grokmebaby

Oh come here little lad, You can make this world glad, Just put this cross upon your shoulder. You could have brought the world joy, You splendid little boy, But then you started getting older. Back then you claimed you had the time, For each and every stupid rhyme, Remember all the bullshit that you sold her? Oh the things you could have seen, Oh the things you would have been, If you had just been that much bolder. Once everything was pretty With your dog and little kitty But the first step out the door was so much colder When she stabbed you in the back, When she puts you on the rack, Just remember everything you ever told

Well, it occured to me today that the problem with American society these days is that we have an unhealthy interest in the lies our fellow citizens tell. Honestly (and I use the adverb with the utmost irony), we as people should not concern ourselves with undoing the lies that other people tell, because when we do, despite the "good" results of truth and liberation from lies, both of which are only desireable when one does not consider the wonderfully diverse and relative moral outlooks in the world. When everyone is allowed to live his own lie, everyone will live far more happily, which is the greatest boon any society may grant its people.

Moonlight spilling on pools of silken sheets Two bodies coiling, in the moon they meet A fire between them, see it in their eyes Everything against them from gods they defy Their passion unmet in the cold night air Life stays dark around the moonlit pair Her gasps and his match in opposing beats The lights are out, bodies the only heat Movement in time to some unseen drums His body tensing, her every nerve hums Each and every thing is right in this moment Both know it will end and tamely lament Frustration on her part can only make despair In day no more than the clothes they wear Nothing alive within their now-stirring souls O

A blast of cold air struck Jonathan's face as he strode into the restaurant. A small, but fairly upscale restaurant of local fame, Jonathan was familiar with the setup. He was likewise pleased to find Susan waiting for him. She smiled as he approached, her eyes flashing mischief in some unidentifiable way Jonathan could not comprehend. "You're almost late," said a nasal voice from behind her as Susan finished hugging him, "we've nearly lost our table." "I'm sorry," Jonathan stammered, flabbergasted at the sudden address by a stranger with that most self-important of modifiers, a British upper-class accent. "Let me introduce my friends," Su