Poll: Jacked On Crack or Fate?
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View poll results: Jacked On Crack or Fate?
Snortfest 1
4 29%
Snortfest 2
10 71%
Voters: 14.
The birds sleeps
when the
Rain meets the
Ground.  The
Sound as it
Pounds. So
Dangerous is

she say 
       she say

Fly now
       Fly now

The wide, asymetrical V-Shaped formation
Of the Geese as they flee
From the possible bitter harsh
Of our North-Eastern winter.
Fly now

Is it true that they are born with that instinct?
Obviously there must be some reason for why 
They fly like
But why do they fly in
A formation that is so often only
Two legs of a Scalene 
Triangle, rather than
their famous V?


Perhaps they're just sick
Of all the attention.
Taken for granted that
Geese fly like this and
Will continue to do so,
And we expect
A subtle act of
You may say, though
some would skepticize to say that
They lack the cognitive ability
To understand a sociological view like 
But I think it's because
One must try something new
As an art form, which is
Difficult in this day
And age.


Indeed geese, buy
Or sell, the way the market is 
In this day
And age.
Quite a recession we're seeing,
As they read the New York
What a fiasco.
Fiasco indeed, Signor.

Charles Manson has a
Song title "Home is 
Where you're Happy."
I can see the truth in that.
Well, upon insight i suppose
That one can really
See the perfect aspect of
Now I can.  I can
See where
The home 
Is.  The real 
                not the
                                 Geese, My Friend

[U]Inevitably, Ever After[/U]

There are only so many connections,
To make between purity and perfection,
And only so much time,
To seek what is infested with infection.

[I]The most unremarkable of reflections[/I]

Keeping the warm hearted cold,
And the cold hearted freezing,
As hunting becomes old,
Yet forever-

        [I]Seizing, the day,
                      Down narrow paths of dismay,
                                           Like a spiralling staircase,
                  Toward death’s sweet embrace,
 [u]And tender kisses of decay .[/u][/I]

We reach the security of solid ground,
Upon which we pound with the increasing frustration,
Of our degradation to mere hounds,
Arriving within apparition of what we [B]have[/B] found.

This is where we turn over in our coffins,
And dig like [I]hell[/I].
Because we’d rather find oblivion,
Then last another moment in this cell.

Chained to the otiose markings of our existence,
Where we have made note of our persistence,
Choking on past lives and rusting knives,
That have slit our tongues since the day we burnt the hive,
Believing that we had actually survived.

By breaking through the cloak of the damned,
Living off of scars and scams,
Held ever so tight by the futility,
That comes with the certainty,
That we are far from our cleansing,
As well as our immortality.

[I]Purity is no use,
When the Stairway to Heaven,
Is halted by a cliff and noose.[/I]
My bad, my brother uses this computer too.

And yes, i'm happy to lose to this one. It's tight like a 5 year old