I really don't have much of a space to "blog" so I hope no one is too offended if I do it here. I wrote this just maybe an hour ago.


Sometimes it feels as though the principle of non-contradiction is our first line of defense against the truth. Here I am, sitting over a bottle of cheap sake and a paraplegic future (the result of numerous fractures and displacements upon my career's spinal column). I don't mind it so much, though, as this is probably the most free I've ever been in my life. However, it does drain on the would-be peripatetic, coupled with the guilt of having forsaken that strolling wisdom and the foreknowledge that no measure of distance can afford me another tabula rasa, if I ever had one. Instead, you're left to the tough task of scrubbing the decks within an inch of their frame, which is a hard task without resulting in total cuntdom. A good 'second skin' is something that is happened upon by accident and fits even more naturally than the first. It's tailored in the back of the mind (Eventuality, Adhesiveness, or Philoprogenitiveness suggests the creepy Phrenology bust looming behind me). Does a 'third skin' exist, or does someone just say 'second skin' again? Is anyone keeping tally? I feel pathetic and I don't want to be. I know more about the ins and outs of 'existentialism' than your average person but without it working the good effects which it would in deeper souls. Carpe diem is another hour or two sleeping in. This rant has done me good, though. Tomorrow, I will.

how come noone else noticed the greatest post ever made?

You all should have a gas with this.

http://iwl.me/

It's a website that analyzes your submitted text and compares it to famous authors, then it gives you a single author that your passage resembles.

I got David Foster Wallace.

i did that. it was fun. bizarre and unfounded but fun.

one post i did on the philosophy thread appeared as h.p. lovecraft (!!). different parts of a long PM i sent were david foster wallace, dan brown (the da vinci twat) and cory doctorow.

another post i did on i forget what was "stephen king".

schizophrenia is a bitch!

(ps-- this post is "cory doctorow"-- again-- i have never read anything by that sukka)

I write like James Joyce!

you lucky dog

did you use the words "snotrag" or "scrotumtightening sea"?

So apparently Inspektah Deck's verse on 'Protect Ya Neck' is written like Cory Doctorow.

Unfounded? Sounds like it can detect mind-crushing absurdity.

Stop tarnishing my morale, twats.

My blog posts are David Foster Wallace, and my fiction is Ursula K. Le Guin.

I write like James Joyce. Which i think means drunk, hard to understand, and unpleasant in the evening hours

We're probably soulmates.

i got james joyce.

shit is wack. i'm not joycean.

ANOTHER SOULMATE!!! :p

When i put something else through i got Kurt Vonnegut, who ive been told i resemble before. And ive never read any Kurt Vonnegut

Perhaps it errs on the side of wit when it confronts mangled gibberish?

I'm kidding, of course.

sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex .

sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex /.

I write like
Anne Rice



Fucking ducks were sucking my last memories like briefcase anatomy.

The last piece of air bent my back into bananas split onto ice cream.

I write like
Cory Doctorow

If you could imagine, for just a moment, that everything is all right.

I write like
P. G. Wodehouse


I write like kurt vonnegut. I resemble kurt vonnegut.
I write like
Kurt Vonnegut

Chain me to a radiator.

Naked and safe, and lifelessly yours.
I write like
Ian Fleming

Monkey aeroplane turret musketteer.

This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards.

I write like
Margaret Atwood

Monkey aeroplane turret musketteer.

This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards. This sentence repeats itself over and over, and then continues backwards.

My name is Poe.

I write like
H. P. Lovecraft

I love this. It's so fun.

I hate myself and want to die.
I hate myself and want to die.
I write like
Ernest Hemingway

I hate myself and want to die.
I love myself and want to live.
I write like
Ernest Hemingway

I hate myself and want to die.
I'm going to fucking kill you.
I write like
Chuck Palahniuk

I hate myself and want to die.
I think I'm going to kill you.
I write like
J. D. Salinger

Yay!!

Trying to work more on creative writings. I actually enjoy writing more than music and playing guitar; for something so limitless it infinitely feels limited to me. I'm definitely not as skilled at writing as I am with music though but whatever, it's a lot of fun.

I wrote this last summer, but my short attention span made me end it stupidly and suddenly.In two parts as it exceeds 10,000 characters. Might finish it one day...

NOWHERE GIRL a short story about meaningful nothingness.
Hugo sits on a train in an empty carriage. He’s old, or at least feels old – maybe late thirties early forties, difficult to tell, but he carries his experiences in the lines in his face and the manner in which he slouches in the dusty seventies fabric on the seats He knows he feels old because his body sinks lower into the soft cushions – there is a small feeling of relief from the constant aches and tiredness that come with being old. Aches not enough to hurt, but enough to be aware of, if they are really there at all. As a young man, he remembered, you were not even aware of your body, it just floated above seats, above the floor, never seeming to make contact or at least never feeling the pressure of being still. The velcro of age not yet fastening one to wherever it needed to rest.The small sign shows a picture of feet on a seat with a cross through it. He slings his feet onto the seats opposite, making a mental note of the justification that he’d use in the unlikely event of his being challenged. Travelling by train had always seemed romantic. Romance has many faces, though. He remembers the times when, as a young teenager, he would buy used porn from the second hand market in the city, and, having checked the adjacent carriages were empty, masturbate for the half hour journey home, before disposing of the glossy, sticky fantasy. Seats, windows and floors soiled, contaminated, but the contamination was pure, fresh, clean. Sociopathic, some may have called it, but he knew it meant no harm. Anyway, romantic is not what you’d call it, but it did have a strange kind of romance. Loneliness and solitude had always felt romantic. A life set to song lyrics and rain pouring down windows, the smell of industry and of the detritus of a thousand lonlier souls who inhabited the grey city. The man in the small booth selling clingfilm-wrapped sausage sandwiches to go with the newspapers that nobody ever bought, his shoulder length seventies hairstyle and yellowed moustache from smoking too many cigarettes suggesting a long life of hard work, but how hard can selling home made sandwiches be? As hard as you let it be, I guess. The sandwich bar, yet it was not even a bar, just a hole in the wall, was just upstairs from The Sunset Cinema Club. Hugo imagined the sticky seats in the darkness, stains illuminated by the flickering lamp of the projector. His defilement of public property was so much more noble, he thought, not seedy at all. How could it be seedy or dirty if it was him – he knew he was clean and pure of heart, in all the ways that counted, anyway. He looked out of the window at the familiar scenes of urban decay. On the back of one brick built terrace perpendicular to the railway, someone had painted in bright blue letters the words “WHY BOTHER?”. It had been there for years, and was a useful landmark when timing the journey. Today, he noticed, that someone from the adjacent dwelling had painted, in large orange letters, “WHY NOT?”. He had to laugh. Raindrops raced to the bottom of the glass, meaningless sperm racing toward a non-existant egg. “Romance”, it seemed, was everywhere.
Hugo awoke with a start. The raindrops must have hypnotised him. Opening first his left eye, he spotted a pair of purple patent leather Dr Marten boots on the seat, next to him, but not quite touching. “Don’t you know there’s a rule about feet on seats?, he asked without even turning to identify the culprit. “Oh yes. I’m a staunch believer in rules. I make a habit of breaking every rule I come across. If it weren’t for people like me, who break the rules, who would bother to make them? We who break the rules are as important as those who make them, wouldn’t you say? More important, even. The world needs order, and I am here to ensure that there are people who think it’s important enough to stop people like me from keeping them in employment.” Hugo nodded. He couldn’t fault the logic, and it was a much better reason than the justification that he’d always thought he would use if ever challenged for committing such a breach of the law. Turning his head to regard his new companion, he saw a girl of about nineteen, dressed as a girl of nineteen would have guessed a girl of nineteen would have dressed when he himself was about nineteen. Probably not fashionable these days, and far from individualistic. Derivative, even, but then what isn’t. Her hair had been dyed back or dark brown, he could see the blonde roots where it had grown out. Hugo could never understand why a girl who had been blessed with blonde hair would dye it black, but superficially, he liked the look of her. First impression, anyway. First impressions tend to count.
Hugo glanced around the carriage, and noticed that they were the only two in there.
“I collect the soundtracks to peoples’ lives”, she said. “Oh, don’t you have your own?”. “Nah, I’m transient. Other people lead such interesting lives in their memories, even if the reality is rather mundane. I’d rather suck some of the goodness from those memories, and pick and choose what I’d like to keep”. “So you’re after some kind of top five songs or something?”. “You’re so twentieth century”, she replied. “Not a top five. Not a top one. Just keep it real. Or make it false. People always make it false, they choose tunes that they think will be interesting to the person they’re talking to. Same with films. Waste of time, though. You can spot reality easier than a dogshit on an icecream cone. Tell you what… start with one song, that way I can judge if you’re really being honest or just shitting me. Give me a taster. Really, it’s not important, like your life depends on it. I might know it. I might not know it, and forget it as soon as this journey is over, or I might not know it and get to know it.” “I’m Hugo, by the way, in case you were wondering.” “Hugo? That’s a bit of a pretentious name, isn’t it? “Yeah, I hate it. Might as well have been called Twat. At school they teased me, called me Huge-O, which upset me for a little while, maybe because I was so skinny and weak, but in the end I didn’t really care. It’s just a name. You can’t live your life feeling defined by what your parents decided to call you in their infinite wisdom. I feel sorry for the kid at school calld Mucous, though, heheh. What’s your name?”. “Hmm. Whatever you want it to be”. “Sounds like something a whore would say”. “Well you were the one who said we shouldn’t be defined by our names, so call me however you think I should be called. Whatever suits, I really don’t care”.
“Anyway, why, in an empty carriage, did you decide to sit with me?”. “Well, you looked the most interesting person in here”. “But I was the only person in here”. “So, I’m not wrong then, am I?”

Continued next message....

NOWHERE GIRL part 2

The door at the rear end of the carriage opened. The ticket collector. A mundane job, but like in the world of rule-making, somebody has to do it, Hugo thought. “Tickets please..” he uttered in the monotonous tone of a man whose only pleasure at work came from timing the monotony. Hugo fished into his pocket and pulled out his ticket, which was duly franked. “Miss…?” he said to the girl, not brave enough to notice the feet on the seats, or brave enough to notice, but not to mention it. He was too busy killing time to interrupt it with something to expediate the murder of the chronology. The girl in purple boots shrugged. “ No ticket, eh? Where did you come from?”. “Home”. “Where are you going?”.”Nowhere”. The ticket collector shrugged. “But what is your destination, your final destination?”. “Home”, she replied. In effect, she was right, she was going nowhere. How could she buy a ticket to nowhere? The ticket collector mumbled and moved off. He wasn’t paid to think. Thinking was done by the people who made the rules, they got paid for that. If he had to interpret their rules, he should be paid for that too, and he wasn’t. He left the carriage slightly less enthusiastic about the mundanity that he had grown to love.
“So where are you really going?, asked Hugo, interested. He hadn’t met anybody interesting for quite a while, he thought, and this girl seemed, well, kind of interesting. “To the city, where do you think? It’s where this train goes”. “What do you do there?”. “Lots of things. Well, it’s quite mundane really, same old routine, but I enjoy it nonetheless. There’s a lot to be said for routine, you know. You can never break out of a routine unless you have one”. “Yes, yes, but what are you going to do? Today, for example?”. “Hmm. I’ll watch people, imagine their lives from their faces. Oh, I collect stuff, too. I go to the flea market and buy old stuff”. “I thought you said you collected the soundtracks of peoples’ lives?”. “Oh, I do…. but the same songs come up again and again. I figure that if I buy old shit, games, toys, books, comics, magazines, clothes etc, I’ll have the things that were around when those people were influenced to write that music”. “What music?”. “ The soundtracks to peoples’ lives, I told you”. Four minutes passed.
“You know”, said Hugo, “I lived a life just like yours, really. I don’t mean that in a condescending patronising way, I just did. Exactly. Collecting old stuff – records, comics, books, games, watching old tv – but I never stopped to think why I did it. Maybe it’s not important at all, but it seems interesting to me right now, at this moment. Perhaps, and I hadn’t even considered it before, I was looking for inspiration in the inspiration of others. I mean, intrinsically, the stuff from the past is inferior and irrelevant, unless you’re looking from a purely nostalgic point of view, but I wasn’t old enough for that to be true. The only things that count are things from the present, although, of course, they are only fleetingly in the present, and then become the past, or inspiration for a future generation of culture of which we can only imagine”. A minute passed.
“So, are purple Dms back in fashion now?”. Hugo immediately cursed himself for what he self-regarded as his biggest fault (although there were certainly more, and worse) – feeling the need to punctuate a perfectly comfortable period of comfortable silence with staccato bullshit like the DM boots comment. Girl from nowhere said nothing, and he silently assumed that she had treated the question with the contempt it deserved.
The train crashes. Two passengers, a ticket collector and a driver are killed.

She was once very certain. She was certain of her place; certain of her future. She arranged all of her belongings in a certain way. She had certain habits. It was not until just recently that she had picked up a new certainty. She struggled with it at first, but eventually gave in. She really didn’t quite know what she was doing, but she was certain she had to do it.
Her logic screamed “No! You are going the wrong way!” but she was certain that she must go in that direction. So in that direction she turned, and in that direction she went.. As she had anticipated, many stumbling blocks were laid in her path; but as she saw it the pain she endured along the way was outweighed by the touches of happiness she gained.
She pained others as well. She did not want to be the source of sadness and suffering, yet she still held on to the belief that se was traveling then correct path. Today she cries inside. She does not understand, nor does she desire to venture out of the world she has built in her head.
They behave a certain way on some days, yet differently on others. She ponders whom she should put her faith into; the lion or the sheep. The lion is aggressive, but the sheep lies to itself and is scared of her. The lion roars out the truth. He is not afraid of anything.
All she really wanted was to have some fun; to be set free. It was becoming more and more apparent that no matter what little glimpse of light she captured, she would never be free. The light was not her’s to take and she was not the light’s to be taken.
She wanted to go. She wanted desperately to run, but responsibility was hers. It had already taken over. She loved the light though, and she could not help but to be drawn in to it. Sometimes she thought that the light had rebuked her. She would sob for hours, but she misunderstood the light. The light only meant to keep her out of harms way.
She dwelled in darkness. She prayed the light would hear her. The light held everything she had always hoped for. Maybe one day it would recue her.
Now she wails and moans because the light no longer falls upon her. The light won’t say it, but it cannot fall on her right now. All she can do is hope that fate will let it one day be, and clutch tightly to the few memories of capturing that light before having to release it back to the sun.

If anyone wants an update: I've had to start using colons. I fucking hate colons. They're the sort of thing that pricks use for lists. I don't write lists. But the semi-colon started colonising everything (you'll note the irony), the hyphen started - annoyingly - being a surrogate comma, round parentheses are just guileless shit and I'm not French so I can't use commas all the time. Of course, the hyphens are great for compoundnounery, but you don't want them all over the show.

I, syntagmatic nomad.

Also, if anyone wants to brush up on grammar, David Crystal's 'Rediscover Grammar' is indispensable.

Line of the day: '"designers of own-brand supermarket soap take note".

[quote=Glice]If anyone wants an update: I've had to start using colons. I fucking hate colons.


http://www.eurekalert.org/pub_releas...-mrb021611.php

Ive been writing for a while now but im afraid to share shit with you lot. Im kinda paranoid about having my material stole

http://www.newstatesman.com/books/20...sentence-comes

Interesting article by good ole' Stanley 'Stan' Fish on writing.

"A powerful verse of the Rastafari community sings, “You’ve got to know yourself, in this your time, Man you have to mind, lest you get carried away by captivity, in this time.” This resonates as much truth universally as it does within the confines of the community where it is a parable spoken in common. The center of universe for each individual resides within that individual, and our entire lives are a series of affirmations, decisions and choices. Not all of these are conscious, rather we have filed and buried many decisions to the processes of our subconscious mind. Further, we casually accept that we agree with the options and choices proffered to us. We accept this agreement so strongly that we seldom realize that we ourselves are making the individual decisions to acquiesce to the forces of others around us. So our world, socially, politically, and biologically can be defined as a complex, meshwork of the decisions of billions of interacting, interconnecting people. In this regard, it is careful that we know ourselves, and become fully aware of the power of our decision making processes, both conscious and subconscious. This is the crux of the moral dilemma which is the basis behind many decisions we make within our interactions with the network of decisions. As it is our own decision, there is a kind of buyer’s remorse experienced at the recognition of the decision having been made. We relish in the valley of decision, hoping that the burden of responsibility seldom falls openly on us. However, all life is a decision, every breathing moment and there is no escape.."

"..Though there was no real pressure other then social, moral or internal, a significant proportion of the control group were found to be willing to inflict great amounts of harm to other people. Members of this group failed Nietzsche’s personal test of one’s own convictions. Further, they made their own individual decisions to continue to participate. The very nature of the experiment put the power to harm in the individual. The means of shock were controlled directly by the subjects, and each subject made the individual decision continually to inflict harm on another person. They believed they were hurting a person similar to themselves, and yet they continued to inflict increasing degrees of harm. Their alternatives were simple, to drop out of participation as a few subjects did. Those who passed Nietzsche’s test and made the individual decision to stop the experiment broke away from what Nietzsche describes as “the extraordinary limitation of human development” which is to follow the “herd-instinct” and sacrifice “the art of command.” In accepting the authority of other’s decisions, you have made your own individual decision to accept them, and you have expressed your own agency and, as Nietzsche describes, command. This command is an active process, as Sartre observes, “For in effect, of all the actions a man may take in order to create himself as he wills to be, there is not one which is not creative.” That is, all of life’s activities, be they mundane or miraculous, are part of the creative process of human decision, hence all decisions are creative as they are all created acts of man. As with Kinder, they accepted the decision and authority of the experimenter and made their own decisions to continue. This is especially illustrative of Sartre’s observations of the individual responsibility of existence. In particular, the subjects demonstrated the anguish of decision which Sartre compares with Abraham. Just as Abraham was forced to make an individual decision on the validity of his vision, so to did each person in the experiment have to come to grips with agony of their indecision and express their individual agency in continuing the experiment. Again they, according to Sartre, affirmed the value of continuing the experiment rather then opting out. They put aside their Dionysian self, which was clearly expressed in the visible apprehension observed in the subjects, and continued the Apollonian course of order and rationality. The passions of their empathy with the imagined victims of the electric shock was trumped by the Apollonian desire to participate with the order and authority of the experiment itself, as they had initially intended to do from the outset. In this way, Stanley’s experiment was very Nietzscheian, as it presented a great moral, individual test “for independence and command” while also confronting the interaction of the, rational Apollonian self and the passionate Dionysian self.."

Sometimes I feel happy.
Sometimes I feel sad.
Sometimes I do good things.
Sometimes I do bad.
Things.
Sometimes I want to eat pizza.
Sometimes I don't, even though it feels good in my belly.
Sometimes pepperonis are too greasy.
Sometimes that makes me feel helly.
Like Im rollin 6 feet deep Machiavelli.
If youza trick, hit me up on dat celli.
Sometimes.

Digging up your corpse and blowing creamy diarrhea blasts all over it made me hard.
I played with my crotch and smiled like a retard, as I scooped out and ate your last remaining scraps of decayed, bloody ass-lard.
Gutted your maggot infested stomach with a shard from a William Hung CD.
Then in your worthless rotten ass stupid dead stomach, I started to pee.
As I did this I smiled, and thought to myself,
"Boy these acts of pleasure sure do make me feel full of wealth,
but surely they can't be good for my health!"
So I sucked out the piss with live maggots floating around in it, until your innards were bone dry.
And just sat there with that shit floating around in me.
Until I choked, drowned, and died.

A sentance could be worming its way to the surface, ill let u know

She's such a lonely girl
she's such a lonely girl
she's such a lonely girl
she's such a lonely girl

And then I sat there....watching my motionless cock.

completed my novel a few months back..
staring at the rejection slip now - the first since 2003..

hanging in there......

Rote Bollocks, Recite!

Poem. wrote the words in rehab 2 but put it together just recently. I probably don't like it.


The tracks, could.

would take a liking to
both forks, we could take

neither fork. our tongue.

in between the

passersby, the seconds
connect. The neck runs

Real. They, on
the silence of a stump,

vomit.

A chicken runs circles, bawks
connects the seconds

poor Passersby

in between my
neck.


The period after neck is supposed to be alligned with the end of the previous line, but it wouldnt let me post it like that for some reason.

This thing that I am holding is a pen. I know it is a pen because it has ink and a point with which to write. Yes, I know this is a pen, but I am not wholly unsuspicious. I have called such devices pens for as long as I can remember, but perhaps those devices that I have known as pens for so long are not really pens at all but something else entirely. So what may this be?
Now that I think about it, I haven’t the faintest idea. This thing has many constituent parts and I must identify them before I can call this a pen. And before even that, I must determine that my senses perceive the parts as they really are. I cannot see any way past this, so I ask my assistant:
“Is this a pen?”
He looks up from his beakers and test tubes and says that it is.
I am satisfied before it occurs to me that he is suffering from the same perceptual distortions that have led me to call this thing a pen all these years, and that this thing here is not the pen that he and I perceive but something else entirely.
“You are wrong,” I tell my assistant. “I thought this was a pen, too, but we are mistaken.”
“I see. I feared this. Have you a hypothesis?”
“It is something else entirely is all I can say for certain.”
“Did you check it for mites?”
“Of course I checked it for mites, I’m not an amateur, Dawson!”
“Even the best of us can miss a mite, sir.”
“I’ve never missed a mite in all my years in this business here!”
“Are you sure, sir? Mites are very small, easy to miss.”
This throws me for a loop. “Mites? Small? What are you on about, Dawson?”
“Here. Look.” Dawson shows me a picture of a mite.
I pause, confused. “…well, that is very small, isn’t it?”
“It’s small, sir.”
I realize now that the things that I have known as mites all these years are not mites at all. I stare bewildered at Dawson. Is he indeed Dawson?
“Are you Dawson?”
Someone had asked that.
“Yes, sir.”
I do not believe him, me, whoever it was. I do not believe that I am or am not Dawson. I do not believe that mites are not mites or that this thing is a pen.
“Goddamnit, Dawson, whoever you are, tell me straight! Is this a pen?” I hold it before his eyes.
“Why, that’s a mite, sir.”
I feel rage and terror flood into me. No, no, that doesn’t make sense, a mite… Dawson is toying with me! Dawson has answers, and he is withholding them for the sheer mockery of it! A pen a mite, it makes no sense!
I lunge at Dawson, hands out for the throat, but he sidesteps and brings one of his beakers down over my head. His latest brew seeps into the cuts in my scalp and everything begins to taste of pennies. Dawson grabs my ankles and starts to pull me toward the butchery in the back.
“Dawson, no!” I manage. I try to kick him away but my legs do not respond.
“What I should’ve done a long time ago, sir.”
Things pixelate. I can no longer distinguish Dawson from the surroundings. A bodiless force drags me toward the butchery.
“I’m taking this business over, sir,” the voice rings out from nowhere. “But first I must get rid of the incompetent fool who’s been running it into the ground all these years.”
It is sad to hear these things said, but I forgive the voice. I forgive the force that pulls me toward the butchery.
“You see, I’ve been waiting a long time for this.” The voice shifts frequencies rapidly, speeds up and slows down with no perceptible pattern. “Waiting, perfecting my alchemies, watching you fumble this business into bankruptcy!”
An eternal pause.
“You have failed the company, sir.”
Everything becomes clear and I see from a distance my head thud to the floor between Dawson’s feet. I watch him bring the machete to each of my limbs, fit me into a trash bag and tie it. I watch him take his carriage out to the sea, onto the waves, and drop me into the water. I watch him return to headquarters and run the business right.
It is good to see the business do well.

untitled



put me to bed
like a baby, you said
but first dry my tears
so my cheeks won't feel wet

tomorrow's a day
only hours away
and today will be past
and that's why I'll rest

my dreams will be bright
but forgotten comes light

I will never forget, you were right and for that
I can't thank you enough. Because things were so rough.
so rough, I lost hope. Life was like a rope
that I grabbed for in dark, in increasing despair
until you lit that spark, so mightily rare
that it lifted me up, like rain cleanses air

one could now hear me singing
of imagining bringing, you flowers and fruits

I feel strong in these boots

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/