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My hand is the extension of the thinking process - the creative process.

quote by Tadao Ando
Added by Lucian Velea
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Consumed Within the Process

Consumed within the process
That process we call life.
Immuned? Not from this process.
It keeps the vision near yet uncompromised.
And far enough to become realized.

Consumed.
Within the process.
That process called life!
Don't assume...
This process,
Is a process you can't like!

Consumed.
Within the process.
That process called life!
Don't assume...
This process,
Is a process you can't like!

Consumed.
Within the process.
That process called life!
Don't assume...
This process,
Is a process you can't like!

Consumed within the process.
That process we call life.
Immuned?
Not from this process!

It keeps the vision near yet uncompromised.
And far enough to become realized.
Closing its eyes only when it wishes,
To call itself out!

Consumed.
Within the process.
That process called life!
Don't assume...
This process,
Is a process you can't like!

Consumed.
Within the process.
That process called life!
Don't assume...
This process,
Is a process you can't like!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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The Only Way To Control Things

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Water on rock
a fist can't do anything to stop the rain
that keeps washing its bloody knuckles
by kissing the raw red buds
of the pain-killing poppies clean.
Anger grows ashamed of itself
in the presence of unopposable compassion
just as planets are humbled by their atmospheres.
The soft supple things of life insist
and the hard brittle ones comply.
Bullies are the broken toys of wimps.
Power limps.
But space is an open hand.
Mass may shape it
but it teaches matter how to move
just as the sky converts its openness
into a cloud and a bird
or the silence nurtures
the embryo of a blue word
in the empty womb of the dark mother
like the echo of something that can't be said.

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Not a posture of giving.
Not a posture of receiving.
Not a posture of greeting or farewell.
Not hanging on or letting go
but the single bridge they both make
when they're both at peace with the flow.
It's not the branch it's not the trunk
it's not the root it's not the fruit
but the open handedness of its leaves
that is a tree's consummate passion.
Isis tattoos her star on their palms
like sailors and sails
to keep them from drowning
and into the valleys of their open hands
that lie at the foot of their crook-backed mountains
the aloof stars risk the intimacy of fireflies
and fate flows down like tributaries into the mindstream
as life roots its wildflowers on both shores
as if there were no sides to the flowing
of our binary lifelines.

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
You cannot bind the knower to the knowing
as if time had to know where eternity was going
before anything could change.
X marks the spot where all maps are born

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Cant Stop Thinking About You

Cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
Its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
And its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about you
When the night-time comes around
Daylight has left me, i
I cant take it if I dont see you no more
I cant help it, I need your loving so much more
And I cant stop thinking about you
Cant stop thinking about you
And its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about you, ooh
Cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about you
When the morning comes around
And the daylight gets to me, i
I cant take it if I dont see you no more
I cant help it, I need your loving so much more
And I cant stop thinking about you, oh yeah
I cant stop thinking about you
And its no good living without you
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about you
I cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about
Cant stop thinking about you
(repeat and fade:)
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about
I cant stop thinking about you

song performed by George Harrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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2u

2u
I hope that youve been thinking about me
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
Pick up the phone to call you
But I hung up cause Im so afraid
Afraid of rejection
Or another woman in your face
Hopin all day that you would call me
And that youre thinkin of me too
Well in my case with the game of love
If I played I would probably lose
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that youre thinkin of me
And I pray every night you love me
I dont ever want what we have to end
And Ill always be your friend
Dont you feel me calling from afar
If you dont know Ive been there from the start
As sure as my name is what it is
Youll always have a place in my heart
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
Ooh, ooh, ooh....
I hope that you have been thinking of me
The way that I have been thinking of you
When I pray every night
That its me in your dreams when your sleepin
I really hope that Im the that youre thinking about
Yeah, yeah, yeah...
Chorus
I hope that you have been thinking of me too (I hope that, I hope that youve
Been thinkin)
The way that I have been thinking of you (all the time, cant get you off my
Mind baby)
I hope that you have been thinking of me too
The way that I have been thinking of you
See I hope that its you
And I hope that you are baby
Thinking of me too

[...] Read more

song performed by Mary J Blige
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Suicide Lovers

suicide lovers 6x
suicide lovers are always there in the dark still together
still huging eachother still holding eachother up
suicide lovers are the only ones in the dark
shering ther feeling and shering ther thoughts
feeling pain and feeling love thinking about dieing
and thinking about been with eachotherno matter what
they talk about how there going to die together
holding hands and deareming about the day that comes

suicide lovers are the only ones int he dark still
hugging eachother and holding eachother up dreaming
about love and dreaming about the heart when it stops
we all die and we'll never give it up they think life has no point
theres nothing in the worldfor them exept for eachother
ther thinking about having a baby and dieing together

suicide lovers have a babythere baby is growing up good
and strong. healthy and stands up for herself the
she finds a guy just like her they are together forevere
they will never give it up ther love becomes pure and up ther
thinking about marriageand having a baby of there own
they have a son there dreams come truethey will call him
skyler a name they both like, they are thinking about another
baby so they have a girl and call her carli they thought that carli was
a goog name for there child skyler and carli are getting along
one is 17 and one is 21, damb they grow ou fast and strong
i cant belive what they been throug years dreaming and thinking
the world of each other they both find ther one and the both
are happy so they will be together forever! !
suicide lovers, suicide lovers, suicide lovers
suicide suicide i already diiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeedddddd...... loverrrrrrrrrrrrrss
suicide lovers suicide lovers are always in the dark

suicide lovers 6x
suicide lovers are always there in the dark still together
still huging eachother still holding eachother up
suicide lovers are the only ones in the dark
shering ther feeling and shering ther thoughts
feeling pain and feeling love thinking about dieing
and thinking about been with eachotherno matter what
they talk about how there going to die together
holding hands and deareming about the day that comes

suicide lovers are the only ones int he dark still
hugging eachother and holding eachother up dreaming
about love and dreaming about the heart when it stops
we all die and we'll never give it up they think life has no point
theres nothing in the worldfor them exept for eachother
ther thinking about having a baby and dieing together

[...] Read more

poem by Valya Madden
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Sobre Horizontes

soccer az youth
soccer babes nude
soccer babe sex
soccer babes 200
soccer babes naked
soccer babes 20
soccer b ives
soccer babe boobs
soccer b acl amd white
soccer babby doll
soccer back acks
soccer babes tits
soccer baby gifts
soccer babes wallpaper
soccer babes strange
soccer babes porn
soccer babes uk cardiff city
soccer back ground
soccer babes paint
soccer baby crib bedding
soccer babes women
soccer baby toys
soccer babes painted
soccer babes nue
soccer back flip
soccer babes uk
soccer babies from disney
soccer baby cups
soccer babes renee
soccer baby bedding
soccer backgrounds html
soccer backetball shoes
soccer back stop nets
soccer background for myspace
soccer backgrounds myspace
soccer background pic
soccer backgrounds for soccer
soccer backpack adidas copa
soccer backpack wholesalers
soccer back kick
soccer backpack with mesh ball pocket
soccer backpack with embroidered name
soccer back pack
soccer backgrounds for myspace
soccer back injury
soccer background net
soccer background codes
soccer back packs
soccer background graphics
soccer back pack bags

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Courtship of Miles Standish

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Thinking Man's Blues

i was thinking about Jesus
i was thinking about robbing a bank
thinking about the band a playin'
while the Titanic sank
thinking 'bout salvation
thinking about getting free
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?

i was thinking about generations
i was thinking about saving grace
i was thinking about truth and lies
thinking about flesh and lace
thinking about redemption
and rivers running to the sea
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?

i was thinking about the Dharma
'bout Martin Luther King
thinking about Merle Haggard
thinking about James Dean
thinking about the costs of war
about moral depravity
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?
thinking and a wondering
do you ever think about me?

poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Can't Define The Single Life

You can't define the single life.
Unless you're doing it.
And not for kicks.

Sometimes it's not that much well liked.
When you are on the telephone.
Just to hang up all alone.

You can't define the single life.
Unless you're doing it.
And not for kicks.

Sometimes it's not that much well liked.
When you are on the telephone.
Just to hang up all alone.

On my drifting mind with the hours,
I stay awake.
I'm thinking nothing but love.
And sipping coffee out of focus,
Hoping that your thoughts are on me.
I'm thinking nothing but love.

You can't define the single life...
Thinking of love.
A lusting mind has appetites...
Thinking of love.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.
Thinking of love.
You can't define the single life...
Thinking of love.
A lusting mind has appetites...
Thinking of love.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.
Thinking of love.

You can't define the single life...
Thinking of love.
A lusting mind has appetites...
Thinking of love.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.
Thinking of love.
You can't define the single life...
Thinking of love.
A lusting mind has appetites...
Thinking of love.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.
It's hard to fall asleep some nights.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12

WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Put Your Hand In The Hand

(words & music by g. maclellan)
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who calmed the sea
Take a look at yourself
And you can look at others differently
Put your hand in the hand of the man
From galilee
My momma taught me how to pray
Before I reached the age of seven
When Im down on my knees
Thats when Im closest to heaven
Daddy lived his life, two kids and a wife
Well you do what you must do
But he showed me enough of what it takes
To get me through, oh yeh!
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who calmed the sea
Take a look at yourself
And you can look at others differently
Put your hand in the hand of the man
From galilee
Oh yeh!
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who calmed the sea
Take a look at yourself
And you can look at others differently
Put your hand in the hand of the man
From galilee
Oh yeh!
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who stilled the water
Put your hand in the hand of the man
Who calmed the sea
Take a look at yourself
And you can look at others differently
Put your hand in the hand of the man
From galilee
Oh yeh!
Put your hand in the hand of the man from galilee
Put your hand in the hand of the man from galilee, oh yeh!

song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Pleasures of Imagination: Book The Second

When shall the laurel and the vocal string
Resume their honours? When shall we behold
The tuneful tongue, the Promethéan hand
Aspire to ancient praise? Alas! how faint,
How slow the dawn of beauty and of truth
Breaks the reluctant shades of Gothic night
Which yet involve the nations! Long they groan'd
Beneath the furies of rapacious force;
Oft as the gloomy north, with iron-swarms
Tempestuous pouring from her frozen caves,
Blasted the Italian shore, and swept the works
Of liberty and wisdom down the gulph
Of all-devouring night. As long immur'd
In noon-tide darkness by the glimmering lamp,
Each muse and each fair science pin'd away
The sordid hours: while foul, barbarian hands
Their mysteries profan'd, unstrung the lyre,
And chain'd the soaring pinion down to earth.
At last the muses rose, and spurn'd their bonds,
And wildly warbling, scatter'd, as they flew,
Their blooming wreaths from fair Valclusa's bowers
Arno's myrtle border and the shore of soft Parthenope.

But still the rage of dire ambition and gigantic power,
From public aims and from the busy walk
Of civil commerce, drove the bolder train
Of penetrating science to the cells,
Where studious ease consumes the silent hour
In shadowy searches and unfruitful care.
Thus from their guardians torn, the tender arts
Of mimic fancy and harmonious joy,
To priestly domination and the lust
Of lawless courts, their amiable toil
For three inglorious ages have resign'd,
In vain reluctant: and Torquato's tongue
Was tun'd for slavish pæans at the throne
Of tinsel pomp: and Raphael's magic hand
Effus'd its fair creation to enchant
The fond adoring herd in Latian fanes
To blind belief; while on their prostrate necks
The sable tyrant plants his heel secure.

But now behold! the radiant æra dawns,
When freedom's ample fabric, fix'd at length
For endless years on Albion's happy shore
In full proportion, once more shall extend
To all the kindred powers of social bliss
A common mansion, a parental roof.
There shall the virtues, there shall wisdom's train,
Their long-lost friends rejoining, as of old,

[...] Read more

poem by Mark Akenside
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Give Your Heart To The Hawks

1 he apples hung until a wind at the equinox,

That heaped the beach with black weed, filled the dry grass

Under the old trees with rosy fruit.

In the morning Fayne Fraser gathered the sound ones into a

basket,

The bruised ones into a pan. One place they lay so thickly
She knelt to reach them.

Her husband's brother passing
Along the broken fence of the stubble-field,
His quick brown eyes took in one moving glance
A little gopher-snake at his feet flowing through the stubble
To gain the fence, and Fayne crouched after apples
With her mop of red hair like a glowing coal
Against the shadow in the garden. The small shapely reptile
Flowed into a thicket of dead thistle-stalks
Around a fence-post, but its tail was not hidden.
The young man drew it all out, and as the coil
Whipped over his wrist, smiled at it; he stepped carefully
Across the sag of the wire. When Fayne looked up
His hand was hidden; she looked over her shoulder
And twitched her sunburnt lips from small white teeth
To answer the spark of malice in his eyes, but turned
To the apples, intent again. Michael looked down
At her white neck, rarely touched by the sun,
But now the cinnabar-colored hair fell off from it;
And her shoulders in the light-blue shirt, and long legs like a boy's
Bare-ankled in blue-jean trousers, the country wear;
He stooped quietly and slipped the small cool snake
Up the blue-denim leg. Fayne screamed and writhed,
Clutching her thigh. 'Michael, you beast.' She stood up
And stroked her leg, with little sharp cries, the slender invader
Fell down her ankle.

Fayne snatched for it and missed;

Michael stood by rejoicing, his rather small

Finely cut features in a dance of delight;

Fayne with one sweep flung at his face

All the bruised and half-spoiled apples in the pan,

[...] Read more

poem by Robinson Jeffers
Added by Poetry Lover
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Every Ghetto, Every City

I was just a little girl
Skinny legs, a press and curl
My mother always thought Id be a star
But way before my record deal,
The streets that nurtured lauryn hill
Made sure that Id never go too far
Every ghetto, every city and suburban place Ive been
Make me recall my days in the new jerusalem
Story starts at hootaville grew up next to ivy hill
When kids were stealing quartervilles for fun
Kill the guy in carter park
Rode a mongoose til its dark
Watching kids show off the stolen ones
Every ghetto, every city and suburban place Ive been
Make me recall my days in new jerusalem
You know its hot, dont forget what youve got
Looking back,
Looking back, looking back, looking back
You know its hot, dont forget what youve got
Looking back
Thinking back, thinking back, thinking back
A bag of bontons, twenty cents and a nickel
Springfield ave. had the best popsicles
Saturday morning cartoons and kung-fu
Main street roots tonic with the dreds
A beef patty and some coco bread
Move the patch from my lees to the tongue of my shoe
member frelng-huysen used to have the bomb leather
Back when doug fresh and slick rick were together
Looking at the crew, we thought wed all live forever
You know its hot, dont forget what youve got
Looking back
Thinking back, thinking back, thinking back
You know its hot, dont forget what youve got
Looking back
Thinking back, thinking back, thinking back
Drill teams on munn street
Remember when hawthorne and chancellor had beef
Moving records was on central ave.
I was there at dancing school
South orange ave. at borlin pool
Unaware of what we didnt have
Writing your friends names on your jeans with a marker
July 4th races off of parker
Fireworks at martin stadium
The untouchable p.s.p., where all them crazy niggers be
And car thieves got away through irvington
Hillside brings beef with the cops
Self-destruction record drops
And everybodys name was muslim

[...] Read more

song performed by Lauryn Hill
Added by Lucian Velea
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Popcorn Love

Dont you know, dont you know, dont you know
Its the real thing, girl
They say its popcorn love
But its more than that to me
Popcorn love
Just wait, they will see
Its popcorn love
Every morning, noon and night
Popcorn love
Dont you know, dont you know
Its the real thing, girl
When we go on those special dates
Were always holding hands
Were never, ever late
Youre on my mind all the time
I keep thinking (I keep thinking)
Thinking (I keep thinking)
I keep thinking (thinking of you)
Popcorn love
But its more than that to me
Popcorn love
Just wait, they will see
Popcorn love
Every morning, noon and night
Popcorn love
Dont you know, dont you know
Its the real thing, girl
I go to school and then I come straight home
The first thing that I do is call you on the phone
The things you say, uh, really make my day
I need you, girl, in every kind of way
I keep thinking
Im just thinking
I keep thinking (thinking)
Thinking (thinking)
Thinking (thinking)
Thinking
Thats right
Thats right
Thats right
Thats right
Ah p is for her personality
I said the o is for originality
And the other p is for the perfect love she gives to me
The c is just cause she loves me
And the o means shes the only love I got
And the r and the n, our love will never end
Well, I know, I know its the real thing
Because she told me so
And I know, I know its the real thing

[...] Read more

song performed by New Edition
Added by Lucian Velea
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Feeling Obligated

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

Someone has to give in and give up,
A dream...
About to be touched.
If a love of another is wanted that much.
Someone has to give in and give up.
Someone has to give in and give up.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
Someone loved that is creative,
Someone loved that is creative.

When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone is feeling isolated.
When one wants to be that one and only...
Someone else is feeling obligated.
Someone else is feeling obligated.

It's hard to love someone,
If that one is creative.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.
To leave another feeling obligated.

It's hard to leave and separate from...
Someone loved that's very innovative.
To leave another feeling obligated.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
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Cant Help Thinking About Me

Question-time that says I brought dishonour
My heads bowed in shame
It seems that Ive blackened the family name
Mother says that she cant stand the neighbours talking
Ive gotta pack my bags, leave this home, start walking, yeah
Im guilty
I wish that I was sorry this time
I wish that I could pay for my crime
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
Remember when we used to go to church on sundays
I lay awake at night, terrified of school on mondays
Oh, but its too late now
I wish I was a child again
I wish I felt secure again
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
As I pass a recreation ground
I remember my friends, always been found and I cant
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
Now I leave them all in the never never land
The station seems so cold the tickets in my hand
My girl calls my name hi dave
Drop in, see around, come back
If youre this way again
Oh, Im on my own
Ive got a long way to go
I hope I make it on my own
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me
I cant help thinking about me

song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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