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Poetry I wrote you some flowers

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One Thousand Club
Kids, let me tell you about the story of the tortoise and the hare. One day, long ago, the hare was going around the animal kingdom, always showing off how fast he could hop. Up and down the street he would hop, always making fun of all the other animals because they were too slow to keep up. The hare went to find the slowest animal he could, just so he could laugh at them. He found the tortoise. He started going off about how he was so much greater, but the tortoise simply said “if you’re so fast, race me, and we’ll see who’s really the best”.

The next day, the tortoise and the hare had their race. The tortoise showed up early, and stretched her legs as hard as she could stretch them. The hare showed up late, and didn’t bother stretching. He knew he would win.

And so, on their marks, they got set, and were off! Right away, the hare hopped and hopped and kept going, almost all the way to the finish line. When he was just about to finish, he looked back, and saw that the tortoise had barely moved an inch. The hare laughed, and thought for a moment that he could take a long nap and still wake up in time to win.

This, of course, was hyperbolic thinking. The hare hopped over the finish line, and even went all the way back to the start to beat the tortoise a second time.

The moral of the story is that tortoises are slow and hares are fast.

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One Thousand Club
Each night, my love crawls into bed with me
and holds me close
and runs fingers through my hair
Just like you used to.

Each night, my love crawls into bed with me
and puts its hands around my throat
and makes me suffer for ever loving
Just to spite me.

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One Thousand Club
She was from Puerto Rico
but just as pale as me
and just as bad a cook
but I could see the Caribbean in her eyes
just like I remembered seeing it
and the warmth of the sand
was the warmth of her breast.

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One Thousand Club
i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but--though an host of overjoyed
noncoms(first knocking on the head
him)do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments--
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds,without getting annoyed
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat--
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.

e.e. cummings

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One Thousand Club
A poem every day. That's this thread, from now until the foreseeable future. What that means for y'all reading is a drastic reduction in quality. Hopefully, my worst stuff is behind me, but fuck it, this is for me, not you. :coolshades:

Hope y'all enjoyed this thread when it was intelligible, because that ends May 1, 2021.


A poem everyday
life with no backspace
forward always moving
so what's behind has meaning

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One Thousand Club
Away you drift in the ashes of memory
gone and forgotten, like an old favorite melody
lost in the edges of old tattered poetry
(borne evermore in lament of the lonely).
Angels have no thought of ever returning you —

(Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?)

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One Thousand Club
I wonder if someone
will speak for my death
or if I even want them to.

Maybe the Wabash will remember me
floating along
with the wind
with the fish
with the dirt.

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