Comments Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca
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We stamper up hills, climbing.
The road takes me higher
The road takes us higher.
We are calling the nature to come forth with us, as we move,
as we express our being.
Terrified, we struggle.
We give birth in the womb of sorrow
We are emotional, but now is the time for regrowth.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 12.24.2014 @ 5:25 pm
Satire, satire, static
In simplicity we write no more
In simplistic nature , we cry no more
Static cries oh do we live in a world of fear
Or do we swim with our lives
Do we easy or do we die?
The two are not different
One must have another
And we must live
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 11.09.2014 @ 1:18 pm
Broaden your mind fool.
Take the time to broaden your mind and see the other sides of things that you may not have looked into before.
I don’t care about spelling. I scare myself when I spell too much, or too little, just the right amount is all I need to be myself. And that’s all I need to broaden myself. To be myself is to broaden, to expand, to let go of what conditions I have and to escape into a reality beyond the known, a reality of broadened wings and sky-high loving.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 09.26.2014 @ 12:59 pm
Retreat along the watch tower where there are buttons and scratches and people in locked houses and the bodies and the trains roll up and tied them to their waist coats and nobody wants to go on and retreat, because that’s what we run for. We are not trying to be the best but we don’t know what the worst is and that’s scary. I like to stink in my shoes and let the muse guide me a long the path of tomorrow, retreating after day after noon sir, would you like a party pancake?
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 09.26.2014 @ 6:23 am
Fisherman tied up to the boat
They over throw the waters
They take the waters a shore
Picking up where they left off
The fisherman are super tossed away by the waves of the ocean
They tried to scramble they tried to have devotion
but they’ve come to far on this wave of a shore and the man in the sea has two bottles of whisky that he’s been drinking with a side of life
with a little bit of life held up on the shore
he’s got no tomorrow
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 07.06.2014 @ 7:30 am
Sterile, was the flamingo
She had so many people watching her
And all she could do was list off the ways she couldn’t do it right.
How she couldn’t walk with one whale tail up in the air like the other birds could.
How she couldn’t be any colder then her feathers allowed
How she wished she had a fucking twenty two dollar bill so she could fly out of here and dream her days away in Maui
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 04.17.2014 @ 2:53 pm
She wrapped herself around me in slow motion
Those golden locks
The eyes that could pierce through diamond
On me like a hawk
Still, the only thing I felt was a memory
And the rapture of this moment fell away into a cloud of smoke
Shackled and burnt
She fucked me
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 03.26.2014 @ 6:35 pm
Modestly, the mouse took a while to say goodbye to the little train that he had in his eye and he cried, just a little bit, but by the looks of it he couldn’t see what he was missing, which was right under his nose. A piece of cheese, a music note in place. That’s true, said the blind mice and the men who were modestly unnoticed and disguised as being mice themselves. Man, what a weird world.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 03.09.2014 @ 9:29 pm
Grandfather clock, tick tock
On the wall it wobbles and tobbles
It’s my heart beat, like a little kid crying
Telling me to go outside because the day keeps on calling
and wandering by my window
Tick tock patter pock
The grandfather clock mocks my every move
As I lay inside
But in doors it seems to hide
Every emotion that I encounter
Because every time I go by it
The clock is still in the hour
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 03.07.2014 @ 7:44 am
Emperor, is what they called me
And I left it at that
I never took the label to heart, because I felt there was more than that.
In fact I knew it in my bones.
The moving sidewalks beneath my feet couldn’t be washed any clearer
The eyes watching my every move never were more dusted.
And there I walked as one of them.
But who I was,
Was the emperor.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.23.2014 @ 10:53 pm
Compensate for my will to appreciate, if I’ve lost it
Compensate for the direction I appeal to reason and when my heart fails to recognize itself,
tell it so
Compensate for my lack of ability to determine how much ability I have
Compensate for freedom of speech when silence is all that is needed
Compensate for the losing benefits of desiring something that is not yet to be,
and losing sight of reality
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.20.2014 @ 7:34 pm
Define my definition
Just in case you ran out of wine
Define the way I act when I’m drunk
And in case you’re wondering I’m tired too
Guess I’m not getting out of bed tomorrow
I’ll find a way
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.13.2014 @ 9:13 pm
Just in time
Take me away to that special place
No never mind
Feel free to carry along you old dirty bag
Feel free to come say goodbye
I’ve been missing you
For a while
Now listen here
You’ve got to be mine
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.08.2014 @ 6:49 pm
A starlit night, it was
Everywhere the stars shine down, on us
And tonight was a very special night,
As are all nights
That are starlit nights
The yellow flames draw the sky gold
While the others withdraw their light
They take turns, my friends
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.05.2014 @ 9:15 pm
Unkempt, she was torn away from this world
Like the Mississippi river. God I would’ve sworn a year ago that I’d never seen anything more beautiful, but here it was. A disheveled piece of a scarf that she left behind. The only delicate symbol of her divine union with what we label life. Now she’s gone.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.03.2014 @ 11:39 pm
Dissect my liver
And tell me if I’m wrong on what I do
I devour alcohol like it’s a demon
A savory taste , it swells in my mouth
The day I die I will say
Dissect my liver
And tell me how I was
Tell me where to go when I die
And if there will be the rum to drink
because inside I will feel empty
By my own alcoholism
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 02.01.2014 @ 10:25 pm
Televised, it was
I stood there is the way I could describe myself when I cam on the television
Man, what a day
The sun was shining and my hair looked like a mess
Everyone would see this and go, hey, look, your hair looked like a mess that day
Please everyone, just shut up.
Man, what a day
That day I was on a television.
On the tv. Like Leno, or Jay Z or something.
Waste of time. Televised.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.31.2014 @ 5:15 pm
Hello, it’s plausible that you don’t know me
And I don’t myself know you
But the two of us are like sticks that can’t be separated
Gravity holds us together
It’s plausible that you don’t know of what I speak
Because you are one stick
And I am the other
And the two of us bend like the trees and leaves
And don’t recognize it when we do this
We just do
Because you too
Are like me
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.25.2014 @ 5:39 pm
Beaming, the sun does
On the Earth in its orbit
The little people stand on the sandy beaches
Watching the Earth rotate
The beaming lights up their lenses
For they keep them on their heads
Otherwise the sun would be too bright
Life is suffering
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.20.2014 @ 5:04 pm
Strive for a better life, but don’t forget what you had when you were living alone in the wilds
Underneath the covers, blind by the lightning you found yourself hiding deep in the dark
Under the caves and the caverns of old you found yourself hiding under the dark
and you knew no one was calling your name
calling your name
Strive to find out what you held before in your hands
Like a diamond shining in the light
You reflect it
And it shines on you
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.19.2014 @ 10:45 pm
Fire my arms in all directions like a crazy cat with no inspection I listen not to your demands and the principle behind my eyes likes to realize that you are not a feline like the mystics described but in fact you’re much more than that. You’re like a tomato. You’re like a gun that can shoot in so many directions and in fact remain in the same state. You’re like the moon with so many shadows and all the time so still. You look like you’re in the dark, but I see you on fire.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.17.2014 @ 11:19 am
Harm no one
Not even yourself
you may think I’m wrong
But you’re wrong
Harm one and you harm all
Harm no one and you harm yourself
Don’t let them bring you down
Don’t let them make you into a killer
Move forward in movement with grace
Bring mercy to your grave
Harm no one and you will be harmed
Let you surrender
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.15.2014 @ 8:15 pm
Counting the seconds
And letting time by
I listen to the wind
As does the sky
And the more I try
The more I realize
That counting is simplicity
And complexity has its name
But by all accounts
I realize that no more time can go
And its place in my life
Is as simple as a ghost
And the music lies in time
In a simply battered state
Like the wake of a plane
Or the clouds behind a boat
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.14.2014 @ 9:29 pm
exactly like my mom, you said, you were never a bad woman
But I thought of something else inside when I looked at you
It was blueberry pancakes on a sunny afternoon
And the time was running blue
But you too came up to me and smiled
And I said, exactly like my mom
But that’s beside the point
I want the syrup
All the syrup crushed up in ice like little packets of coconut
That’s what my mom used to do
Exactly like that
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 01.01.2014 @ 8:12 pm
I dropped out of the sky with a parachute and below the Earth I stood
My shadow and all that was left of the animals in their kingdoms
The little mermaids in the deep blue sea beyond the land
I could see it all from where I was
Like a ghost of itself, there was nobody hanging on to me.
I was free falling and until I let out my parachute the ideas came and went like lightning bolts.
And then I was still, floating in free space and descending into an abyss that I usually called home, but this time it looked much different.
It look like it was heaven… Earth.
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 10.13.2013 @ 12:57 pm
Date me, take me to the park and let me sing to you under the tree tops
Let me dance along your shores at night and lift you up so that you can feel like an airplane And then I will know you made it on time to your date, to your destination, because that’s where we feel like we’re going, but we’re arriving on time already, like a low level flight
A distance never made it too far away to be called a barrier
And you let it all go like a wave under a tornado
A light moment to be given away,
A moment to take your breath away
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 10.12.2013 @ 8:57 pm
start from that scale, that you are a topographical map where no locations can be matched
you are a minute maid commercial without a pause button
you are hoping that someone else will take the plane but it’s just not true
there is nobody else but you
in this moment
on this day
you have dragon scales that nobody can wipe clean
but underneath them may be gold
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 10.12.2013 @ 12:23 am
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Yellow sorcerers, dritinf on the wood of thomorrows days they were above the trees, so many of them, white as ghosts, but they were witches of sorts, they all had cats too, and the casts liked to jump down from their brooms on to the pines below. Crows you awould wouyou would see jump out from them and ilike it was jamgic or something they would all fly away as the casts desecendded, so many black things in the sky, but not the wieetches, they used magic and glewowe in the sky like white seagulls, and the scontrast was bright and new and everyone thought thaerew awas something elese out there athat you could see and be happy with thle like the ornaments of angels and wings and the birds would sing and therir yellow tones would vlfap through the bivration of the cosmsocs and the orange tentacles of insects that we havent heard about where tehre and were wall waent back into the caverns of our minds to fdrift away from real dialogue like this because who knew whtat yryping was so fast and unimproirtant when you’re dtreally just thinking about what you think, like oranges and witches and cats and tyellow busses like ffom Torotor, those pines in theosat story makes me want to cry, those trees that light up the tree that is the mountain side they dbvring the children to life and all of us, so many uof us like the way we sree these animals in our minds but who comes to bfind that we are just a prelfection of them, big beasts and shallow eyeed cats listening and whistling in the night like Garfield, not eating, but sleeping a lot, like cats do, talking to themselves in the pines that the witches thjley them brew, like a big witches dringk a potion for more information they wisnk thand they went south to wehre they weere born like all wtiches tcome sffomr the south and that doesn’t matter much anymore, becuse I wonder if I can edit this swhen it’s somdone befing my fifsr post and all and if I’m actually writing for some time, who en tanters this and when thids time stops whill be aI ways talking to and from the world in a gaze like a snake gazing at its prey ad small fox burying its head in the htall grass not to be seen its snake swivels and drivels and quivers like the ladies to do fof muahmmad ali when hes tboxing and he falls on he is nhkness now there is a poem in mind like a drfting opiece of bflat wood in the ocean breeze athe waves curling around its edges and the thoughts of memories beginning to express themsevles through shapes in the wayer, the old man was afraid that he would never make it home, but the fear hasdn’t reached him yet, the waves cureled about protecting him from this farear, and lastly lhe thjought he would just drown under the ocean, live off the sea weed until his breath gave away, a sunny day it was, but the smile on his face said otherwise, becuse insdeif his heart hye was loneyl, and my fingers are going to cramp up and theyse seixty seconds areen’t seeming to be anwywhere, but don’t care about that, you’ve got wriatin to do, so standf up and shout like a mnad man at the keys you let it all out on the patper, your et thumb going waild on the paspace wabar and the music pbeing playing on the wild casstette tapes that your grandmajuse tst listented to and fell into a sdeep sleep away from all the trouble in her mlives. she painted pines when she waas little, pines and old cabins that she used to li8ve in, swaplaces that she had memories in, stories to trwell, but she didn’t like to paint those stories jshe just like to see the paintings on her walls when they were done, as if the places she had bonece been where all so done, that they would never be similar, or the same stories that she thought whse had in her minds, like she didn’t want anybody else to open the door, so she painted them a,d dn locked them away fbedhing the acyrliccs, in the deep crevasses of the cavnas bordad, she was not bored, but distratcted and unamused bty the wasy she did things in her life. this was all that was left of her. paintings and unamusings like a story untold with the lpillows and feathers in them not soft anymore, they gave up. thaey gave up being nice and the pines and thre trees had no advice for me to but to keep on writing like a human being would, like a man who has fingers and a voice and the dars to herar the pines whisper, the hearts of the trees bouncing uout li9ke cannonballs on fire, this was no trick, it was no carnival enthusiasatisscs man trying to sell you gunys and fireball to get you wasted on the side wheile he steals on all the money from your wallet, no this aws something more3 beautiufl, speactqabular, imaginatble only by those who dare to dream, to think ourtside the boxes of our little fit up society and to sing and move with the musi a thousand ltimes deeper then our lives let us. beauty and deepness.
What happens when I cick that black button?
» Posted By Anthony Ross - stopbeingsilly.blogspot.ca On 10.08.2013 @ 10:05 pm