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The path of least resistance makes all rivers, and some men, crooked.

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The Path Of Least Resistance

Faced with the choice, what would you say?
The path of least resistance, it seems the only way
But can we look a little further? to level four I think
Self-beliefs the answer, and not another drink
The safe method, the only way, you rationalise your course
Stay part of the crowd, and never find the source
Feel wanted, feel numb, just stay as you are
The truth is - comfort kills, and you dont need that car
So sad, the early grave, when all the funs for free
Start digging the early grave, and keep it warm for me
Faced with the choice, what would you say?
The path of least resistance, it seems the only way
But lets look a little further, to level four, I think
Self-beliefs the answer, and not another drink
The safe method, the only way, you rationalise your course
Stay a part of the crowd, and never find the source
Feel wanted, feel numb, just stay as you are
The truth is, comfort kills, and you dont need that car

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On A Path Of Least Resistance

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.

I'm on a path of least resistance,
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.

Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.
Oh!
Pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Oh pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.
Oh!
Pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Pain and its existence,
From it...
I need to get away.

I'm on a path of least resistance.
And I need to get away.
I'm on a path of least resistance.
The least resistance.
On a path of least resistance.
And I need to get away.

Oh pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.

Pain,
And its existence.
And I need to get away.
Pain in this existence.
Pain in this existence.

There is a pain in this existence.
And I need to get away.
I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.
And I need to get away.
There's too much pain in this existence.
And I need to get away.
I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.
And I need to get away.

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Like Water

For I am like water
Following the path of least resistance
Through stagnant pools and rapids' rage
Like water
I will always find my way
To the sea

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Patrick White

When The Unsayable Supplants Yesterday's Wisdom

When the unsayable supplants yesterday's wisdom
it makes it look obvious and trivial in retrospect
and you marvel at the spiritual gestures of goodwill
that swept you off your feet for light-years
as the arcana of a discipline you gave up trying to master,
because you could only see into the matter
as far as the light you were given to go by.
And you didn't know then that when
you blew the candle out you held
pathetically up to the abyss that you did more,
by blowing it out, to illuminate the universe,
than you did when you fed it your heart
to keep it burning like a night light among the stars,
or a lighthouse paling in the full glare of the sun.

Off the path is the way of the path.
How can anyone be lost? Or found, for that matter?
Midways of gurus with their touring freak shows.
Sacred matchbooks of budding sulphur
throwing humans into the Bonfire of the Vanities,
chasing the bank-rolled Renaissance out of Florence.
Terminal literalism, infectious symbolitis
sweeping down the coast like hemorrhagic fever
from the merchant fleets of Genoa. The wild grape vines
of intuitive insight converted into the razor wire
of paranoid orthodoxies. The heretics bear witness
to the madness in the judgement of their abusers,
and scald the clouds with their blood for it.

The spiritual highways cluttered with exiles,
refugee saints, and scapegoats, where is there
a wilderness left where the tourists don't go
to gawk at the hermits like wildlife? Back
to the birch groves and the cawing of the crows
like auctioneers that don't have a thing to sell.
No one's footprints to follow in. The way things
turn out, at best, a wolf path through the snow
gone by spring, or where you bent the waist high grass
by walking through it like the path of least resistance,
unmapped as the wind. What is it all, when
even the seven-tiered tower of the Scotch thistle
is a mental event, if not open, unknown and empty
in the sense of being indefinable, not missing,
as if anything were there in the first place
it was crucial not to lose? Spare your tears.
Life hasn't got anything to repent or reform.

The mystery manifest as it is and that's the whole of it.
What more of it is there to reveal, than the rocks
have already said? Real, not real, the flowers bloom nonetheless
and you're free to make or feel or think or not
about them as you wish. Mourn the ruination
of the flowers in a passion play as old as the stars
or trust your own mind to mentor you in the ways
of not reifying it into a thing among things,
the source and matrix of your most cherished illusions,
the mirage of the dark mother who eats her own like time.
There is no pattern, path, paradigm, psychodynamic
or unified field theory that the mind won't
accommodate itself to like a child's drawing of the universe.

You can elaborate the roots of a tree like a fractal into
a morphology of knowledge forms
that sing in its boughs like sparrows
in the black walnuts of the morning
and then consult it like the grammar of a dream
for the blue print or starmap of the house you're building
like a screening myth with a built-in library.
The magician gulled in the doorway of his own magic,
having lost the key to the spell he cast
when this desert of stars was merely
the vagrant threshold of a tent in the moon's back yard.

The folly of sages, the wisdom of fools,
what's the point of enlightening your own freedom
if you're too afraid to accept it as the mystical mundanity
that's under your nose this very moment?
You can hunt your own shadows down like heretics
fleeing the hounds of heaven, you can denounce
an eclipse for being a sunspot on your illumination
and polish the mirror for the rest of your life
and still not wash your face off with a paint rag
like a clown in a green room waxing tragic
to counteract the laughter at the expense of his own wounds.

Look into the eyes of the roadkill for yourself
as if no one else in the world can do your seeing for you
and you won't see anything very shocking to be afraid of.
No spiritual snake-eyes. No hidden meaning
you have to get at the guts of like a turkey-vulture.
And if you feel compassion, and it's natural you should,
it's because there's something communal about the random
you sense has been going on a lot longer
than the last few thought moments when you showed up
to be misunderstood by your own imagination.
You want some good spiritual advice to get you in the habit
of taking it yourself, whether things are sublimely rough
and death is dying into you, or life is trivializing
the palatial playhouse it was born into? When occasion arises,
and when does it not, learn to call your own bluff
and sit down on the ground, and have a good laugh.

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The River & The Highway

(gerry house/don schlitz)
She follows the path of least resistance
She doesnt care to see the mountain top
She twists and turns with no regard to distance
She never comes to a stop
And she rolls, shes a river
Where she goes, time will tell
Heaven knows, he cant go with her
And she rolls, all by herself
All by herself
Hes headed for a single destination
He doesnt care whats standing in his path
Hes a line between two points of separation
He ends just where it says to on the map
And he rolls, hes a highway
Where he goes, time will tell
Heaven knows, she cant go with him
And he rolls, all by himself
All by himself
And every now and then, he offers her a shoulder
And every now and then, she overflows
And every now and then, a bridge crosses over
Its a moment that every lover knows
And she rolls (and he rolls)
Shes a river (hes a highway)
Where she goes (where he goes)
Time will tell (time will tell)
Heaven knows she cant go with him (he cant go with her)
And she rolls all by herself
And he rolls all by himself
Fare thee well

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Steven Seagal

Try to find the path of least resistance and use it without harming others. Live with integrity and morality, not only with people but with all beings.

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Numbness.....

we do not invent feelings
feelings make us, that is how helpless we can be sometimes
when we let that be
but somehow when we feel too pushed
to that edge
we rebel against our own feelings that have deceived us for years
and so we begin
sometimes to manipulate feelings
reinvent them and
from said creations we rearrange what we are
and what we can be

less the feelings we are looked up to as the most
realistic
successors of this earth
its deserving
inheritors


we have so many look-a-likes
rivers that flow without their minds on their direction
they just follow the path of least resistance
mountains that grow peaks without thinking
that heaven can be pierced
plains that spread without their hands and arms
occupying what we think is unnecessary

rocks and cliffs and sands and gravel
we are their gods now.

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Unbroken sunshine leads to deserts

Unbroken sunshine leads to deserts
And endless dunes across the soul
Yet the storms that blow from God above
Help make us whole, and that with love

For man will always take the path
Of least resistance to his flesh
He runs to pride and from the meek
To God confess, the humble seek

To walk with God is to walk through fire
And beds of coal beneath our feet
Through every mountain pass and valleys
And desert heat and darkened alleys

Unless the seed falls to the ground
And rain and storms have tilled the land
Then nothing grows and all is dead
No wheat shall stand, no one is fed

So embrace the storms and raging seas
And hail and snow and fallen trees
And fire and flood and rising tide
Will set you free, no more to hide

For if God is for me, I'll walk in peace
And His grace on me shall never cease
To mold and shape and create in me
The landscape that you now can see

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Highways and Byways of My Mind

As I wander through the endless roads
That typify my thoughts and dreams,
One question has always remained.
Throughout the years, I've journeyed on;
Climbed every hill, crossed all the streams,
But, what have I really gained?

When I look back at the battles I've fought
Against foes that my mind fabricated,
I wonder who lost and who won.
Did I emerge from the fray triumphantly,
In victory, most celebrated?
Or was I the vanquished one?

I have always been strong and dependable
For those in need of a shoulder to cry on.
A tower of strength and relief.
But I always struggle to share my fears:
To admit that I too need somone to rely on.
Can't shake off my disbelief.

My life is a mess. The demons inside me
Are laying waste to my life and my heart.
They have almost cost me my son.
I need to begin to get back some control.
To shake off the feelings of doubt and get smart,
Or all that I care for is done.

So I'm giving myself a brand new start,
Leaving the path of least resistance.
I'll take back my life from today.
It won't be easy, but I'll claw my way back,
And I won't be afraid to ask for assistance
When it gets a bit rough on the way.

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I Hope You Miscarry

A very dark rewrite of Leeann Womack's I hope You Dance

I hope you never feel that sense of wonder
You get to see other women happy with theirs but never hold one of your own
May your unborn babe never take one single breath of life
God forbid love ever bless you
I hope you feel so small and empty that you long only to throw yourself into the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope no other ever opens
Promise me that you'll quit giving your pregnancy a fighting chance
And when the choice to give life or to miscarry comes along

I hope you miscarry....I hope you miscarry

I hope you always fear those nightmares in the distance
Always settle for the path of least resistance
Givin' birth might mean takin' chances
Chances you know you're just not worthy of takin'
Havin' that baby would only be a mistake
A mistake you have the choice not to be makin'
Don't let some Hell bent husband try to tell you any better
When you come close to deciding to keep your baby reconsider
Give the heavens above an angel to mother than you ever could
And when you get the choice to give birth or miscarry

I hope you miscarry...I hope you miscarry
I hope you miscarry...I hope you miscarry
Life is a constant emotion always running us down
Tell me why do you wanna look back and regret the years of lost youth that your baby will steal from you

I hope you feel so small and empty that all you long to do is throw yourself in the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope no other ever opens
Promise me that you'll quit giving your pregnancy a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to give life or to miscarry

Miscarry...I hope you miscarry
I hope you miscarry...
I hope you miscarry...
I hope you miscarry...
I hope you miscarry....

Life is a constant emotion always running us down
Tell me why do you wanna look back and regret the years of lost youth that your baby will steal from you

2008 Ramona Thompson

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H.G. Wells

The path of least resistance is the path of the loser.

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Samuel Butler

Belief like any other moving body follows the path of least resistance.

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John Dewey

The path of least resistance and least trouble is a mental rut already made. It requires troublesome work to undertake the alternation of old beliefs.

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Yellow Daisies Along The Path

yellow daisies thriving along the path
how full they bloom!

a muddy footpath
some pebbles
the silence of this moment

footsteps moving away from the house
words dissolving from the door

the windows close
and lights are put off

tomorrow another name cancels itself
from the page of the family bible

another child's name is added
his father is unknown but the mother is brave

shameless they call her
silence is her only answer

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Something That I Can't Do

how i wish i can imitate
the flow of water in my life
that choice of taking the path
of least resistance

how i wish i can have the language
of the rain
that which assuages pain
that which satisfies the thirst
of grass
that which jives with the slow pacing
of the stones

i can't.

i am already born with the language of
my parents
it is the language that i know
the only language of my body and soul
i have to like it
there is no other sound
no other choice
except to speak it
again and
again.

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You And This War

You are part of this war. You
pay taxes. You are not part of this
war. No one in charge cares what
you think. You are part of this
war. You go to work each day
and remain quiet on the subject.
You pave the path of least
resistance. You are not part of this
war. You watch images of it and
read words about it from a great
distance. You are part of this war.
You are one 200 millionths of this
nation. You are not part of this
war. You do not fight in it or
fight to stop it. You are
part of this war.

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Grey Ice Water

Yer standing by yer grey ice water
Out in the wind above ground out in the weather
You had yerself a crazy lover
Becoming frozen trying hard to forget her
You got a job up in alaska
Its easy to save what the cannery pays
Cause there aint no way to spend it
At home on a boat, its a fish trap
You took the path of least resistance
On the phone cutting out talking
Short to long distance
Yer standing by yer grey ice water
Out in the wind above ground out in the water
You had yerself a crazy lover
Become unfrozen trying hard to forget her
You got a job up in alaska
Its easy to save what the cannery pays
Cause there aint no way to spend it
On the arctic blast (x7)

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A Farewell To Kings

Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee, alex lifeson, and neil peart
When they turn the pages of history
When these days have passed long ago
Will they read of us with sadness
For the seeds that we let grow
We turned our gaze
From the castles in the distance
Eyes cast down
On the path of least resistance
Cities full of hatred
Fear and lies
Withered hearts
And cruel, tormented eyes
Scheming demons
Dressed in kingly guise
Beating down the multitude
And scoffing at the wise
The hypocrites are slandering
The sacred halls of truth
Ancient nobles showering
Their bitterness on youth
Cant we find
The minds that made us strong
Cant we learn
To feel whats right and wrong
Cities full of hatred
Fear and lies
Withered hearts
And cruel, tormented eyes
Scheming demons
Dressed in kingly guise
Beating down the multitude
And scoffing at the wise
Cant we raise our eyes
And make a start
Cant we find the minds
To lead us closer to the heart

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Wake Up

You like snow but only if it's warm
You like rain but only if it's dry
No sentimental value to the rose that fell on your floor
No fundamental excuse for the granted I'm taken for

'Cause it's easy not to
So much easier not to
And what goes around never comes around to you

You like pain but only if it doesn't hurt too much
And you sit...and you wait...to receive
There's an abvious attraction
To the path of least resistance in your life
There's an obvious aversion no amount of my insistance
Could make you try tonight

'Cause it's easy not to
So much easier not to
And what goes around never comes around to you
To you to you to you to you to you...
There's no love no money no thrill anymore

There's an apprehensive naked little trembling boy
With his head in his hands
There's an underestimated and impatient little girl
Raising her hand

But it's easy not to
So much easier not to
And what goes around never comes around to you
To you

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Edward Thomas

The Path

RUNNING along a bank, a parapet
That saves from the precipitous wood below
The level road, there is a path. It serves
Children for looking down the long smooth steep,
Between the legs of beech and yew, to where
A fallen tree checks the sight: while men and women
Content themselves with the road and what they see
Over the bank, and what the children tell.
The path, winding like silver, trickles on,
Bordered and even invaded by thinnest moss
That tries to cover roots and crumbling chalk
With gold, olive, and emerald, but in vain.
The children wear it. They have flattened the bank
On top, and silvered it between the moss
With the current of their feet, year after year.
But the road is houseless, and leads not to school.
To see a child is rare there, and the eye
Has but the road, the wood that overhangs
And underyawns it, and the path that looks
As if it led on to some legendary
Or fancied place where men have wished to go
And stay; till, sudden, it ends where the wood ends.

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