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A close relative can be a dear image.
 

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Penises never wear out, They never wear out, high.
They always wear out, down low.
 

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VJ's never wear out, they wear in.

They wear out any patient user due to the owner's dry humor.
 

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If I show up at your house, even in a dream, thou hast invited me in.
I refuse to cross any threshold not felt inviting.
That, such my pride, not your fear, bars forth the door.
 

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Are warm thoughts from a friend felt as petty?
Do thou feel pity?

This, leaving a friend in left field.

I pity those petty thoughts, for it is you that shows them, not really owning them.
Rejection is always the easier choice for those yet young.
The old have no such out, left.


Grandma Mabel-
 

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I often find myself writing words, then hear an echo about me.
Another speaks that word, that phrase
.
Whose words were first, whose words created the echo?
It is that Synchronicity at play.

Does one's mind hear the words prior to them going out in the air, or on the wireless airways?
Or, art thou, the sender, nay, the receiver, or both?

Words seen in print seconds after uttering them can be examples.
Put aside that thought, that one's eyes are the faster seeing than are one's thoughts.

Can it be that one's position in space can be that time lagger?
Such that, when one's body and mind (at last) catches up with the on-playing script.

This, our Universe is scripted, pre-written, we are the players.
None shall know this, yet all know their scripts.
 

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Why is it necessary?

Why is it necessary {for one who is off-balance} to be pushed past their center of gravity just so their partner knows that they have pushed too far?

Why does the gravity of the situation need to escalate to that boiling point to bring about an agreeable compromise?

An easy compromise between two warring parties, two so-damn-locked in matrimony?
 

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Why does pride usurp rationality?

Do so, until it does not.

Agh! Till it cannot do so…..anymore?

Do so, until control is red faced lost to the pride bound?

When self-love takes a back seat to a commoners sense of fair-play and love.
 

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Why does the pin on a grenade need to be pulled for a serious conversation to occur?

Why do only serious consequences bring serious consideration from the prideful?
 

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Why do serious lovers even consider pride bound fools?

Why do warm hearted folks fall into ice laden waters?

Why is love often a one way street?

Where one, not two operate the machine.

One forcibly driving the other blindly mad.

Where, “I am sorry”’ never gets uttered, where the prideful one never feels any need to cite that phrase.
 

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Why is it so?

Why is it that some women, some men cannot have the one they desire?

Is it because their desire never arrives?

This may be, but why?

Discovering why shows the crack in their designs.

It shows the way around love, never the way in.
 

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Why is it so?

Why is it that some women, some men cannot have the one they desire?

Is it because they never spell it out; exactly who it is they desire?

Is it because they add too much detail, color in every space, leaving no space for variance, maybe for chance?

Not leaving more space for pastels, for off-tones in their desire.

Not wanting to compromise, never thinking the one they choose, may themselves feel compromised in their choosing in return.

We are not gods, we do not build our prospective mates from clay, from scratch.

In the end, we all compromise.

We give up blue for light grey.

We exchange light orange for light yellow.

We never, rarely give up white for black, black for white.

It is in the pastels that we can compromise, never in hard primary hues.

It is in those soft rules, that we can find those searched for clues.
 

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Taken from my Evil Thread. Aren't they all evil?
Stab me if Thy must.
................................................................................................................................

I have noted, and noted well.


We cannot escape our Demons, those/these live fully among us.
They are evil and do not know it. So programmed are they.


Obvious, is this: as their opposite, 'their' negative, *WE are that evil to them.
We are the light screens that they project their hateful and evil image onto.

It seems, that Nature corrupts sentient beings, fully mad and oblivious.
Anger, is the overall, painted over, and dour Earth tone, these Demons present to Mankind.

These Demons live a nightmare life and we suffer for it in tandem.
To them, our only purpose is to be the sounding board for their miserable condition.

Sadly, their numbers grow faster, as do shadows when doth the Sun set.

Aye, mates.


*Whom, this We is, remains a personal decision.
Our We, remain The HeadMates, and any of their friends.
Aye, our friends list doth dwindle.

We reap what we sow.
Some, our urbanized enemies sue, cannot they, so manage the soil.
There can never be dirt under their haughty nails, no the dirt layeth under the boot of their soul
 

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What hurts me the most, is when a soft creature, a lady I like of, comes under the spell of wrong headedness.

Her lips, they now curl, sharply downward, they cut any man she kisses.
All ladies were born to be kissed, she is no longer told, that she fits that sacred mold.

I know such a lady, she is my friend lost.


The Typist-
 

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We appreciate constructive criticism.
We grow after being whittled down.
We do what others do not, cannot, choose not to.
We grow, not in leaps and bounds, but from weeps and frowns.




The HeadMates- not so The Martians!
 

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To create a beautiful bush, Ha!, not a burning ONE....

One must continue to prune it back, shape it, doing so with precision snips.
Doing so with snippets of studied discernment, of criticism, loving or not.
Two, getting to the pruning early enough, while the sap wood is green, not hard, thickened and tough.

Keeping at it.....

A bush, a man must be shaped by his environment, whether he enjoys the trimming or not.

Likely not....
 

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On trimming a women.....

Gods!

Yes, only God can do this.
No man has the skill, or the will to do this.

No man has the knack, the tact, the tactile skill, his hands doth shake too much.
Touching her skin, his hands do flutter, his tongue glued to the roof of his, chatter-little box.

Women were given jewels and baubles, a-plenty.
These treasures keeping a mans mind occupied while she picks his pocket.
While she steals his sanity. It, never so, to return.

You cannot trim that which you cannot see, that which never comes into focus.
That which changes constantly before ones eyes.

A women is an ideal, one not real.
One, not reality.
Not this, ever to a man trimmed.
 

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Sometimes life can be so lonely...

With no one to mind-meld with.
With no one to know love with.
With no do overs.

With each soul having a different account
With each soul taking its own pound of flesh.
With each soul rating, their's worthy, your's at discount.

Sometimes life can be so lonely...
 
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I am now an island, in an ocean teeming with life.
I know too much, and can never be dumbed-down, up again in love.

God, save me.
 

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This one is for the misogynists.

When a man thinks he knows his women, she changes the channel using an unseen, wireless remote alibi.
She bleaches her past sins and re-plasters her past.


She then dyes her hair, then turns herself inside out.
The dyed hair remains on the inside, the truth forever hidden from any future lover's eyes.
 
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