Miscellaneous+Poems

=HERE IS THE PLACE FOR YOUR POEMS NOT WRITTEN IN CLASS! FILL IT!=

__Equality__ I am not of your expectations. I am me. Not just anyone, Not everyone. Just me. The things I like, and the friends I love are just like the things you like and the friends you love, with a few variations in between. But, that’s what I am, and that’s what is this country, and this world. We are all just variations of the same thing. A spectrum of the human being. Religion says we are all born from Adam and Eve, Science says we are born from the same microscopic atoms left by stardust. I like to believe it’s both. So don’t go on your high horse thinking you’re alpha among this wolf pack, because, I’m right up there with you buddy, right up there among the other 6 billion people, who are all the same but not. -Sarah"I'm cool too" Kennedy

Joan's Story
Crimson sloshes over the frosted goblet’s side For this cross around my neck I stand and cry, Now high upon my ghostly horse I ride.

Humorous to expect a life’s work to be denied The martyr’s ashes taste sweet, but gritty and dry, Crimson sloshes over the frosted goblet’s side

I cut my hair, and in shining armor I led and lied They burned me thrice, and breathed a sigh, Now high upon my ghostly horse I ride.

God’s visions are fleeting, but the sentence abide Beautified and canonized, all that matters is we die Crimson sloshes over the frosted goblet’s side.

Donning trousers and swords, though with flaxen cord tied. Of all blasphemes I was accused, sanity rejected the why, Now high upon my ghostly horse I ride.

I beheld the tattered crucifix, the Master’s arms spread wide, But he couldn’t quench the fire, a dancing reflection in my eye. Crimson sloshes over the frosted goblet’s side Now high upon my ghostly horse I ride.

-Megan "Villanellienellie" Mitchell

__**Ode to English**__

Home at 4. Practice for Drama, Auditions for Drama. From 2 - 4. Always and forever. Drama.

5 to 6, recuperating from a hard days work. Current mindset, neutral. I always have until later to do my homework.

6:30. My blood is pumping. My mind has cleared. I’m going to do it.

SUPPER SARAH.

My stomach growls.

Well, by the laws of science, a human can not work efficiently without proper nutrition.

8:00, recuperating from eating.

9:00, Glee.

10:00, my body begins to shake. Pulling the covers around me. I rock back and forth. Cursing at myself for waiting this long to start. The perpendicular blinking line taunts me as it rests quietly at the top of the word document. Blink Blink Blink Blink Blink Blink I glare. An orchestra of Indie hums softly and I take to the the stereotype, sitting to stare at the ceiling, I contemplate my options and the various ways I could end my days before tomorrow’s english class. 11:00, my mind shuts down. Focus, life or death. My fingers fly across the keys. I look back, finding loopholes within the font size and the quadruple spacing.

I fill the spaces with needlessly long quotes.

I reference allusions to modern literature.

Hamlet Harry Potter Twilight. Harry Potter is better than Twilight. Therefore justifying Hamlet’s notion for revenge.

12:00. And that is why Hamlet is revolutionary.

Done.

I am going to extend the deadline to next Friday.

Every molecule in my body begins to shake. Flames envelop me, while townspeople flee. A red hot devil takes out a customized bass, strumming to a familiar screamo song. My eyes turn red, shooting hot lasers. And I scream fire.

But reality claws it’s way back in. And my eyes strain to stay open. My silent rage has ended. Taking my final revenge, I tune out everything around me, and fall asleep.

-Sarah"Tired of Homework" Kennedy

__Burns__ Like moths to flame, we are drawn closer. The light is bright, and it is beautiful. Holding our hands above the burner of a hot stove, we are unable to resist its alien magnetism, disabled from thinking. Fire is like diamonds, it shimmers, and it is beautiful. We are greedy, and ignore the warnings of our consciousness. We walk in the fire, children dancing in the rain.

And the napalm looks like raindrops, it is falling, and it is beautiful. Reaching towards the sky, with our arms outstretched. We welcome the rain, it almost looks like fire.

We watch ourselves burn alive, but we do nothing to stop it, it is beautiful. The melting skin, the hair turning to ash, the smell of burning flesh. Unlike the smiling faces in magazines, this is real beauty.

A plastic doll, thrown in the blaze. Half its face is gone, and it is beautiful. Its remaining eye, made of blue plastic, is slowly melting down one smooth cheek. The doll's green dress is slowly turning black, and curling in on itself.

- Adam "Cheeky Walrus Gobbling Juggernaut"

//Mirror On The Wall//

The mirror hung on the wall, With brown speckles dotting it, Black scratches scraped on it, Orange tinted, And sitting in a yellow hue.

It reflected what it saw, Distorted and twisted images, And never what the person, Staring into it, Was.

It never mattered what they wanted to see, The mirror didn’t care, It took in what it saw, And gave it back.

How many crying faces gazed into it, And saw the pointed ears, Freckled fire flaming on their cheeks, Upturned noses, Sunken eyes, Orange tinted, And sitting in a yellow hue.

It had been threatened, But never broken, The people seeing their image, In the mirror’s eye, Thrusting their fists at it, Clutching it, Throwing it, Wanting it to die, But it never would.

The mirror held contempt, The mirror possessed anger and torture, It was neglected and insane,

And it saw contempt And anger and torture, And neglect and insanity,

Which it readily reflected.

With each face passing it, The mirror showed what it saw, To the horrified images, The grotesque shadows passing it, The gargoyles taunting it, Orange tinted And sitting in a yellow hue,

The mirror hung on the wall. It was not broken, But the lives it shattered came to no end.

-Lincoln "Razor Raiser" Gray


 * Hi! My Name Is....**

I am but a fraction of what should be whole. Perfect tens and nines set before me, and I fall short. Average. Nothing extraordinary. I am the best average achiever out there. At those end of the year ceremonies where awards are given to the best of the best. Instead of walking up there myself, I stay in my seat and watch them stride up to the stage, beaming, reflecting the expressions with perfect precision of my parents beside me. They shake the hand of the principal, and then turn to the audience, soaking in the cheers of proud family members, content friends, and the hopeful parents polite applause, wishing the same success for their own children. And I just stare, looking upon the program, slowly ripping the corners of the cheap blue paper, and litter the concrete floor with specks of confetti. Mentally exhausted, my eyes widen at the overwhelming list of names that will probably take 2 to 3 hours to completely run through, all the while, deep inside, I am hoping, wondering, dreaming of when the cake would be served. My sisters are the ones who are brought up. Day after Day. It’s never me that sneaks into a teacher’s found memory or an alumni’s remark about high school days. No, it’s always them. Friendliest person, most likely to succeed. Most likely to be forgotten, that’s me. I am a part of them, forever lost within the deep folds of shadows, falling forever into abstraction. A category that is filed away into card catalogues, caked with dust and covered with twinkling cobwebs. And what do you call me. The kennedy girl. That is the only thing that comes to your mind. A compliment you figure, a painful sting in actuality. And you stare, watching me move my lips, recounting the legends of overachievers and geniuses, while I cringe at your expectations.

You’re one of the Kennedy girls aren’t you...

How’s your sisters. Doing well, I thought so. You know what your eldest sister used to do...You have such smart sisters...Didn’t she get a 5 on that Ap test....I remember when your sisters sat up in the front of class and she would...You look just like them...It was great having them for students....I didn’t know you had a younger sister.....What was your name again?

MY NAME IS SARAH! I LIKE TO PAINT! I LIKE TO DRAW! I PLAY THE FRENCH HORN AND THE UKUELE! I LOVE TO ACT! I LOVE TO CREATE! I LOVE TO BREATHE!

So please, just remember me.

-Sarah "Captain" Kennedy

Graduation By Ian 'Shrub-Head' Hawkes

Have you ever stopped to think that we are dying? You’d say it to the old man who beeps away his life in a white light hospital room where you can see his fluids whirling in the curly straws. And you’d sit there by his liver-spit and cry away a lie and pray he’d live instead of die but you know he is screwed. And the doctor writes it on the form, twelve years in an ivy league to learn a million ways to say it in Latin. Toast. Gonzo. Kaput. Wasted. Dying. You’d probably even say it to the smoker, who puffs her way to silent suicide one butt at a time. You are the American general surgeon urgin‘ Betsy to stop purgin’ her body day in and day out. You think she’s dying. Look in the mirror, bub. Old father time crams a fat cigar in your mouth every morning and you too will start to crinkle from the outside in, not the inside out, and an apples rotten when its rotten, don’t much matter where. So cut the spit hypocrite. You can’t talk about death like its your friend. For them its just a means to an end, a god send that they bend to protect us from their hell. They learned about dying in the crimson grains of Democracy’s sand-box, came to know its spitting laugh and shattered scream. They hold death in their hands every day, with four full clips in case death runs out. Better them than me to take death between the ribs, right? Karma dude. And that’s coming from the weed-smoking wack-job who with half-closed eyes spies the rise of lies and says it is wise to fight the system. Well here’s an idea. Why don’t we wait. That’s right. I just got five seconds older. And so did the system and the man and your daddy and wifey and doggy too. Man, we DYIN’! And just before you start spongeing your pillow or making a wrist-mess on the linoleum with the kitchen knife think about a the game of Life. Remember, with the plastic car? Well you may not win a nobel prize but that game has got the same name and the same frame and that is the way you win. You get to the end. Schools all about graduating and livings all about dying. Sooner you get that through your head the sooner epitaphs stop looking like regrets and start looking like ‘thank you’ cards. Get it through your head man. We all dyin’.

__Cide__

Feeding and bloating off the blood of the people. Slicked back hair as shiny as the backs of beetles. We barely notice we've been bit, By the cold black suits of PoliTicks.

Humanity, obsessed with the battles it fights, Approaches Roxanne with her shining red light. Possessed by lust for the spoils of war, The ample bosom of the brazen whore.

The all consuming jaws of ravenous belief, Trap time in the turns of their treacherous teeth. Forcing the minds of the weak to concede, Bow down to their power, and follow their creed.

Even once is enough to trigger the curse. Once we have what we want, the craving gets worse. Trivial trinkets alone shall suffice, The key to the door of our avarice.

A history of mistakes, not left in the past. In a game without breaks, the strongest shall last. Pesticide, suicide, homicide, genocide. Just pick a side.

Adam "Porcelain Bulldozer" Bourgault

Washed Away

The muscles in his thighs and lower back were numb. The bench was hot metal and flaking green paint. The crumbling splinters of wood bit and caught hold of the tears in his trousers as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Hours had already passed and the noon day sun was glinting off the high-rising city blacked window panes. It shot bullets of light into his eyes as he squinted at the passers-by who tried not to look back. Scratching grimy stubble, closing eyes, stretching legs. All noise is uniform on this street. Roaring of buses, growling of cars....children's laughter? His neck crackled and popped as he looked down the sidewalk. A small boy and girl. A new bucket of chalk. He had never been much with pen and paper or children for that matter but his hands gripped the edge of the bench. The wood chaffed his hands as he tried to lift himself. To stand. To walk. To reach the children. Knees popped, little heads turned as the worn out misshapen left all alone man crouched and choose a dusty lump of chalk. Their baby blues rounded like their open mouths as he began to write. They held their breath and the subtle scraping sound, so familiar, yet foreign from those wrinkled hands produced one word. Faint and pink. Hello. Resounding silence. The boy and the girl looked at the man and at his plea. They looked at the lazy eyed unshaven jowled cracked oozing old scared forgotten face, and at his plea. And they remembered what their mother told them when they left the house. And they ran. The chalk tinkled to the sidewalk and rolled to his hands, as if asking to be used. He sniffed and signed and gazed after those children who has run away with his heart. The girl looked just like Margaret. He picked up the yellow for her hair the green for her eyes and chalked her beauty on the cement. Put the chalk back in its box, and went back to the bench. It was only noon.

Megan Magnum Mitchell

__Industrial Age: A Slam Poem__

So you wanna hear ‘bout the Industrial Age? Listen to me, we’ll conversation engage! You little nitwit, don’t quit, sit down, And listen up, you silly frowny town clown.

So there were dynamos, and like dynamite, Electricity made the whole world ignite, In a glowing bulb, made by Tommy Edison. There also came advances in medicine.

But I’ll get to that later. I just said it for the rhyme, Meanwhile, automobiles zoomed, airplanes were flyin’. You shoulda seen it when Orv and Willy, Flew the first one! It really looked silly.

So then some hipsters came over, and said, “We’re made out of cells.” And Chuckie Darwin’s theory was met with “You can go to hell!” See, he started this thing: The evolution revolution, And in //The Origin of Species,// he gave his solution.

He drew off the ideas of a dude named Lamarck, Who thought one day, “How did a shark become a shark?” So he said all animals had acquired characteristics, Which, though it was wrong, made world go ballistic.

Gregor Mendel said, “Yo! We’re all genetic!” Some people tall, some are short, some are cool, some pathetic. He figured out with his great pea breeding, That some traits are dominating, and some are receding.

Eddy Jenner was a guy who made a vaccine, To combat small pox, he tried it out on a teen. And the boy got cowpox, but a mild case, But when small pox came ‘round, he watched it fall from its grace.

Surgery develops, as does pasteurization, Antisepsis, and x-rays, and the awesome radiation. The atom is considered, and more understood, And the structure of the atom is in the hood.

Al Einstein had the theory of relativity, And created the formula: “//mc// 2 = //E”// Herb Spencer and Augie Comte loved their sociology, While Pavlov and Freud perfected psychology.

And on and on it goes on and on and on, And so on and so forth, and on and on anon, So that’s all I’m gonna say ‘bout the Industrial Age. So I’ll take a little bow on my imaginary stage.

Lincoln “His-Story” Gray

Hunter Gatherers

When he said it, he was talking about music and he said it to the boy in the sweatshirt and the Carhartts and he said it twice cause thats how important it was he said it twice. It’s a little thing, but it’s a big thing It’s a little thing, but it’s a big thing But now I’m talking to you, and maybe you’re not wearing Carhartts and for sure I’m not talking about music, but here’s how it is. To the eyes at the top, I am not a big thing. I know that for a fact. I am an underage American Citizen. I am caucasian. I have no special rights. I have no disabilities. I do not own a gun. I am not a public servant. I am not a veteran. I receive less than average pay. I do not have AIDs. I am not allergic and I do not have a criminal record. I am a percentage. I am income tax. I am a social security number. Nine numbers. But I do have a problem. You see, when America wants to find out what its people want, what its people need, It has to take a survey. It has to get out there and say, ‘Well...seventy-five percent want this. Well, what about the twenty-five percent? We’ve been trained, we’ve been triggered we’re like machines, we’ll tell you that twenty-five percent is nothing, that twenty-five percent is just one in the fourth piece of pie well twenty five percent, thats all of New England. Heck, I know this place. Its got trees, its got people, its got pavement, we got lovers, we got haters, we got candy shops. For me, this is one-hundred percent cause its a little thing but its a big thing! See, maybe you already figured it out by now, but I’m an anarchist. Okay, I get it, you probably all hate me now, and I can see my credibility sliding from your Rushmore faces and I practically hate myself, or at least I would have if I had been an anarchist back when I thought anarchists were bad things, but the first time I heard the word anarchist I was in the car with my family on the way to church. We all had our white shirts on it was perfect and then I saw the spray-painted truck and it had the ‘A’ and the circle and I said What Is That? There was a long pause. It was silent. Nobody said a word. And then my brother, my brother, he said, It means something. It means Anarchy. That was it. It was done. And I had to find out what it meant for myself. Because nobody would say it. It was like a plague, it was a disease, that would seep the roots and infect this country, and make its people forget about their rights, and make them forget about their country that loves them so much it will send them straight into war, and make them forget. Forget. That they are a big thing. One for all. Let’s try all for one. I’m an anarchist, but I’m not all about rolling around in the streets with torches. Maybe thats for some of you, but thats not for me. Because Anarchy probably wouldn’t work that well. At least not the torch kind. See, what we gotta do is go back. We gotta hop in the history book and move move move way back. Because the problem here is we are a civilized society. Isn’t it great how civilized we are? We got our magazines and our cars and our porn stars. We can count to a billion and the national debt can count six times higher. We wear suits to work and to play and to war, with silicon-sun block to protect our civilized flesh while the turbans unwrap untied uncivilized to the Un-ited states of civilization. But maybe civilized isn’t good enough. So we gotta go back to before civilization. It was this time when people were not farmers, it was this time when people did not build buildings or build platforms on which to run for your high paying position. Cry all you want about sleeping on the grass but your civilized-magazines never got you that muscular. And your health-to go packs never picked this fresh. And your teens never wasted lives wasted in the cave-painted brick slits. Not here. Not then. It was this time of hunter gatherers. We say it like anarchist. Like it’s a plague. Like they could not have survived out there alone with the mammoths. But they did. And they built this society, this society that we are still balancing so carefully upon. So its time to go back to the beginning. And think harder than they did. Because what we have created, is not what we wanted. I want to know when you hurt. I want to know about the thorn in your foot I want to know about every fish you caught today. I want to be able to look at you and say ‘I know you.’And then regardless what the law says, you are a still that man. Because you are a little thing and you are a big thing, so come join this tribe with me, I will be your chieftain and I will gather the people about. And we will hunt. Oh we will hunt For every scrap of justice, brawn, liberty, and level headed steel we can strip from its smoking rib bars and finally sink our teeth into, and we will hunt for all the people who need to know that their leader cares for them. And we will use every last tendon. Because it’s about that. And we will gather. The roots of independence. The berries of truth. The flowers, of purity. Now you may say, that I cannot. That my plan will never go anywhere. But I know this, for a fact. I know it better than the president knows it, I know it better than the IRS knows it. Because I heard him say it twice to the boy in the Carhartts. I am a little thing, but I am a big thing. I am a little thing, but I am a big thing.

Ian 'Vocal Voxer' Hawkes

// Sensory Simplicity //

Never have I thought to take The candles on my birthday cake As an omen. A kitchen timer's spinning dial The years of my life do beguile My pencil. My pencil that is recording tasks Enjoyment doesn't come 'til last Memories fade of days long past I am a stone that is falling fast. Into the ocean.

Somehow I have managed to float But I am not one to gloat Of my dreams. Dreams as far as the smoldering stars That fly by in the headlights of cars All night. People scurry in a rush Sickly pale, but faces flush Where I am buoyant there is a resounding hush In swirling grasses, green and lush With fireflies.

-Megan Experimental Rusherby Mitchell

Ripe(for Adam)

Say it with me. Ripe Ripe Ripe Its a keeper. And oxford agrees. Try these on for size(or ripeness, i suppose): - ( of a cheese or wine) fully matured: //a ripe Brie//, or figuratively: a ripe wisdom. - (of a female fish or insect) ready to lay eggs or spawn. Oooh, spawn. Another day. -( **ripe with**) full of //: a population ripe with discontent// //.// Ooh good one. Yet again, another day. But for now, of course, Ripe. Funny isn’t it? Almost punny really that this cunning little word is running like a nose. Running from line to line and changing from time to time as words are often ripe to do. The vowel in the middle looks ripe for the picking. Shall we my ripe old friend? Pop! Rope. Something strangely separate yet so similarly situated. It coils coyly counting, rope, its all one-neverendin-nascent-twiny-yearning strand. Rope. Pop! Rape. Whoops! Look what your ripe licentiousness has brought you now you rope tied innocent? So close to grape, just one small g, but you will not have bunches of lives just this one which may now be scarred forever. Ripe for destruction, perchance. Are you riper, wiser now? Or like the fish, ripe to spawn? Another day. Pop! Rep. Sue me if I spelled it wrong, you would, with your ripe reputation and your vocabulary ripe with the swears I was roped for when ripe myself. Rep fits you, three letters fit better than a ripe ten on your name tag. Lawyer? Politician? You’ve given ropes to the rapes rightly, but your ripe for a change. Refer last definition please: ripe with discontent. If that doesn’t strain your rep too much, reaching for a dictionary. Your ripe to spawn too. More and more of your kind. Another day. This poem seems to have reached ripeneness itself, and your ropes are coiled menacingly after this mental rape but I hope you’ve ripened up a little. Hope your fully matured. Hope your about to burst. Hope your full of discontent. Fruit gets rotten real quick after good. Best work fast before the time is too ripe.

Ian 'Ripe for Destruction' Hawkes

//We Fall Too Far//

Here we are, Stuck. And falling down. We try to get back up, Just to be struck down again. And we get back up, And fall back down, And get back up, And fall back down. A never-ending see-saw, But the kid on the other end, Is either trying slam you to the ground, Or fling you over the top. It can’t be known, The motives. It can’t be known.

They are all just farmers in the field, Working and hurting. Their rags damp with sweat from their foreheads. Their hearts moist with the spoils of war, Or the spoils of love. We can’t remember. The lines have all been blurred, The boundaries all smudged together, Shoved in a blender, Chopped, Pulsed, Liquified, To the point where the differences, Are all indistinguishable. We’re all in love, As we kill each other.

Remember when I had my hands on your neck, And yours on mine, And his on hers, And hers on his, Squeezing in anger, Steamed heated sweaty palms, Until finally we let go, And embraced, And cried. It stung where your tears hit The finger shaped bruises on my neck.

And it’s not that we hate each other, But we don’t know what to love, Or how to maybe, So we sit here, In purgatory, In limbo, Going as low as you can go, Till you fall down, To the ripe ground, No, not quite ripe, Cuz it hurts to much.

And so we can’t love, For if we do, we just fight, Or we fall too far down, Just a little too far down. And we can’t say what we want, With every word being censored, Every utterance eliminated, Until all that’s left is the, Constant hush of white noise, And the buzzing of some unknown device, From the back of the room.

Left alone for a while, We sat listening, To the buzz. No white noise, Cuz no one talks anymore. No falling, Cuz we fell too many times to get back up. No one is hugging and kissing, But the bruises on my neck have gone, And I see the bruises on yours have faded too. But there still is a scar.

And so we sit here, Enveloped in the noise, Or lack thereof. Just immersed completely. Drowning to the bottom of the sea, Because, once you’ve fallen all the way down, Where do you go from there? I just don’t know.

I just don’t know very much at all, We hardly know anything. We don’t know where to begin We don’t know how to finish, But we know there must be, The End.

-Lincoln "Lightning Strike" Gray

Why? Why do we try? I mean, we all end up in the same place anyways. We all end up dead, buried in the ground, or burned into ashes. So why do we try? What point is there to living? Is there a point? Now I’m no philosopher And I’m certainly not smart enough to know the reason of life but it’s fun to think about. One theory is that we have no point and it doesn’t matter what we do. But I don’t know. I think there must be something worth living for. Is it our happiness? Is our own personal happiness what life is about? I don’t think that’s true either. I mean, no one likes a selfish person. So why would the point of life be to have all the happiness YOU can get? It could be that the point of life is to make others happy in making others happy, you’ll be happy too. I know I always have a smile on my face when I make a friend happy or smile. And imagine this. Imagine if everyone cared about making everyone else happy. Then the whole wide world would want to make you happy! Everyone would live in joy and peace. So is that the real reason? To make people happy? Or is the point of life just to live it to the fullest? ~Nicole "livinglife" Gile

You think you can just walk away? You’re on a road that’s now one way Fatherhood is a life-long commitment Not a part-time job or short-lived sprint I heard being a loving father benefits Maybe you should try it

Your children need you Abandonment you can’t undo We need money for food Yet you only focus on your house’s mood

Arguing with you is impossible Your manipulation and distortion of truth is remarkable You are incapable of seeing any fault of your own Yet when blaming others you’re in the zone Just stop You are not atop

Take some time to think Think of how you might shrink If your dad showed no care Except for your makeup and hair Meaningless characteristics Nothing but shallow statistics

I don’t want to walk the aisle on your hand Your hurt has been that grand

Now can you see? No You say the problem is me

Lia "Wow-This-Is-Oddly-Like-A-Rap" Van de Krol

//Walk//

We are born with little control over our own body, Then we roll. We roll until we learn to crawl. And then we crawl Until we learn to walk. And once we start walking, we fall, And get back up, And try it again.

We fall until we gain strength, And we walk until we run. Once we run, we run faster, and faster. At first we run for pleasure, Then we run for fear, Fear, a word we never knew, Until it came.

But really, we spend our whole lives fearing, Running away, Yes, we run, until we fall. And then we get back up, And walk back home.

We walk until we drive, We drive until we crash, Then we cry, And cry, And panic, And cry, And then we get a new car and drive some more.

Interesting, how we stop running, When we fall. Yet when we crash, We drive some more.

The baby never stops walking, crawling, Sleeping, sitting. If the baby falls, he gets back up, He gets up so he can walk. We get up so we can drive.

We drive, until we get too old to react, But we insist we still have it. But then we just walk. No more running, We just walk Until our frail bones can support us No more.

We walk until we fall, And then we crawl on the ground, We crawl, Trying to get back up.

Grasping on the railing, We pull ourselves up, Pull, Pull, And we get nowhere. Too weak, we lie down, Lie on the ground, Close our eyes, And fall asleep. Maybe someone will walk in, Or run in, Or crawl in. But we just lie there, until we are found, //If// we are found.

We are born with little control over our own body. We die just the same.

//-Lincoln “Long-Time-Since-The-Last-Slam” Gray//