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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse

This life.

Another week ends,

Another weekend begins.

Another weak soul condemns, men.

Drinks ten, to twenty.

Sniffs plenty.

Heavy heart, undone by sin.

Harsh roots, undone by men.

Not the condemned.

The easier men.

The ones he sees on his TV screen.

Insults behind the phone screen.

'Fuck them? It's about ours!'

He screams, at large.

Roaming his town

Man down, man down!

Another dustbin feels his wrath.

Another drunk girl crosses his path.

It's all just a laugh?

He doesn't mean any harm.

It's not his fault the politicians don't care about him.

It's not his fault his parents didn't care about him.

It's not his fault his girlfriends never cared about him.

It's not his fault all his friends left him.

'Fuck them. It's about ours'.

He cries, whilst he laughs.

Bipolar double vision.

Head on collision.

Social media has his back.

'Can't believe what happened to Jack.'

'Lovely bloke.'

'Wish we spoke, more.'

Church packed.

Plenty of pats on the backs of Jack's new friends.

There after the end.

When he never needed them.

But he's there for them.

An excuse to get high.

A reason to cry.

A reminder that they'll all die.

The next week... then,

Death hides not their pain, again.

Back to hate unleashed.

Re-target those, the ones that don't look the same.

Focus there their rage.

This life, needs an enemy.

This life needs death.

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Written by BenCoulter in portal Poetry & Free Verse
This life.
Another week ends,
Another weekend begins.
Another weak soul condemns, men.
Drinks ten, to twenty.
Sniffs plenty.
Heavy heart, undone by sin.
Harsh roots, undone by men.
Not the condemned.
The easier men.
The ones he sees on his TV screen.
Insults behind the phone screen.
'Fuck them? It's about ours!'
He screams, at large.
Roaming his town
Man down, man down!
Another dustbin feels his wrath.
Another drunk girl crosses his path.
It's all just a laugh?
He doesn't mean any harm.
It's not his fault the politicians don't care about him.
It's not his fault his parents didn't care about him.
It's not his fault his girlfriends never cared about him.
It's not his fault all his friends left him.
'Fuck them. It's about ours'.
He cries, whilst he laughs.
Bipolar double vision.
Head on collision.
Social media has his back.
'Can't believe what happened to Jack.'
'Lovely bloke.'
'Wish we spoke, more.'
Church packed.
Plenty of pats on the backs of Jack's new friends.
There after the end.
When he never needed them.
But he's there for them.
An excuse to get high.
A reason to cry.
A reminder that they'll all die.
The next week... then,
Death hides not their pain, again.
Back to hate unleashed.
Re-target those, the ones that don't look the same.
Focus there their rage.
This life, needs an enemy.
This life needs death.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #philosophy  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by brieannekt in portal Fiction

Brazen Men rot in a Bastille

Virulent

Venom seethes through

Vitiolic

Veins

Leaking down under without

A seal

Lacking

Mundane

Conformity standards

Living unanchored

Insane

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Written by brieannekt in portal Fiction
Brazen Men rot in a Bastille
Virulent
Venom seethes through
Vitiolic
Veins
Leaking down under without
A seal
Lacking
Mundane
Conformity standards
Living unanchored
Insane
#fiction  #adventure  #poetry  #culture 
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Written by Lonz1234 in portal Fiction

A Dream from My Father

 The sun shined brightly in the yellow-colored room and everyone sat at the table with smiles tugging at their mouths. An imperceptible joke was told and I could feel myself laughing like I never had before. Some load that was forever strapped to my back was magically lifted, and I laughed with my mind on better and brighter tomorrows that would surely come after this one. The smell of bacon and grits, a dish created by the pain and love of black families for generations, filled the room with its faintly muggy air. My mom was at the stove, her movement not hampered by the weight of the world, but light and joyful. My dad was at the table, the top of his head peeking out over the newspaper in his hand. He pulled it down for a second and looked at me and I studied his features. His eyes, dark brown and wise, were opened wide and his mouth, filled with clean, ivory teeth, was was on display for me to see. For some reason I was almost shocked at his smile, the slight glint from the sun was somehow foreign to me. He nodded to me and I could feel an emotional wave pass over me. The nod seemed to translate everything: he was proud of me, he was sorry if anything he’d done hurt me, he wanted the best for me, and, most importantly, he loved me. I could feel my cheeks flush as I looked down at the mahogany table in embarrassment, not wanting my father to see the misty sea of joy that now covered my eyes. The scene was perfect, a Lawren Harris oil painting of an idealistic childhood.

A gunshot, a crack from afar carrying a lead casing of death, came flying in through the window settling in my father in front of me. I looked up in horror, the droplets of a once happy, now mortified rain flinging out of my eyes. The big smile was still plastered on his face, in fact, his whole face similar to how it had a second ago. In that second, however, a bullet had lodged itself into his head and blood streaked his large forehead. The light was also gone from his eyes, his stare at me was now cold while the look itself remained unchanged. Another bullet whizzed in hitting him in the neck, the blood rushing out like prisoners in a jailbreak and my father falling over, the lifeless eyes still locked on me.

I awoke to the blue-and-red lights flashing from across the street and sirens blaring a warning to the outside world to stay away. Cold beads of sweat stood petrified on my face as I lay momentarily frozen in bed. I closed my eyes again and for a second saw darkness, a beautiful warm darkness under my eyelids. Then I saw his eyes, that smiling face locked forever to mine, and opened my eyes again. It would be another sleepless night, with the sirens dreadful clamor, in this tragedy without onlookers.

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Written by Lonz1234 in portal Fiction
A Dream from My Father
 The sun shined brightly in the yellow-colored room and everyone sat at the table with smiles tugging at their mouths. An imperceptible joke was told and I could feel myself laughing like I never had before. Some load that was forever strapped to my back was magically lifted, and I laughed with my mind on better and brighter tomorrows that would surely come after this one. The smell of bacon and grits, a dish created by the pain and love of black families for generations, filled the room with its faintly muggy air. My mom was at the stove, her movement not hampered by the weight of the world, but light and joyful. My dad was at the table, the top of his head peeking out over the newspaper in his hand. He pulled it down for a second and looked at me and I studied his features. His eyes, dark brown and wise, were opened wide and his mouth, filled with clean, ivory teeth, was was on display for me to see. For some reason I was almost shocked at his smile, the slight glint from the sun was somehow foreign to me. He nodded to me and I could feel an emotional wave pass over me. The nod seemed to translate everything: he was proud of me, he was sorry if anything he’d done hurt me, he wanted the best for me, and, most importantly, he loved me. I could feel my cheeks flush as I looked down at the mahogany table in embarrassment, not wanting my father to see the misty sea of joy that now covered my eyes. The scene was perfect, a Lawren Harris oil painting of an idealistic childhood.
A gunshot, a crack from afar carrying a lead casing of death, came flying in through the window settling in my father in front of me. I looked up in horror, the droplets of a once happy, now mortified rain flinging out of my eyes. The big smile was still plastered on his face, in fact, his whole face similar to how it had a second ago. In that second, however, a bullet had lodged itself into his head and blood streaked his large forehead. The light was also gone from his eyes, his stare at me was now cold while the look itself remained unchanged. Another bullet whizzed in hitting him in the neck, the blood rushing out like prisoners in a jailbreak and my father falling over, the lifeless eyes still locked on me.
I awoke to the blue-and-red lights flashing from across the street and sirens blaring a warning to the outside world to stay away. Cold beads of sweat stood petrified on my face as I lay momentarily frozen in bed. I closed my eyes again and for a second saw darkness, a beautiful warm darkness under my eyelids. Then I saw his eyes, that smiling face locked forever to mine, and opened my eyes again. It would be another sleepless night, with the sirens dreadful clamor, in this tragedy without onlookers.
#fiction  #philosophy  #culture  #social 
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Written by Vyxyn in portal Stream of Consciousness

Be the King of your day

Good morning Sunshine!

Today is special because you are blessed

with a fresh start.

Now run with Lions!

Be the pride leader!

Roar the loudest!

Show people you are the King!

Now get out there and make this your hunt!

(Day)

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Written by Vyxyn in portal Stream of Consciousness
Be the King of your day
Good morning Sunshine!
Today is special because you are blessed
with a fresh start.
Now run with Lions!
Be the pride leader!
Roar the loudest!
Show people you are the King!
Now get out there and make this your hunt!
(Day)
#fantasy  #nonfiction  #adventure  #education  #philosophy  #spirituality  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by AdrienMae27 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Question Everything

Consume! Obey!

...................Enslaved?

Sit back, Relax, Watch T.V.

Still believe you're not asleep?

Work, Work, Work,

For what you owe..........

While the name you claim

Is not your own.

Flat or globe?

Space or dome?

We should know............

It is our home.

Carbon copied,

...............simply cloned.

Playing God,

............creating drones.

Against the lies,

Take a stand.

Start spreading truth,

To fellow man.

With war and fear so

Out of hand,

We must start to love

…........and understand.

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Written by AdrienMae27 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Question Everything
Consume! Obey!
...................Enslaved?
Sit back, Relax, Watch T.V.
Still believe you're not asleep?
Work, Work, Work,
For what you owe..........
While the name you claim
Is not your own.
Flat or globe?
Space or dome?
We should know............
It is our home.
Carbon copied,
...............simply cloned.
Playing God,
............creating drones.
Against the lies,
Take a stand.
Start spreading truth,
To fellow man.
With war and fear so
Out of hand,
We must start to love
…........and understand.
#scifi  #nonfiction  #horror  #education  #poetry  #science  #politics  #spirituality  #news  #culture  #opinion 
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Who is in control of your life?
Written by AlSalehi

Refractory Response

They say you control me, as I am the head, and You, the neck.

They say that through my stomach, You influence my heart... but the truth of your power actually lies beneath the navel of this boiling tea-bound bergamot orange.

It is only after the moment where the pressure is released...

that You,

are nothing to me.

I no longer need

You…

and You,

no longer control, me.

I can think clearly,

and I, am completely,

rational.

Awaken, and no longer blinded by nature's hypnosis,

I can now unpeel

You,

from your power.

It is solely within this ever-escaping ephemeral moment

where the monkey holds

an unloaded gun…

that I can see

You,

for whom You truly are - -

No strings attached.

Copyright © 1986-2017

Al Salehi

All Rights Reserved

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Who is in control of your life?
Written by AlSalehi
Refractory Response
They say you control me, as I am the head, and You, the neck.
They say that through my stomach, You influence my heart... but the truth of your power actually lies beneath the navel of this boiling tea-bound bergamot orange.

It is only after the moment where the pressure is released...
that You,
are nothing to me.

I no longer need
You…
and You,
no longer control, me.

I can think clearly,
and I, am completely,
rational.

Awaken, and no longer blinded by nature's hypnosis,
I can now unpeel
You,
from your power.

It is solely within this ever-escaping ephemeral moment
where the monkey holds
an unloaded gun…

that I can see
You,
for whom You truly are - -

No strings attached.


Copyright © 1986-2017
Al Salehi
All Rights Reserved
#nonfiction  #romance  #horror  #education  #science  #philosophy  #mystery  #challenge  #politics  #spirituality  #culture  #opinion 
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Together, we can break the world record for longest book. When this challenge gets the necessary number of entries, it will expire and we will turn it into a book. Each entry will be its own chapter. Feel free to build from existing entries or write something radically different.
Written by brieannekt

Captive Youth

            Fresh off life support and looking like a catfish from a dozen sun-induced canker sores, they careened up and down mountain roads. They were leaving the city during pre-dawn in a rampant hurry, Montego’s Bay tarmac was a blur. Clayton thought to himself, “was this summer camp!?” His latest suicide attempt consisted of Paxil and Bacardi rum, with a death cap of 10 Xanax's. Fran and Clayton Sr. trusted the system and the American company and their foreign labor to do what they thought they could not do.

Evening darkening into night. No signs. No lights. He was uneducated to Hailalee’s lush forests, cool mountain air, and rivers that ran into waterfalls. On the way in, they ran over two goats. There was constant horn honking in the third world traffic: beeps and toots galore. The burning smell of marijuana tells on itself and deep bass lines are heard in the distance. A few lighted shacks pepper the valley. The ocean scent fills Clayton’s nose. He’s thinking this is going to be a serene getaway. “Maybe just being in nature will cure my adolescent rage?” 

             All of a sudden, a well lit, secure, but intimidating compound comes into view…His thoughts of being alone hiking in nature are proven wrong. He knew in the pit of his stomach, where remnants of barbituates still soothed him, that this was it. There was no detox program here. The Xanax withdrawal booted him back into reality. Gallows!, he thought. Menacing, hungry and greedy gates open and close. This is where the institution otherwise known as Resource Realizations kicks the chair of the comfort and security right from underneath him.

              Flashlights work feverishly through the night. He would just kick up his heels, splinters and broken thorns postulate from my toes and feet. Ringworms breed on the surface of his skin. A tree gave him a three month purple rash on his stomach. Minor happenings. Balmy breezes coated in humidity, wrap themselves around his skin. The soul of Hailalee is artfully and beautifully constructed. However, malicious evil does indeed exist in her past. This evil was carried out daily and broad daylight, without mercy. There were not pirates or Rastafarians. This place was not cool and was operated by cross American businessman.

             In the morning at Idyllic Island, the escaped cattle were tethered and slaughtered in front of us, by barefoot Hailaleen men. A machete bounces off the cows carotid artery, instantaneously bringing the animal to its knees. This was the reality of Hopeful Haven. It wasn’t the butcher shop. It was life. They watched goats annihilated in the island heat. The animal corpse’s attracted bugs and big hearty flies. Reflective blue and green, big ole’ flies. Dreams of his crisp, new and thoughtfully sent bed sheets, brilliant white stayed as dreams as this became his new reality. Clayton was now covered in droplets of blood where mosquito’s rested and nested in their final resting place for the night. His unforgettable screams were never heard. The screams that turned into wailing were never attended to. A guy named Brick tied up Clayton’s best friend Ethan to a tree and began to beat him with tree branches. Young flesh that would later scar into tissue inside and out was scorned for trying to escape this hell.

            A Haven turned into an exploitation of thousands of teenagers strategically perfected by wealthy American families. The monsters the parents of generation x created paved a path for a psychopath. Hailaleen men from hell were in alliance with another group of teenagers in Sequoia: Paradise Haven. The boys that weren’t “good” at Idyllic Island, were sent to Paradise Haven. The boys in Hailalee called it Paradise Cage Rage. The boys back home often quoted Billy Corgan, “Despite all my rage I’m still a rat in a cage” from the song entitled “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.”

           After 90 days, Clayton decided he was either going to become brainwashed or broken. He was unable to produce tears. I guess he was brainwashed? His screams became branded in his brain. They horrified and stroke him. His nervous system was always jolted. His pleas to God were unanswered and his loved ones lost in a time when the adolescent brain is developing and shaping when puberty raised horny hormonal head out, testosterone builds uncontrollably, and tears turn into blood. They hadn’t watched TV or listened to the radio in months, yet they had been exposed to crimes against humanity first hand. The boys had no clue what they were going to endure, and that this hoax of a haven would change them forever. Consciously they thought, “if I get with the program,” life will be smooth sailing from here. However, they didn’t know they would be imprisoned for years and months beyond the two weeks. The passport was stamped with a two week promise that would turn into almost two years or before they turned 18, whichever came first. Twenty years later they’d still be spending nights moaning and sweating, enveloped in an unconscious panic attack. The luxury of sound sleep would be stolen from them, along with their dignity, integrity, and all their personal belongings.

            Regretfully, right off the bus, he was in complete refusal or orders., communication and food. He never made it to his bunk bed. Straight into Observation Placement, a place he’d reside metaphorically for the rest of his life. Clayton was becoming one with the floor. Observation Placement. There was no towel for his chin or cheek, but he was allowed to brush his teeth. Those same flys at the slaughterhouse are now in his eyes, ears, and mouth. They’re pestering him relentlessly. The sores on his hips and chin go untreated. He’s empty: his soul, his body, his heart. He craves knowledge. The nonchalant, yet abusive staff sends him to the worksheet, a small room where he can write for hours and hours on seemingly pointless essays. He could research Nietzsche, Shakespeare, Hitler, and Einstein. For days, sometimes weeks this is all he did to make the time fly. Was it his bottomless breaking point or a new utopian like start? Studying without experiencing the real world?

              Idyllic Island would only be 90 days he naively thought. He was still 16 and it only half way through the year so by law, he couldn’t reside here any longer. That’s when he noticed his bud Hutton’s parents were able to keep him there past the age of 18 because his father was a lawyer. That liberating feeling begins to fade. Like prison, he didn’t know when he would be returning to the grand old states. He was in a foreign nation, homesick and tearful. He tried to amuse himself and thought of American past times such as the Garbage Pail Kids. He’d be Clark Can’t or Dead Ted, he smirked. He was crippled and consistently in need of medical attention. He settled in homesick and tearful.

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Together, we can break the world record for longest book. When this challenge gets the necessary number of entries, it will expire and we will turn it into a book. Each entry will be its own chapter. Feel free to build from existing entries or write something radically different.
Written by brieannekt
Captive Youth
            Fresh off life support and looking like a catfish from a dozen sun-induced canker sores, they careened up and down mountain roads. They were leaving the city during pre-dawn in a rampant hurry, Montego’s Bay tarmac was a blur. Clayton thought to himself, “was this summer camp!?” His latest suicide attempt consisted of Paxil and Bacardi rum, with a death cap of 10 Xanax's. Fran and Clayton Sr. trusted the system and the American company and their foreign labor to do what they thought they could not do.
Evening darkening into night. No signs. No lights. He was uneducated to Hailalee’s lush forests, cool mountain air, and rivers that ran into waterfalls. On the way in, they ran over two goats. There was constant horn honking in the third world traffic: beeps and toots galore. The burning smell of marijuana tells on itself and deep bass lines are heard in the distance. A few lighted shacks pepper the valley. The ocean scent fills Clayton’s nose. He’s thinking this is going to be a serene getaway. “Maybe just being in nature will cure my adolescent rage?” 
             All of a sudden, a well lit, secure, but intimidating compound comes into view…His thoughts of being alone hiking in nature are proven wrong. He knew in the pit of his stomach, where remnants of barbituates still soothed him, that this was it. There was no detox program here. The Xanax withdrawal booted him back into reality. Gallows!, he thought. Menacing, hungry and greedy gates open and close. This is where the institution otherwise known as Resource Realizations kicks the chair of the comfort and security right from underneath him.
              Flashlights work feverishly through the night. He would just kick up his heels, splinters and broken thorns postulate from my toes and feet. Ringworms breed on the surface of his skin. A tree gave him a three month purple rash on his stomach. Minor happenings. Balmy breezes coated in humidity, wrap themselves around his skin. The soul of Hailalee is artfully and beautifully constructed. However, malicious evil does indeed exist in her past. This evil was carried out daily and broad daylight, without mercy. There were not pirates or Rastafarians. This place was not cool and was operated by cross American businessman.
             In the morning at Idyllic Island, the escaped cattle were tethered and slaughtered in front of us, by barefoot Hailaleen men. A machete bounces off the cows carotid artery, instantaneously bringing the animal to its knees. This was the reality of Hopeful Haven. It wasn’t the butcher shop. It was life. They watched goats annihilated in the island heat. The animal corpse’s attracted bugs and big hearty flies. Reflective blue and green, big ole’ flies. Dreams of his crisp, new and thoughtfully sent bed sheets, brilliant white stayed as dreams as this became his new reality. Clayton was now covered in droplets of blood where mosquito’s rested and nested in their final resting place for the night. His unforgettable screams were never heard. The screams that turned into wailing were never attended to. A guy named Brick tied up Clayton’s best friend Ethan to a tree and began to beat him with tree branches. Young flesh that would later scar into tissue inside and out was scorned for trying to escape this hell.
            A Haven turned into an exploitation of thousands of teenagers strategically perfected by wealthy American families. The monsters the parents of generation x created paved a path for a psychopath. Hailaleen men from hell were in alliance with another group of teenagers in Sequoia: Paradise Haven. The boys that weren’t “good” at Idyllic Island, were sent to Paradise Haven. The boys in Hailalee called it Paradise Cage Rage. The boys back home often quoted Billy Corgan, “Despite all my rage I’m still a rat in a cage” from the song entitled “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.”
           After 90 days, Clayton decided he was either going to become brainwashed or broken. He was unable to produce tears. I guess he was brainwashed? His screams became branded in his brain. They horrified and stroke him. His nervous system was always jolted. His pleas to God were unanswered and his loved ones lost in a time when the adolescent brain is developing and shaping when puberty raised horny hormonal head out, testosterone builds uncontrollably, and tears turn into blood. They hadn’t watched TV or listened to the radio in months, yet they had been exposed to crimes against humanity first hand. The boys had no clue what they were going to endure, and that this hoax of a haven would change them forever. Consciously they thought, “if I get with the program,” life will be smooth sailing from here. However, they didn’t know they would be imprisoned for years and months beyond the two weeks. The passport was stamped with a two week promise that would turn into almost two years or before they turned 18, whichever came first. Twenty years later they’d still be spending nights moaning and sweating, enveloped in an unconscious panic attack. The luxury of sound sleep would be stolen from them, along with their dignity, integrity, and all their personal belongings.
            Regretfully, right off the bus, he was in complete refusal or orders., communication and food. He never made it to his bunk bed. Straight into Observation Placement, a place he’d reside metaphorically for the rest of his life. Clayton was becoming one with the floor. Observation Placement. There was no towel for his chin or cheek, but he was allowed to brush his teeth. Those same flys at the slaughterhouse are now in his eyes, ears, and mouth. They’re pestering him relentlessly. The sores on his hips and chin go untreated. He’s empty: his soul, his body, his heart. He craves knowledge. The nonchalant, yet abusive staff sends him to the worksheet, a small room where he can write for hours and hours on seemingly pointless essays. He could research Nietzsche, Shakespeare, Hitler, and Einstein. For days, sometimes weeks this is all he did to make the time fly. Was it his bottomless breaking point or a new utopian like start? Studying without experiencing the real world?
              Idyllic Island would only be 90 days he naively thought. He was still 16 and it only half way through the year so by law, he couldn’t reside here any longer. That’s when he noticed his bud Hutton’s parents were able to keep him there past the age of 18 because his father was a lawyer. That liberating feeling begins to fade. Like prison, he didn’t know when he would be returning to the grand old states. He was in a foreign nation, homesick and tearful. He tried to amuse himself and thought of American past times such as the Garbage Pail Kids. He’d be Clark Can’t or Dead Ted, he smirked. He was crippled and consistently in need of medical attention. He settled in homesick and tearful.
#fiction  #adventure  #childrens  #culture 
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Tell me six impossible things that you believe in. Share me your list.
Written by WistfulThinker in portal Fiction

List of Impossibilities

I will be more positive.

HE will get caught for his wrongdoings.

I will get all A's.

I will get better at poetry.

I will stand up for myself.

I will sing in front of a group of people.

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Tell me six impossible things that you believe in. Share me your list.
Written by WistfulThinker in portal Fiction
List of Impossibilities
I will be more positive.
HE will get caught for his wrongdoings.
I will get all A's.
I will get better at poetry.
I will stand up for myself.
I will sing in front of a group of people.
#philosophy  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by brieannekt in portal Haiku

International Yoga Day Haiku

Evoking wisdom

Melding body and breath as one

Yogic Dance of Life

Pics are me

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Written by brieannekt in portal Haiku
International Yoga Day Haiku
Evoking wisdom
Melding body and breath as one
Yogic Dance of Life

Pics are me
#poetry  #spirituality  #culture  #opinion 
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Written by Vyxyn in portal Stream of Consciousness

Beauty secrets

Your skin, they say, is the largest organ of the body. So treat it well and with great care or people will stop and stare, not for the reason that you want them to either.

Your body is a temple, it's really quite simple,

just worship at your temple daily

with some oils and water.

No harsh soaps or chemicals people please,

Remember this simple rule to only K.I.S.S.

keep it simple stupid and you will go far!

Your skin will bless you and keep you longer

and your beauty?

Beauty is only skin deep and in the eyes of the beholder so invest well your regimen for care.

Remember this vessel you wear is a temple.

Here is my recipe that I use for facial:

4 capsules activated charcoal

2 Tablespoons Diatomaceous earth (food grade)

1/8 ts coconut oil

Enough water to make a paste

Mix all up well and smear all over face let stay until dry then wash off with cool water.

This charcoal is burnt coconut husks. Very good for you.

Enjoy!

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Written by Vyxyn in portal Stream of Consciousness
Beauty secrets
Your skin, they say, is the largest organ of the body. So treat it well and with great care or people will stop and stare, not for the reason that you want them to either.
Your body is a temple, it's really quite simple,
just worship at your temple daily
with some oils and water.
No harsh soaps or chemicals people please,
Remember this simple rule to only K.I.S.S.
keep it simple stupid and you will go far!
Your skin will bless you and keep you longer
and your beauty?
Beauty is only skin deep and in the eyes of the beholder so invest well your regimen for care.
Remember this vessel you wear is a temple.
Here is my recipe that I use for facial:
4 capsules activated charcoal
2 Tablespoons Diatomaceous earth (food grade)
1/8 ts coconut oil
Enough water to make a paste
Mix all up well and smear all over face let stay until dry then wash off with cool water.
This charcoal is burnt coconut husks. Very good for you.
Enjoy!
#nonfiction  #education  #science  #philosophy  #news  #culture  #opinion  #insturction 
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