket.

Who’s to care of whom is fallen, nurturing the lands of muster gas, iron bullets, reflects weapons colliding all for one thing, but the matters of it, have been for gotten.

It’ll whispering pass one lips for that it’s not forgotten, but, all that is sadly a lie. As even so, bombs strapped close and ready to blow, only mean for that more will follow.

Messages of freedom are clear, yet more men go, hoping and asking to a voice that never replies back, even on that of stroke of luck, it was all on person surviving, that is all.

Short wins they are all, sweet for a second, only to have an acid aftertaste, as once again it starts all over again.

For there is no other way to solve something, warriors must trek the lands, train to pull an object to scatter the kinship of an unknown face with an unknown name, just as the one pulling the trigger will know outside the world, that trained the trigger to be.

Vanishing to nothing but forming something; as days and nights passing, cold darkness with baking sunshine, a life to fall and rise, repeating history without knowing, but understanding that things change, yet not even close to the ways still programmed into one’s mind.

As the battles go on, the fleeting memoires is all one will have left. Heavy feet and armor trucks craving into the ground of weeks rainstorm, cooled by a hopeless blank night of cold praises of something to go right, alas conflicting for the wrong.

With maybe one question lasting forever in one’s mind, that what is war, structuring slowly but surely to, what was war?

A common dream left in the wake of scared battle field of world’s life.

Puddle by Maurits Cornelis “M.C.” Escher

Made in the year; 1952

Location when painted; varies areas of Netherlands

A Bitten Summer

So warm this heat has become . . .

Unable to breath to live . . .

Summer has taken a new approach on this.

Drying the rivers,

Thinning the puddles,

Lower the ocean level,

Completing everything without even trying!

Why has to this come,

Now of all time!

So warm,

So hot,

So will breaking . . .

Skin brighten to a shade,

Bitten as a snack from the sun,

Leaving on a burn of an itch behind!

O’ thy one suffering hath taken a new form.

One would find less of pleasing moment as this . . .

Summer is fine,

To a point,

This is not one of them.

In the pleasures and twinges,

This is a price to pay,

When summer is here!

Just as spring is here to ill one body,

Fall confusing the temps,

And winter being the hardest to make by,

Summer is just the same.

But to have a stiff upper lip,

And let it play out,

If knowing that having the heat,

Burn on,

Means only that a win has happen,

And that cup of cream waiting is to melt,

Just as one baking on low on the streets.

Summer . . .

Disjointing the mind,

One temp rising after the next . . .

To love or to hate,

Relies on who gives it a bother.

And to a day like this,

Have a good summer day out,

Even if it’s too hot to move,

Live through it.

Ever have that moment of nostalgia,

But unknown sure of how to look back,

Remembering what was great and how later in life,

All seems forgetting what makes some grand to . . .

The eyes,

The ears,

The heart,

And the memory!

With how everything is now,

The needs and wants of having that feeling again,

There is one of many to the turn,

In hopes of remembering that feeling again!

That would from richb,

A simple man,

Who lives on remembering the nostalgia . . .

Grand and crap of it all!

Some come in facts,

Tall tales,

And from the heart of one’s being.

In this case with richb,

All three are at his control,

And he makes the time worth it all.

Don’t believe,

Look through his blogs,

And they’ll prove you all wrong.

And really,

Read them just look back for the sake of nostalgia,

Because at times,

It’s all one has.

And richb makes it worth it,

As its on all the memoires.

So scared of not knowing where you are.

I see you hiding your face to keep the unknown away.

A creature makes a sound that sends shivers down your spine.

The shadow of that demon comes at you.

You don’t see it or hear it.

Blood boils in my veins and I stop it in its tracks.

The thud of its body makes you look and you want to scream or run.

Reaching out to you with a blood cover hand, but stop when give the sign of fear to me.

You speech of words I do not know and start to move away from me.

“Stop.” In a soft voice. “I will not hurt you.”

You do and is stiff as a stone rock of a mountain.

“I will not hurt you.” I state to you with a soft voice. “Now who are you, little one? Where did you come from?”

With wide eyes, no words came from your pale white/blue lips.

Your deep eyes look to the creature that I have saved you from.

I know that now your not from this world and know is there for you.

Nothing to keep you safe, I do the first thing I know I might like in the future.

But I did it for you.

I moved closer to you and look at your eyes with kindness I hope that you knew.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here for you.”

Years to come and have happen, I take it back.

I smile to when you look at me with a feeling I don’t know and all I say is..”I’ll be here for you.”

I’m not asking much, just turn around; look . . . I’m right here.

You keep saying my name, and I return you call, but again, you don’t look back.

I’m here!

Right here!

Please don’t do this!

Screams are just whips of winds to you!

Look this way!

I’m right here!

No!

Don’t leave . . . don’t go . . . you’re all I got!

Even if you can’t see me, I see you! Just turn around.

Time will tick away, with my voice raw and thinned, and you have yet to look back.

Blind to know I am here.

Always have and always will be, you would know, if you haven’t . . . Look!

Damn it all to hell, I’m here!

No . . . don’t walk away, farther away from me . . . no!

A chance to stop you, but you only seem to get farther away, look, I am here and well alive!

Look!

Please . . . oh gods . . . don’t let this be it for me?

Unless, you as well are the same and have no clue of this voice calling out to you . . . No!

Please!

Just look this way and hear me!

Please . . . please . . . please . . . Alone in darkness is all what is left for me.

I really am, to your eyes . . . lost and . . . I can’t even bring myself to say it . . . and I know it’s all too true to believe.

But here we are.

Forever it will remain . . . oh how I loathe it.

Athazagoraphobia

Being Ignored, Forgotten, or be soon Forgetting who one is be self or others

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A battle that can never be won, for that is just how two minds think, because there can only be one winner and one loser.

I will at this moment, now neither say it in false praises, nor is care of who I stand for, it just the truth.

You both suck at something and do great at something else.

Why does everything need to be overburden after that, really, I don’t see why?

If you don’t know what I mean, let’s hear some questions and see if that sheds some light.

Who is better at driving; a man or a woman?

A sport like this, be it ice skating or football, is made or and played by who?

When someone is saying for respect, a male or female voice sound better?

Will music ever change into something, people need now, than the overblown of wants of the better symbol sex?

Who’s better at being a parent, mother or father?

You know what this sexless voice says; its bullshit, what else is there to say.

I have seen both drives, no one is better; scale rate means nothing, when seeing you both fail at it.

Sports are sports, it’s something all love, a name for it, is the only that divides it.

Nothing more, nothing less, if the game you love is on, just watches it and enjoys it, with whoever is with you.

A voice a reason can come from anywhere, it only relies on who is listening, and where it goes from there.

Listen to the music of change, than that comparing one another of who is better and who is worst, trashing talking each other, only goes so far . . . and what left is just distrusting and unbelievable.

And that last question, when it comes to parenting, it’s a tossup.

A tossup, not for me to fully say, for if you want or have children, it is on you!

You could fail, you could be the best, but if leads to a competition to win a child’s heart.

Then there are no winners, just sex overcoming on what matters . . . being a family.

Parents; fathers and mothers, you’ll be winners or losers, but only if you choose it.

You choose on winning that small heart over for favorites or just help that child grow, into an adult.

Into you!

A role model, which warps minds into, that a penis and a vagina are the enemies to the end!

This shouldn’t be a war!

This shouldn’t even matter for look for a moment or so and see what it has leaded too.

Standers!

At pointblank range, set to kill, and forever alienated this already collapsed world.

Is there really a future where race, faith, ideals, choices of love and passion . . . and now sadly gender, really make this planet spin?

There just can’t be one?

Call me out on it for being some of inhuman to point out, but again, it’s the truth.

It’s petty, that even after years of change to happen, a standstill has come.

Because all want to rely on that is one race to lead, one faith to believe in, one love to have and to hold, with a correctable passion one because it fits their standers, for what sex they are, will do it just right.

I’m done with it, just done, because that’s not what all want, is it?

How would I know, I’m just some person, most likely female, ranting about how this world is run by men who will do anything to stay on top, and keep others in their place.

I despise you very much from thinking that, because, only for a point was made.

Again falls to, one of needed life.

Not one of many.

There should be one culture notice, one holy life to look up, and a passion given and done with.

Wrong, very wrong.

The human race can’t be like this, split down the middle of it, is just erroneous . . . to a high degree.

We come off as the very children of future years to come; untouched with emotion that makes us human.

Not sissies for crying, if sadness is too much, let the tears fall.

Not tomboys for difference, if acting such as you do, make you smile, go ahead.

Gender bending is now common words to others, for as if one sex can do it, why not another.

Gender race as well, having places turned around, for world culture is a must!

The only thing left is faith in believing . . . in what?

World Peace has become a pipe dream.

Gender Roles will forever play their parts for years to come.

Loving those of makes one heart skip a beat, is just a sin to other’s eyes.

A battle . . . that has no real winner or loser . . . but a fruitless battle as any other that will go one, until; no one is left to breathe on this ticking time bomb of a planet.

I see this world is far from being . . . something gray . . . and live in only black and white.

Out of all the wars there have been . . . this one is the longest . . . and most inane one of them all.

I throw in my towel, hang my flag up and high, and calling it an end . . .

For I think that’s the only win there will be, for there be no lines of gender, race, faith, and passion, is to just drop it and know this!

We all breathe, we all have choices to make, we all a have passion to follow in work and love, and most of all . . . what we do is in our control . . . but letting it control ourselves?

Is just a sign of weakness and giving into and go back on unset plans and returning to the ones meant to be broken.

And deep down we are rule breakers, admitting or not, it’s one thing we all do right.

As to what this man does,

Knowing something is half the battle . . .

Results cover the basics,

Fighting takes up the corners,

And pressing onward to prove a point,

Takes up the rest of the space of his combat charts . . .

Which he storms with pride!

Timmer . . .

He is a combatant,

Even if he dresses up like a bad guy,

Fools all others at the end,

As a well planned plot twist.

His reviews are what you think,

Well factual,

Detail,

Funny,

Zealous!

A one note he plays,

But always make it worthwhile,

As what he speaks about is,

Something everyone was just bound to grow up on,

Collect,

And pass down to future generations.

An uncomplicated memorandum,

But he plays it well,

As it is his bludgeon of choice.

Knowing is half the battle,

And it’s all at his command . . .

If that’s not a subtle way of world domination,

I don’t know what is.

Yet,

I feel no fear to Comrade Timmer,

So carry on the good work,

And battle hard when things become too much,

For a regret of a solider I know you’re not.

So ten-up soldiers,

Bow face and salute,

At ease,

You are dismiss,

Until further notice!

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The world can be viewed in so many ways, for all that what it is, is not what others would think when it comes compare to one another. To at least for humor, there come three visions of the globe, its life it holds, the pros and cons of it all.

In few views, it’s an unclear what is there to look at. No focus of an anything, for it blends. Becoming deformed into one being where lightness and darkness are unsure where to go and be blinding to one’s eyes.

To that it comes as looking through a telescope, far in zoom; an insect is a giant to some and a person a speck on the wall. A few turns left to right, the sizes changed, but for the best or worst, is another game to play of revolutionizes.

But, for again, that is only one glance through the looking glass of the three marbles of the full of life, tiny globe humans and animals call home.

The next vision, those of clear thinkers that see what the world is and it has to hold. What is there in the glass is a fact as any other, staring back, just as cold and dead, for there is no need for outside thinking here.

A mirror only coming the moves another, mocking but honestly telling; a tall fable that lasts forever, but ends just as quickly.

All shades form in the right order, giving clear look at what is there, a room; a study to learn and grow, but bland with colors of life all around in blacks, grays, and white shades, with only one soul; who thinks beyond what the mind can do, as in time using only his hands to tell his tale, for ears to listen come short and unwitting to his anomalous allegories.

A stony face that man wears, with knowing pride or not, does not matter, as his story is told, the matters of the aftermath, rely only on those who listen, and to pass it on or not.

Which soon, as the first world is shown unclear but wonder, the second holding a realistic dominion only ready for those to face it as it is, leaves only the last world left.

A bland globe, solid, made of glass, filled within to block out all else from seeing through and looking out. It’s a world, for the dead of the eyes, the grim walkers, those who have carried death on their shoulders as a partner for life.

Ready to know two simple facts, when there is a life living, it will die and join death in the forever lasting marching band of bleeding feet and tear swell eyes. As this world, is only known for its darker times, when there is no way out of a rational way, complexion given high and striking the minds to in differ themselves and finding easy ways out of it.

A gun to the head, a dagger to the heart, an effortless jump off a ledge, a blunder left or right, it all ends the same. Grim as it is, it another world of truth to minds who wander, alone and together, in these worlds, in this one kingdom.

Resting there on the hard surface of abundance made of wood. With a light, so distance but hot to the touch, but cold to see, shine upon, making sense of it all.

Even though, that would be just a waste, and it’s best to let it be, and play the cards already dealt.

Three Spheres II by Maurits Cornelis “M.C.” Escher

Made in the year; 1946

Location when painted; varies areas of Netherlands