Is it appropriate, for a man to claim, something is or isn’t spongeworthy? I don’t care, just thought it funny to see this burly sort, talking about price, and saying this aloud to himself.
But there are much more heavy thoughts, that weave their seeds throughout my brains cloth. Most I think I know the answers to, yet I also know, that knowledge and reality are often not two of the same.
Am I alone, in this line of thought, or is there something off, in the way words sear, orally or through type?
The way fangs sink their tips to bloody roots and instead of stopping they simply dig in rough.
Is slander acceptable, if opportunities for rebut abound, where vicious slurs can freely trounce and pound? I can’t see how, yet see I do.
Are ideals so corrupt, where one-ups-man-ship and deceit produce cheers, as the spectators watch in addictive grandiosity while the good folk are beat down, like nighttime vermin, scurrying unsuspecting alongside metallic sewer wells? Burdens like this were not in the maker’s plans.
When a young boy states aloud, “Kill the president where he stands,” is the crime his opinion or the delinquent allusion of command it sounds?
Generally I would claim, that words are words are words… but now he’s accused of lying all the same. Why is it that freewill appears to drown, as if the future is spontaneous in strand? What happened to that amendment?
Yes, some should think before, but crowded theaters aren’t built with wood anymore. I guess it’s to corral the weak, the addict, the subservient, all looking for eyes of love, willing to take action from anyone willing, to speak directly to them, with seemingly endless verbs to “love”.
I just don’t know. I lose track, but how much deterioration must be incurred, to walk agape in zombies skin?
Reminds me that no matter how far I feel that my situation has brought me down, I’m still above sea level, not looking down, but out, at those beneath the tides that pout.
Are the words spoken truly this child’s own voice, or are they echoes, vibrating through rafters, always leading backwards to the same patch of garage wall, where that antiquated flag still breathes and lives, beneath granddaddy’s dusty shelves? Filth often begets filth; it’s just unfortunate that say is lost, between presents, football and cotton candy.
Is it not the responsibility of rearing, to represent the heart more prominently than the ass? Parenting is not a responsibility, it’s an honor that must be clung too, lest our eggs crack the pavement and spill their yolks.
Validity and coercive journeys oft begin, when shine is mixed with hate and flame. When sobriety drowns out the depravity existent in one’s everyday condition, it can lead to a spiraling of blame, that untended can consume, engulfing your everything, snuffing out bonds that were once built to last. Hatred too often is half-full. Anger is often brimming over, staining tablecloths with what’s not drained off the end.
Is it appropriate, to believe that eventually dreams will be more than dream? We must continue; we must persist. Dreams for a one-day merge with a hopeful reality, are what dreams are made for.
Is it possible to be allowed to believe, that one day, life will be one worth opening windows and doors for, just to inhale the atmosphere, to let love bathe in our too often sheltered and distrusting pores?
Not being afraid of your surroundings is, unfortunately, the first fear too many feel each morning, checking their wallets, repeatedly with non-key hand, fumbling to the lock of car, spinning head, left and right, praying they’ll make it to work all right.
Is it conceivable, to do so without the need of being convinced?
Convinced is not the same as coerced. When free will pushes, it doesn’t prod. If such a case should become, where blind eyes are nurtured to sight, when idle hands find their might, creating and crafting salvation from sorrow, where neighbors adjust their routine to assist those next doors with simple odds and ends, where love has no definition, no preconceived notions of hot and cold, where everyone is each other and in so, becoming the mirrored reflection of everyone else, without of course, sacrificing individuality and uniqueness. If half a many tides shift in such a way, well than I would have to say, that certainly a spongeworthy moment would have been won that day.