I am sick

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Schooner

We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues. Now the first land we made it is called the Deadman Next Ram Head off Plymouth, off Portland the Wight We sailed by Beachy, by Fairlee and Dungeness Till we came abreast of the South Foreland Light We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas Until we strike soundings in the channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues Then the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor All in the Downs that night for to lie Then it's stand by your stoppers, see clear your shank-painters, Haul all your clew garnets, let tacks and sheets fly We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas Until we strike...
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Romeo's nailbed Juliet

How's it been going lately, dear? I've been so at war with myself that I forgot about you... your needs that is, what is you has always been with me. Do you remember the flowers, the poetry? Were those just my dreams itching to return, have us...... Feelings too override over nonesense, cuff it, I'm out lodging pointlessness in my head, my own uglily beautifully full of lying truthness I need ityou
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The echoes of seasons

 I watch as my dreams dissolve into the uncaring world.  I watch the oak gently reaching for the sky, its open palm lay open, fingers outstretched, gathering bronze. Hail autumn, your winds have reached me. They are gentle, fatherly, easing nature into the inevitable change to come. The linden aroma crumbles amidst the seeds of harvest, and so work and toil has to begin. Fittingly, I reap what I've sown. Loneliness, longing, lust. I harvest lessons from the deathly shell of my ego, my soul, my shroud of lies. They've bloomed into an abyss of no margin. The wind rustles my leaves and I'm left feeling its unfairly gentle to me. Of course I'm but a sapling, so it doesn't matter. The water is gentle, the wind caresses, the birds are calm, and I even find a way to smile, but I feel so damn close to looking too deep into the black. My 28th autumn, and I hear all the echoes, its melancholy is gripping. And I find myself as I've always been.
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