I Just Sip My Tea

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The trolls be strollin in

emperor clothed they unashamed

Like clouds they be rollin in wind,

thundering like lightning they came

Controversy reeks of disaster

So above like vultures, they glide

Seeking whom they can scour

Simmering, seething in snide

Coming plain, they moan moo with beef

Bulls be brazen, threading in strife stroll

Tis a field, a forum for a foe to be fought

So crying charge, consternation claim control

Words will why, souls will wither

Weather will warp, Woes will wend

For ones simple beyond and abroad

Will weigh whacked, as twits will trend

We weep for Grandma Grammar

See her grave here down below,

see english beautiful butchered,

smh tldr, tmi lmafo lol

Collateral conjectural, who dies matters not here

Cultural contextual, for what was, now lies shot

Cogency calamity, shout louder, inspire fear

Complainers maintain, spew as thou aught  


For this means SORE!



Do you hear that din descending?

Can you feel that impending hum

The trolls beat the war chant

In droves soon tweets will come

For whom, well the trolls

Thumb flexin, tweet vexin, care not

Kermit shaded, inspired in ire

Any target found will be outfought

Ready the canon

Blare loud every horn

Retcon all truth

Demise any who scorn

Bells rung, to ships all called

Correlate toward sober causation

Held hands they sort of once

So stand firm on our citation

Rumors fly, yet we bind them down

Murmurs whisper, amplify their sound

Leaked, mined, there data renown

On the hype train, let us all bound!

TLDR: there, no surprise

I must surmise rows of lines

As length denizens despise

So YOLO XD potatoes vines!



The Ends to which Some Err

At the last, summer tends

Ah lass a cool wind strolleth

As now fall brewing rends

Amber where green once showeth

Hold tightly and bewail

For delight will soon fade

Drafts waft in and prevail

Impelling us into shade

Alas does the summer ends

When warmths cooly did groweth

And now fall sadly tends

Winds, with which winters snoweth

As Perfections Might Mar

Perceive the perfidy of perfection

Such a perdition it propels us through

For passion in patience, it petrifies

Poisoning any power daring to persevere


For all must be perfect

Such teas accosted if not crossed

See eyes shanked if not dotted

For all must perfected be or lost


Yet might there be another way

Less travel, less hailed, but there

Might exist another route to pursue

where sanity and glory can fare


Though perfection appears pristine

As glory glimmers as a desire succulent

See her golden yet frozen, Midas’ desire damned

As such Galatea carved flawless yet ivory, held cold


So let missed takes make us

Stronger, for not dead we still

Strive,  through all severances

Stand, stay, be made thorough

Through every facet throughout


Thus perfected in patience

Become and be, a passion sustained

Against the knight threatening

Gloved grasps to fall as mares

Attempt to rend you wrecked



Why the fridge, cold and serene

What the fish, glinting in shiny sheen

Who the—now, how does this end?

How on earth,  different from the trend


When interjecting questions persist

Who do you expect to help, assist

What appreciation did you desire

Where do you seek advice, so dire


Why do you claim to call the divine

When trying to rectify a spine

What sought celestial condemnation

Would improve the situation?


Swear, state, assert to say

Grief, yet from truth, not stray

Avoid euphemisms, evil’s eulogy at best

Vent explaining, let not expletives mar your chest

All our Prodigies are Dead

tis a field of grass

             All our prodigies are dead, such our hopes sundered are shanked. For when we were young, we hoped and wished upon a star to see such glories rise, to see us up there on platforms high, esteemed by all–loved inherently, even though we remained still young, still fertile and fervid in the light of life, not having worked hard to sweat out achievements by toil. For we could succeed  simply by the puffiness of our baby cheeks, the ardor of cute smiles, and the potential we were perceived to be. But now all our prodigies are dead. They lie struggling in spilled blood in a back alley somewhere, deserted by us and life itself. For we are not young anymore, our curly locks will not sway any mind to our wills, nor our cute affectations help others to see our side, and our smiles sag with a wary weight that has lost any and all innocence. For our prodigies are dead and now we adult are the only thing that remains in this bloody metamorphose.


            No longer can we be the cuddly cute caterpillar dancing daintily along the leaves many, taking a nibble here and there, as we traverse life in wibble wobble manner. Freed from the cocoon cramping, it is time to spread them and see if they work. You can’t just wish it into existence but you must try to flap, exercise the powers given to you. This you were meant to be, many saw a potential in you, many prayers were said, many words were said in hope, but now simply, action must be taken. For our chance to be prodigy is long past, the cocoon is open, your wings are there, will you fly? But, but there are so many obstacles, see the winds blow hard long and against any form of forward progress. Why can’t I just walk these familiar branches, nibble these routine leaves, why can’t I just continuously caterpillar, cute and cuddly, adored wobbly and wibbly, wondrously wandering, fat on fun,  and stay here in these woods with warmth welcoming, these bed of roses comforting?

            Well, perching where toads sit, will not help you see lands of wonder. Step out of the smoke immersing you–to fly high you must change. In this, there is no room for mush, nor small nibbles on either side. Know, it’s-a not you, foo. Father William was bold, so in age came a sage to be, bearing the elden crown of gray unfrayed. Though you may have been known as the golden boy, greatness prophesied to muse with you, you must now run fast and true, for none will just give you laurels for just existing. So you so you must go out there craft your own crown, whether that be of daisies, laurels, or thorns.

                You are not a child, a prodigy of potential glory nor an old person, aged sage wisdom from a life long lived, scars deep ragged but healed. No–the scars are fresh, the wounds still bleed–yet you are not dead, nor a wraith writhing in its death throes, no–flesh, blood, and mind still exist wholly in unity  so stand firm against the encroaching fright , engage the foes with meticulous might, enrage and enlighten them all. Let them all know Lazarus livid is not lazy in lethe, Job is employed, and though Jonah may be moist, he has a word to deliver. Brah Nebuchadnezzar, the fire wasn’t hot enough, Dear Darius, your lions are vegetarian, Hey Haman, how you hanging?    The grave is empty for my Lord still walks, so ambulate with or march off with your shame. For our prodigies are dead, see the prodigal son return home.

See, These Ships Sink

These ships are sinking, we must find a shore secure

Sure, these boats have carried us as is known in lore

Yet these husks are rotten, brim ragged of holes

Sending these sculls to depths, drowning all clinging souls


So save our souls, in a meaning clear

Amend our ardor, truth without smear

Rescue our reason, rend rectitude right

Salvage our spirit, redeem us from the trite


On these waters, we words once meant something

Yet these swells of culture were sadly perverting

So on these oceans of life, new words must sail anew

For under these depths, we must sleep dead, there accrue