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    poetry


    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2017-01-29 03:10:52

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    @@ixy-scontent.fykz1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/16422889_1308121722615251_5505409875425959456_o.jpg?oh=c3c0b0de54baa345d174743484a9ca85&oe=59046295@600,300@

    ...Created 2017-01-29 03:10:23

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    @@i-scontent.fykz1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t31.0-8/16422889_1308121722615251_5505409875425959456_o.jpg?oh=c3c0b0de54baa345d174743484a9ca85&oe=59046295@600,300@

    ...Created 2017-01-29 03:09:58

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2017-01-29 03:09:14

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual



    Taylor White

    ...Created 2016-11-19 10:22:49

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    I'm back. :)

    ...Created 2016-10-02 13:03:53

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    That feeling when your GPU driver updates and throws your computer off into the deep end for two days. Somewhere along the lines windows had an identity crisis. I had to reset my BIOS too, to a version that's older than the rig itself.

    . . . .

    ...Created 2016-08-03 16:29:31

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    Cuba

    There's a kind of confusion in the air;
    everywhere I see gentle smiles
    the beaches profuse with womanly wiles
    in the rivers, children fishing without a care

    and yet above the license plate of a car
    che
    an american made kind of polished brass export.

    ...Created 2016-07-21 12:23:02

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbKiGnGDTlU

    ...Created 2016-07-02 16:29:57

    dotsJournal: dots
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    Mood: The Usual

    Irates dialogue about spurious veracities,
         they the heralds of modern philosophy.
            They are men.

    Hydras play in front of mirrors like a Nix's
         inward look finds Mira; they too
            are harbingers of shallow truths.
               They are women.

    Lunacy galore in the land where momes
       are a wanton myriad splayed across
         tors like a fluorescently hued zephyr.
           They are not innocent.
           .sp1. They, our future, are children.

    And the many chimes of the iconoclasts -
       ebbing back onto itself like a beach wave,
         destroying its efforts - are held in
           the vespertine moribund wind.
           .sp1. They are not poets, philosophers or strumpets;
               they are the sigh of change.

    The fundus of cavities, those below mounds, away
       from the Sun. That is I. The echo of Echo;
         the man lost in the abyss, suffering from echolalia -
    That only whispers of I. I is ubiquitous in society,
       the name van-guarding the socialist jihad
         against the world; the threshold of hope keeping
    Life from being less than an iota. I is the tether
       in the seam of the universe, paradox of Jove -
         I is the product of society.
    I am the product of society.


    A poem I wrote a really long time ago. One of those high school style "Explain how "I am the product of society" by way of any creative writing style". It's called Thales, not intentionally after the philosopher (ironically enough). It was meant to be a gibberish title.

    I've been sifting through a lot of old garbage the past couple of days, and it isn't like this stood out in particular, but I think it really encompasses just how closely I missed the point of the things going on in my life.

    C'est tout.

    ...Created 2016-05-16 14:23:33

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

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    January 10 07
    131,497 Poems
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