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Animation is not the art of drawings that move but the art of movements that are drawn.

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Not The Girl You Think You Are

(neil finn)
Youre not the girl you think you are, no no
Theyre not his shoes under your bed, yeah yeah
Hell take you places in his car
That you wont forget, no
And all the people that you know, yeah
Will turn their heads as you go by
But youll be hard to recognize
With the top down and the wind blowing, blowing
He wont deceive you but tell you the truth
Woman, hell be no trouble
He wont write you letters
Full of excuses
Come on, believe you have one in a million
Youre not the girl you think you are, yeah
Someones standing in your place
The bathroom mirror makes you look tall
But its all in your head, in your head
He wont deceive you but tell you the truth
Woman, hell be no trouble
He wont write you letters
Full of excuses
Come on, believe you have one in a million
He wont deceive you but tell you the truth
Come on, believe you have one
Youre not the girl you think you are
Believe you have one
Youre not the girl you think you are
Believe you have one
Youre not the girl you think you are

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There Are The Poems That Are Not The Real Poems

There are the poems that are not the real poems,
And the poems that are-
And the poems that are seem to come out of their own saying
With a rhythm and a meaning which makes a music so deep,
Even the most lonely soul feels them as a singing inside.

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That's Not The Issue

You've got a problem, I think you know
I'll tell you mine before you go
You've been thinking about somebody new
That's not the issue
Secrets, I have some too
I'll tell you mine before I say goodbye to you
I've been thinking 'bout leaving too
That's not the issue
I'm leaving, I'm leaving now
I'd say goodbye, but I don't know how
You've been sleeping with somebody new
That's not the issue

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It Is Not The Port That Matters Now

we are boats
born with rudders
and paddles cast
out to sea,
we are never
destined to
stay in ports
we are designed
to sail on high seas
to conquer storms
to be out on some
horizons to be lost
and dissolve in
distances to be
somewhere
always somewhere
until we are
nowhere to be found

it is not the port
that gives us glory
it is not the trade
of gold and spices
it is not the breaking
of champagne bottles
that proclaims our
greatness

behold, it is
not the unsinkability
of ourselves

in truth it is the
final drowning
of our captains

the submerging
ofour bodies
to the deepest of
the trenches where

we abstract the
real essence of
this journey

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Stifle not the reader

Reading is an art,
reading is a tool.
Those who think it dumb,
must be such a fool.

Reading is enjoyment,
reading is a blast.
Reading is a separate entity
from the future and the past.

Reading is done in present,
though written in a tense.
Reading is about life,
in surprise or suspense.

Reading is a place of joy,
full of hope and song,
Reading is a place I feel
that I truly do belong.

A trapdoor to a fantasy,
A world thought lost to us,
Reading is a place of wonder,
a place that we can trust.

Why read about reality,
when I can delve into magic.
Why stifle my own happiness,
with scenarios so tragic.

Stifle not the reader,
for it is their choice alone.
Reading is an outlet,
for hearts that turned to stone.

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That's Not the Way I Groove

Fumbled up and down...
Tackled to the ground and pounded.
Blinded.
To unabled me to find my path.
Eventually I found.
Encouraged to get up,
And off my butt!

Stumbling to a crawling fall..
I again stalled.
With bloodied scraped knees.
But no one believed I knew...
It was more than a shallow ego,
I had inside with something greater to prove.

I'm not filing a complaint,
About how I have lived my life.
Troubles come and go!
This I have learned to know!

I am not looking for a better way,
To breeze through or make look easy.!
I don't pout...
When down and out!
'Cause that's not the way I groove.

I'm not looking for a better way,
To make this easy!
I've been down,
And have been knocked out.
Spotted silent in one place...
But I am laying with plans,
For a smoother move to cruise!

One that has a solid punch!
Updated and perfected to use!

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That Is Not the Diet We Are Fed

It would be wonderful to recognize our failings,
And immediately correct them.
Or face the truth and deal with our insecurities.
But we are suspended within mentalities to react,
Too quickly!
We are prepared to defend such conditions...
We find ourselves in,
Much too fast!

Offended we are and preconditioned to attack,
And not listen.
Becoming less respected because we disrespect.
For purposes that generate a reflected unhappiness.
Handed down from one generation to the next.
To annoint our fears to the innocent.
Hardening their hearts before they are ready to speak.

And when someone is 'intentionally' like this,
Who cares how the bleeding is done?
Or how it has come to manifest.
Why bother to empathize with this stubbornness?

One in which an attraction for habitual lies,
Cries foul constantly to themselves in active denial.
Taught to whine and complain.
Why commit to be placed on trial by nitwit misfits...
Socially unfit?

Where is the benefit of it in this process?
Tied to become unified with an ignorance...
That desires to incite conflict.
And resisting the agony,
That comes with enticing more of it!

It would be wonderful to recognize our failings,
And immediately correct them.
But that is not the diet we are fed!
And we even get upset...
When placing an order for fast food to infect us,
That it does not come fast enough to do it...
Upon command.

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The Palace of Art

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well."
A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.
Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.

And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
"Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring."

To which my soul made answer readily:
"Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide."* * * * *

Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
A flood of fountain-foam.

And round the cool green courts there ran a row
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
And that sweet incense rise?"

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aërial gallery, golden-rail'd,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.* * * * *

Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
Well-pleased, from room to room.

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
And change of my still soul.

For some were hung with arras green and blue,
Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn.

One seem'd all dark and red--a tract of sand,
And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low large moon.

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
Beneath the windy wall.

And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.

And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home--gray twilight pour'd
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep--all things in order stored,
A haunt of ancient Peace.

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
Not less than truth design'd.* * * * *

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
An angel look'd at her.


Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
That said, We wait for thee.


Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
And watch'd by weeping queens.


Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear
Of wisdom and of law.


Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
A summer fann'd with spice.


Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
The mild bull's golden horn.


Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
Above the pillar'd town.


Nor these alone; but every legend fair
Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
Not less than life, design'd.* * * * *


Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
The royal dais round.


For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
And somewhat grimly smiled.


And there the Ionian father of the rest;
A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.


Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.


Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
So wrought, they will not fail.


The people here, a beast of burden slow,
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
The heads and crowns of kings;


Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
And trusted any cure.


But over these she trod: and those great bells
Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
To sing her songs alone.


And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame
Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large brow'd Verulam,
The first of those who know.


And all those names, that in their motion were
Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
In diverse raiment strange:


Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue,
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
Rivers of melodies.


No nightingale delighteth to prolong
Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
Throb thro' the ribbed stone;


Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
Lord of the senses five;


Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
And let the world have peace or wars,
'T is one to me." She--when young night divine
Crown'd dying day with stars,


Making sweet close of his delicious toils--
Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
In hollow'd moons of gems,


To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,
"I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
Be flatter'd to the height.


"O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
My Gods, with whom I dwell!


"O God-like isolation which art mine,
I can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
That range on yonder plain.


"In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
And drives them to the deep."


Then of the moral instinct would she prate
And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full accomplish'd Fate;
And at the last she said:


"I take possession of man's mind and deed.
I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all."* * * * *


Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
And intellectual throne.


And so she throve and prosper'd; so three years
She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
Struck thro' with pangs of hell.


Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
Plagued her with sore despair.


When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight
The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite
The kingdom of her thought.


Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood
Laughter at her self-scorn.


"What! is not this my place of strength," she said,
"My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
Since my first memory?"


But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
And horrible nightmares,


And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
That stood against the wall.


A spot of dull stagnation, without light
Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
Making for one sure goal.


A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,
Left on the shore, that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
Their moon-led waters white.


A star that with the choral starry dance
Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
Roll'd round by one fix'd law.


Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.
"No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:
One deep, deep silence all!"


She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
Lost to her place and name;


And death and life she hated equally,
And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
No comfort anywhere;


Remaining utterly confused with fears,
And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
And all alone in crime:


Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
Of human footsteps fall.


As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
Moan of an unknown sea;


And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found
A new land, but I die."


She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.
There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
And save me lest I die?"


So when four years were wholly finished,
She threw her royal robes away.
"Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
"Where I may mourn and pray.


"Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are
So lightly, beautifully built:
Perchance I may return with others there
When I have purged my guilt."

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Emily Dickinson

The show is not the show,

The show is not the show,
But they that go.
Menagerie to me
My neighbor be.
Fair play--
Both went to see.

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Not The Quality

It is love he seeks...
Not the quality
Or the ability
Of the games you play!
And I should know.
I've been trying to get you to see it,
That way!

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The chief is not the best

It is not that the best in the skills
Becomes a captain of a team.
It requires some other skills for that.
The chief is not the best of all.
20.03.2008

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It Is The Message...Not The Messenger

I could care less,
How many messengers you leave beaten,
To avoid your mess that defeats your success.

It is the message...
Not the messenger,
That should be the focus of your concerns.

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Love is.... (Not The Rose)

love is not a room filled with pure light,
it is a dirty and grimy alley, that stinks of trash!
it is not the rose that blooms in the middle of summer,
but the manure the bush was planted in!

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Not the first

I stopped being guilty
Of the thefts of thoughts and quotes
When I had found them
Equally stolen ones.
I stopped being guilty
Of molesting that nymphet
When I had found myself
Not the first culprit.
06.04.2007

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Not The Same

Your picture's in my frame
and of course it's not the same
as when I had you here with me.
It could never be.
But without your image
what would I do?
I have no answer
for that my love
because I don't have you.

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Death Is Not The Mother Of Beauty

Death is not the Mother of Beauty
Death is Pain, Loss, Grief, Suffering-
Sometimes, the end of Pain-
Relief.

Death is not the Mother of Beauty-
Death is not the Mother of anything-
And Beauty, Beauty that is another story entirely.

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No, not the moon, but simple dial-plate

No, not the moon, but simple dial-plate
Is lightning me, and ‘tis my nasty fate,
That lights of stars I feel as light internal!

And loftiness of Batyushkov I hate:
'What time is it?' - he had been asked there
late --
And he had answered with curiosity 'Eternal!'

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Seeing Things That Are Not There

Sometimes our feelings
run deeper than they should,
we mix them with our imagination,
seeing things that are not there.
We see things out of context;
only imagine what
we want them to be,
then getting badly hurt
when we fall back
to the harsh reality.

23 April 2008

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Not About Art

You must learn to tell me,
not write it. No,
don’t even speak;
show me.

Don’t even show me,
let me see it myself
in the irises in your eyes,
in a gesture,
in silence.

Do not reduce me
to a simile, a convenient rhyme;
wipe your heart off the page,
This is not about art.

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I Am Not The Forgotten One

I am not the forgotten
One this time
Becaue
God came
Back for me
This time
I think this time he
Finally realized
That I wanted
To follow him
All the way to the see
And that is what I did
And When I got there
Me
And all the rest of the people
Waited
For him to teach us how to fish
And learn to fish

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