where we reside after the tide has dried and when we died the floweres cried for we were feeding soil. dry as eyes to no longer cried for the sad demise of oil. we buried our hands and all our loved ones in the beloved warm deep soil
This hallowed ground. The soil, run dry over time, but still tinted red. The sacrifice eons ago that molded our present. Yet, the pain of the past erodes in both material and memory as time goes on…
i don’t know what you have in that sack
but i hope it’s not as dry as the skin over my cheekbones
the daisies need water
and the dandelions need a hand to lean on
homelost.
with a boy that says, life is suffering, if he has lived before i do not think he will live again;
i am not supposed to mourn his death, i am awaiting his instruction, how am i supposed to let you go?
but that is years ahead of this moment, where, standing in the frontroom, i am struggling to tell you what makes me nervous about foreign houses these days (it is not just that your family is in them, i promise, meeting grandparents before parents, i am comfortable if this is how we are)
maybe it is because i have just lost my future, i have given up the ships at depoe bay, i have given up heavy rains and tall trees and white picket fences, he does not think to promise these things to me, he does not think they are gone from me –
but his future is different, and the one i will follow, life is suffering, he says, but it is just what I have chosen
homelost.
with a boy that says, life is suffering, if he has lived before i do not think he will live again;
i am not supposed to mourn his death, i am awaiting his instruction, how am i supposed to let you go?
but that is years ahead of this moment, where, standing in the frontroom, i am struggling to tell you what makes me nervous about foreign houses these days (it is not just that your family is in them, i promise, meeting grandparents before parents, i am comfortable if this is how we are)
maybe it is because i have just lost my future, i have given up the ships at depoe bay, i have given up heavy rains and tall trees and white picket fences, he does not think to promise these things to me, he does not think they are gone from me —
but his future is different, and the one i will follow, life is suffering, he says, but it is just what have chosen
Dirt while planting. Dirty fingernails. Smell of fresh flowers and the wild outside. Spring time flowers. Fall leaves being blown away with the soil from the harsher blower being shined on the ground. Dirty balls while playing with the dogs. Rocks of all shapes and sizes. Home. Brown.
I know you try to soil my name
No one believes you
If they have half a brain
You are trying a smear campaign
Is it working for you
Or is it reflecting your pain
Some people will follow you
But they are stupid
And can’t think for themselves
Keep flinging your mud
It’s only sticking to yourself
soil is in the ground. it is good for vegetation. you need it to grow plants. it is brown. Farmers use it for their plants and crops. It is pretty much vital for life.
I want to break from the soil, which is sometimes too sticky, and actually I lost a lot of time, just looking up theis word on the dictionary. But I truly want to fly, and also soil is a basement for everything.
Deep in the soil is a world un known to man we create it but “they” make it happen. Theres a population to help grow feed and supply, its its own world. Its dark and rich and deep like our souls but it does much more it provides in ways to things that we cannot.
i planted kisses on her mouth
(her face as brown and warm
and richly sweet as clay)
that a smile may grow even
when i am not looking
(when the sun dies,
it wil light our days)
I have not soiled myself, nor have I stained any part of my being. My soul is not pure and not white, but I cannot say it is unclean. I am simply sun kissed.
earth. things grow. wet. you need moisture. from the sky. sky and earth. flowers. plants and trees. giving oxygen. they breathe out, we breathe it in. we plant the seeds. we grow the future. it’s like children. you don’t know what the seeds might yield.
There’s dirt outside. Brown yucky makes mud. Rocks in it left on garden outside flowers are planted in it. Vegetables and fruit. Hold trees. Worms live in it. Birds go grouch it. Plant seeds in it. Out garden yard Buried in it bury things in it. Animals live in it
It’s brown. It’s dirty. It’s yuck. Ugh. It’s crawling. But it’s not crawling. The things inside it are crawling. She felt disgusted. She wanted to go away. Far away. Where there was no soil, no insects, nothing so barbaric. So crass. But for now, she was stuck in this patch of land. Yucky.
what is soil? soil to me is the destination of my body. it’s the final destination. it’s the place where i wanted to go so damn much these past days ..
ground, earth where it all begun, from where we came, to where we are going, our path, our home, our place of peace, where the most beautiful creations come from, where we land, from where we start, what we work, our lives.
What is there to say about the ground upon which I travel? It sinks slightly beneath the weight of my feet, heavy with my sorrows and light with my hopes. It holds so much and yet is so easily disturbed, it’s hard to imagine that it will last forever. Sometimes I wonder.
I press my fingers into the dirt. It’s cool, soft, and I want to bury myself under it. But the sun, it’s so warm— I long to be held in the arms of nature; but I believe that’s not possible, when I myself am not a very lovely person.
six candles burnt for this black art,
could never string up the brassart,
mine and satan’s comart,
stuck in the dart,
daunting the lion heart,
making it unknown to the sea chart,
the sun set apart,
darkness soiled my heart.
The fire burned, crisping the soil,withering the plants nearby. the cows were knocked unconcious by the force of the blast, and the farmers…who no one knows what happened to the farmers. They were never seen again. From the depths of the forest came a crackling sloughing sound as a mutated rabbit emerged, awoken from his unnatural hibernation.
We came from the soil, I thought, as Siqueiros prints flashed on the screen three seconds apart, just to absorb the feeling of mud, of desolation, of exquisite tragedy, until another picture annihilated the first, without so much as a fade out, to create the same ennui again.
Soil is the essence of humankind. It helps grow plants and tress, which in turn feed other animals and humans, keeps our environment clean and healthy. Soil also contains several minerals and nutrients necessary for human survival. Soil represents the ground, which stands for stability
The soil burnes through his skin as he hit the ground with a thud. He was on fire and did not know why.
where we reside after the tide has dried and when we died the floweres cried for we were feeding soil. dry as eyes to no longer cried for the sad demise of oil. we buried our hands and all our loved ones in the beloved warm deep soil
This hallowed ground. The soil, run dry over time, but still tinted red. The sacrifice eons ago that molded our present. Yet, the pain of the past erodes in both material and memory as time goes on…
i don’t know what you have in that sack
but i hope it’s not as dry as the skin over my cheekbones
the daisies need water
and the dandelions need a hand to lean on
homelost.
with a boy that says, life is suffering, if he has lived before i do not think he will live again;
i am not supposed to mourn his death, i am awaiting his instruction, how am i supposed to let you go?
but that is years ahead of this moment, where, standing in the frontroom, i am struggling to tell you what makes me nervous about foreign houses these days (it is not just that your family is in them, i promise, meeting grandparents before parents, i am comfortable if this is how we are)
maybe it is because i have just lost my future, i have given up the ships at depoe bay, i have given up heavy rains and tall trees and white picket fences, he does not think to promise these things to me, he does not think they are gone from me –
but his future is different, and the one i will follow, life is suffering, he says, but it is just what I have chosen
homelost.
with a boy that says, life is suffering, if he has lived before i do not think he will live again;
i am not supposed to mourn his death, i am awaiting his instruction, how am i supposed to let you go?
but that is years ahead of this moment, where, standing in the frontroom, i am struggling to tell you what makes me nervous about foreign houses these days (it is not just that your family is in them, i promise, meeting grandparents before parents, i am comfortable if this is how we are)
maybe it is because i have just lost my future, i have given up the ships at depoe bay, i have given up heavy rains and tall trees and white picket fences, he does not think to promise these things to me, he does not think they are gone from me —
but his future is different, and the one i will follow, life is suffering, he says, but it is just what have chosen
Dirt while planting. Dirty fingernails. Smell of fresh flowers and the wild outside. Spring time flowers. Fall leaves being blown away with the soil from the harsher blower being shined on the ground. Dirty balls while playing with the dogs. Rocks of all shapes and sizes. Home. Brown.
I know you try to soil my name
No one believes you
If they have half a brain
You are trying a smear campaign
Is it working for you
Or is it reflecting your pain
Some people will follow you
But they are stupid
And can’t think for themselves
Keep flinging your mud
It’s only sticking to yourself
soil is in the ground. it is good for vegetation. you need it to grow plants. it is brown. Farmers use it for their plants and crops. It is pretty much vital for life.
I want to break from the soil, which is sometimes too sticky, and actually I lost a lot of time, just looking up theis word on the dictionary. But I truly want to fly, and also soil is a basement for everything.
i dont know what it is. but i think that is a great thing. maybe for a plant. or a tree. a huge tree. i like trees. they give power.
Deep in the soil is a world un known to man we create it but “they” make it happen. Theres a population to help grow feed and supply, its its own world. Its dark and rich and deep like our souls but it does much more it provides in ways to things that we cannot.
i planted kisses on her mouth
(her face as brown and warm
and richly sweet as clay)
that a smile may grow even
when i am not looking
(when the sun dies,
it wil light our days)
I have not soiled myself, nor have I stained any part of my being. My soul is not pure and not white, but I cannot say it is unclean. I am simply sun kissed.
earth. things grow. wet. you need moisture. from the sky. sky and earth. flowers. plants and trees. giving oxygen. they breathe out, we breathe it in. we plant the seeds. we grow the future. it’s like children. you don’t know what the seeds might yield.
There’s dirt outside. Brown yucky makes mud. Rocks in it left on garden outside flowers are planted in it. Vegetables and fruit. Hold trees. Worms live in it. Birds go grouch it. Plant seeds in it. Out garden yard Buried in it bury things in it. Animals live in it
It’s brown. It’s dirty. It’s yuck. Ugh. It’s crawling. But it’s not crawling. The things inside it are crawling. She felt disgusted. She wanted to go away. Far away. Where there was no soil, no insects, nothing so barbaric. So crass. But for now, she was stuck in this patch of land. Yucky.
Life grows from a single seed in the soil, all it needs is a splash of water and a little sunshine.
what is soil? soil to me is the destination of my body. it’s the final destination. it’s the place where i wanted to go so damn much these past days ..
ground, earth where it all begun, from where we came, to where we are going, our path, our home, our place of peace, where the most beautiful creations come from, where we land, from where we start, what we work, our lives.
What is there to say about the ground upon which I travel? It sinks slightly beneath the weight of my feet, heavy with my sorrows and light with my hopes. It holds so much and yet is so easily disturbed, it’s hard to imagine that it will last forever. Sometimes I wonder.
I press my fingers into the dirt. It’s cool, soft, and I want to bury myself under it. But the sun, it’s so warm— I long to be held in the arms of nature; but I believe that’s not possible, when I myself am not a very lovely person.
What a shame.
The brown, earthy soil under my nails reminds me of those days with you.
six candles burnt for this black art,
could never string up the brassart,
mine and satan’s comart,
stuck in the dart,
daunting the lion heart,
making it unknown to the sea chart,
the sun set apart,
darkness soiled my heart.
The fire burned, crisping the soil,withering the plants nearby. the cows were knocked unconcious by the force of the blast, and the farmers…who no one knows what happened to the farmers. They were never seen again. From the depths of the forest came a crackling sloughing sound as a mutated rabbit emerged, awoken from his unnatural hibernation.
We came from the soil, I thought, as Siqueiros prints flashed on the screen three seconds apart, just to absorb the feeling of mud, of desolation, of exquisite tragedy, until another picture annihilated the first, without so much as a fade out, to create the same ennui again.
Soil is the essence of humankind. It helps grow plants and tress, which in turn feed other animals and humans, keeps our environment clean and healthy. Soil also contains several minerals and nutrients necessary for human survival. Soil represents the ground, which stands for stability