T-kun Unusual Wordsmith III

Keeping it simple,

And just get it done.

Taking care of business,

Lifting that weight off the shoulders,

Being proud for whatever the job is.

For every time a job is finished,

A moment to feel good,

About oneself,

Can go a long way!

Even if the job is shitty,

It pays the bills,

Keeps food on the table and in the belly,

Enjoying those smaller finer moments of a self reward,

And whatever is left is saved.

Or goes to someone in need . . .

Help is help,

It’s getting it done,

And being proud of it!

Not wasting life away,

Thinking nothing will ever,

Goes one way,

Getting that one thing,

That takes cares all the rest,

Of the oh-so-said easy lifestyle everyone wants.

Not true,

Nothing is easy,

It has to be earned.

If there is an easy route,

It’s the way that was made by and for,

One person!

If you’re going to taking of care of business,

Do it yourself,

Rely only on others shoulders when the weight is too much,

Not to take away the weight.

Have others to help bare it,

With you,

Not take over.

Go take care of business,

And be proud you did it,

By your hands,

Not others.

Get business done and over with,

The outcome of it,

Is the most welcoming moment . . .

You’ll ever get.

Don’t waste life,

Go get busy,

And make something of yourself.

Cause before you know it,

It’s over,

And what does that make you at the end,

Of it?

Spring, the start of the year, glowing and growing in colors of life, where at the pool of water mirrored all of life in echo.

Healing from the passing year of burning summer heat, unknowing and random autumn changes, with cold, sparkling, and sleet of deadly winter.

Reflecting all; in good intention, even with the winds wrinkling the pool, swaying slim, dark shade trees as dancers, ending with tall grass and cattails playing along.

Clouds within the liquid above sheltering the skies and blur, pale yellow, sphere shine.

A splash in a distance is heard, short airy stifle gasps after, on the small sandy shore on the far reaches. Sisters-to-be, acting away as if time meant little. The youngest, dark auburn curls swayed as she once kicks the water with glee, wetting her up from the knees up to the ends of her light powder azure dress.

Turns to hearing the other called to her, looking over her shoulder, hooded eyes waiting for a reply. The eldest, dress in cord and dusty sapphire, looking ahead of her sister-to-be, knowing how the youngest was sometimes, as again, without knowing, she kicks the water, bring the warm browns eyes back to the youngest who back to her in fit, not taking in mind of the other’s watchful and worry face.

A gust a wind comes, rattling the eldest’s dark midnight hair, blinding for a moment, but soon clear.  Smallest frown formed on her face, in worry of the other, calling out again, for something of reply.

Used one hand to calm her wind-wild hair, with the clank sound of an golden brace by her ear, as it ranged again earrings of white gems, to the sound; her frown grows. Numbly her other hand toys with stems of poppies, pelts falling as her fingers pinch them with emotional tips of fingernails of thoughts, to keep the tears from fall, as once more calls out to the other, who felt miles away.

But, really, she was only a skipping stone away from the eldest. Again, she turns, unmissed but willing. Eyes still hooded, cheeks lined thinly with tears, bow lips form a words of remorse, shoulders arching low.

In a mist, wind awakes again, shaking and bothering once more. The eldest takes a chance to fill the silence with some calmness, but stops, as eyes gaze farther out, her mouth in form of an uncertain kind of shock.

As in soon she’s in tears as her sister-to-be, with lack of a frown and more of a growing smile. That will in time, has the youngest one copy soon, when she turns back, looking across the pool and seeing something far away, tried, beaten, worn, and happy to be home after being gone for so long from home.

The blue pool of reflection undulates again, for time, is moving smoothly just as it should.

The Pool by Viktor Elpidiforovich Borisov-Musatov

Made in the year; 1902

Location when painted; unknown

The ice is a domain,

Not all understand,

Nor comprehend of the sheer acts on the hoarfrost.

Too many learn of the dances played.

But the battles are something to listen to.

For there is history in both,

But there is only the one,

That catches the eyes of one man.

The man behind the mask!

An inner battle maker of the commotion,

That combat plays above the ice.

Be fool not,

For he has seen as all the tricks,

And will act on them,

In matters of teaching others,

Who share the compassion he does.

For its science to this man who wears a mask,

The glides to the center,

Defenders block and serve,

The wings high above to eye all of foul imperfection play,

As the protector of the net does whatever it takes for the other team . . .

From winning!

Again,

It’s a battle of science to him,

And with this alert information of this history,

It’s best not to miss it.

The man behind the mask,

Tries and does it awesomely well,

Take notice,

And watch out for flying pucks.

He looks like a man who doesn’t care,

For the penalties,

Nor run from a fight,

When it’s on his domain of ice,

It’s something is his.

Respect the ice,

The History,

And the man who brought it to be.

Work he does,

Comes as a gamble,

For it’s different,

And for it’s awesome that way.

It’s his secret sunshine,

In a cold world,

We all have to deal with,

This is his way and for readers of many,

They love it too.

To others whom lack such mind-set,

Plays off as if having a one night with chocolate,

Strange sounding,

But gives an interested with a lifted brow.

An ocean heaven if one was to say,

It’s calming,

Helpful in emotions and life as a whole,

This is just his way.

It gives one many of thoughts,

That stepping out from norm,

Makes it all the better.

Yes,

There are moments,

He speaks of things,

That make one unconformable,

But everyone has confessions,

And some go very deep.

Not close to an outrage,

But pure thoughts not from the heart,

But passing life.

To where you are just shocked,

Speechless,

But can’t but grin that he did it.

Going where he’s asking to,

Look me in the eyes,

And say it’s not true.

And he’s right,

What he does is different,

But far from unwelcoming,

Just how someone would feel,

On a lazy Sunday Morning,

It comes and you live it.

For there is nothing better,

But to live,

And live it well.

No other like him,

Not even one doppelgänger like him.

For his words flow,

Light,

A dust,

A petal-like dust as he speaks,

Which means there is no one like him.

Believing so he goes by name,

Likeness of silent waters,

Eerie and calm,

Understand?

Even so,

Words of him saying of anything,

Such as he would say,

I’m crying on a straight road of aloneness,

Those words would never come,

For that’s far from the truth.

If he’ll never,

I will never cry,

For he is expressing himself.

As this comes full circle,

I the writing has praise him to a point of annoyance,

To sum I think.

But he has earned it,

Annoying as it goes,

As he goes from the man from nowhere,

To someone worth knowing.

Manic Expression has become his dream home,

Free to show who he is.

If there was anyone in mind,

When asking,

Who can teach me,

To become as good or close other bloggers,

It’s him.

And with that,

I bid all farewell,

Until next time.

F is for how Far some will go, in the slim chances something good will come, in world that seems to lack it.

A is for the Accountability there has to be on one’s self, than what others can do, if things need to get done, one must do it their own way.

I is how the whatever little Intelligence of today’s minds, fallen, for again, things are becoming to easy to get and lessons that normally was a chore to some, mean more as a pointless saying.

T goes for the long tall Tales of lies, have gone on long enough, it’s time to wake up and see what has become of this world, as once more, it comes to a stand still.

H is that we may be trap forever in that bottomless Hole, of a word, that is given too much greatness for the little change it has done, as action goes a little farther than words.

Did You Get It?

What is right?
What is wrong?
Tame . . .
Broken . . .
All gray?
Or colors of two?
Do you get it?
Living?
Dying?
Everything has a question.
Everything has a answer.
Knowing to ask and reply is on who is speaking.
For that who is speaking . . .
May be right or wrong.
Do you get it?
Telling lies.
Telling truth.
Everyone is a person.
Everyone is a monster.
Who is who,
Relies on you.
Even on yourself.
You call yourself a person,
Others say monster.
Switch it,
It’s the same.
Or is it?
Do you get it?
Straight road.
Wacky Road.
A road is a road.
A rule is a rule.
A monster is a person.
A person is a monster.
Through your eyes,
Which is which?
Do you get it?
Do you get it?
Being free.
Being confined.
Eating.
Starving.
Losing.
Winning.
Do you get it?
Helping the weak.
Becoming the strong.
There is a higher power.
There is only yourself.
All happens for a reason.
Nothing ever happens and falls in place.
Do you get it?
Do you?
Because I sure don’t.
And if I did . . .
My answer would be as cryptic as this poem.
Good day.
Good night.

G is how Gifted all has to be seen as, no matter the difference of color, race, life style, and belief, what we all do in life means another, we just need to live together.

O can go for how Overpower the word or name can go, it’s three letters, nothing more or less, there is no need to let it define what is good or evil, matters of emotions; are just that, emotions leading to one’s, not generality, happiness.

D follows not of Doom, we all don’t believe in it, if one chooses to, do so, but never shove it down on others, who willing wish not to, that is how the ways of human being’s drudgery.

He is a fan of shock.
He is a fan of blood.
He is a fan of screams.
He is a fan of horror.

One of many,
That loves and thrives,
For things to go bump into the night.

Eyeing for elements that make us,
Fear farther than what our minds can do.

As our minds only see that of . . .
Villains . . .
Gore . . .
Jumps . . .
And Flashes.

He takes a step more than all.

For there is passion,
He wishes to find,
In the matters that horror all the more,
Pleasing to the eyes.

Screams are his score.
Loud and long,
The better the element.

Yes,
He’s a new kind of viewer killer,
But that’s what makes him,
All the more to fear and see,
What’ll he will do.

A chance that should not be wasted,
For if so,
Another element one might become,
If not careful.

For he is a horror reviewer.
With a sharp tongue that of a knife,
That wouldn’t shy away,
Easily.

But,
Some could say,
That it his word of wisdom,
All the welcoming,
But also scary.

Sleep lightly,
Children.

Winds are just right.
Soft and even.
Cloudless day with a bright sun.
Open field that goes on for miles.
The bows are set.
The wire tied and ready.
All that is needed is to run.
Run!
Try to look back.
Rise it high.
Against the gentle winds.
Listen to how the plastic cloth folds to the winds.
Taking off.
A chance to trip and slip this up.
A fair shot.
But not something to just stop and give up on.
A gust comes.
In a favor.
Turn quick and see.
A small chore it was.
Even with a short tug against sheer will.
But a chore that was a win.
A win to you.
Now enjoy as it flies.
For it’s a kite made by your hands.
See this through.
Before the winds stall.

Nothing hurts more than being cut off from something, whatever it may be.
Be it from family, for in some ways, they just don’t understand you.
Friends come and go, as breathing, as they see something in you, they don’t like.
Could even be something of pure passion, and being cut off, for they don’t see dollars.
The words, cut off, alone mean you; I; a random stranger lack something.
We lack what it takes to become part of something.
And if we don’t meet up to those standers, it’s off with out heads.
No voice of reason to give us answers as to why that is.
No warning when all the work that has been done is gone with a simple click.
No where to go, when everything else is the same or becoming the same.
That stander is what is holding us back from being something.
From being happy.
From staying off the streets, being homeless, and never being loved in some way.
For that stander marks anyone as getting somewhere.
World must come to relies, that not everything is forever, and not everyone likes the same thing.
Cutting off new looks and new faces, leave those who are left to try harder, breaking them.
Breaking them into a bony mess.
As content means nothing, numbers are everything.
Time to wake up, get back on that horse, and relies cutting off everything around oneself.
Does little in staying alive.
The more times something is being cut off, a number drops, and what is left is triering.
New face and new chances, give others what they need.
Cutting them off, as to say, they’ll never be good as blank.
For the rules that are given, only go to those of lower ranks, of those damn numbers.
Equalness has been toss aside, for the numbers are looking good.
Looking good, but for what?
Whatever is left in world, that has not been cut off, what is left . . . when they leave.
They can’t stay forever?
Nor live that long or find someone as good as them.
For there is only one of them.
And one of them can only have so many numbers, for there has to be variety.
Variety makes everyone happy.
Equal openness if you will.
Numbers can only go so far.
Content makes memories.
Don’t cut off others, for if only the reason, one wants to be remember as for numbers.
Not a fond memory if you ask me.
If someone was cut me off, for the lack of numbers, and need to be gone.
For someone is far better it at me, for their numbers are good?
How does that come across from another’s point of view, if they don’t agree with that choice?
And one does not care, for the numbers are good.
The only lack there is in this world, is chance, equalness, and fucking love.
Do you get the picture?
Or does a slap in the face make it understandable for someone, as you, internet?
You have this chance to have people like you, but something is blinding you, seek help.
Or the next time something happens . . . the one thing being cut off . . . is you.
And will you do when those numbers fade?

He is thy master,
A master in his own right.
An enjoyable man with a sense of fun.
One of many who looks all things in far and low ranges.
He as many,
Has a life of snarky mad man,
Or would hog be more fitting?
As someone such as I,
A mere watcher of his show,
I don’t really know him.
A master he still is.
As team he works well with.
Though now,
They remain unnamed,
They make who the master is.
For they give just as many larks,
as does thy.
Some would see him as strange,
For there are times,
People of the public have come to see,
On webs or not.
Funny man or hog,
With a good head on his shoulders.
I give him points where it’s needed.
And it speaks in high volumes in laughter.
May Master thy Madhog never lose that gift.
For a laugh,
Is one of the most rare gift one can do.
In matter of minutes.

Truth is what is light,
But the dark as well.
In the matters of speaking it,
Comes in bittersweet.
As it is told.
As lies soften the pain,
The truth is a punch in the gut.
Not a wonderful puchline,
But that’s just how it is.
A joke that is not sweet nor bitter.
Bittersweet.
Some have come to terms of its taste.
A taste some find hard to swallow.
Or too easy,
If you know the person in question.
It hurts to say it,
But that’s the truth for you.
A punchline that you wish came out fun and laughable.
But life doesn’t give us that choice,
Or that often really.
Just a truth we have to take,
Choke and swallow with a grin.
For the sake of living.
Swallow it.
With milk or water . . .
Even a fine strong one is fine.
It’s needed.
Or you’ll just . . .
C-choke.