Franz K. was a sad, sad man. He sat in his room all day doing nothing but writing depressing stories about men turning into bugs, and being killed by their own torture devices. He lived in Prague for a long time. He never married, and eventually died. He wrote to Max Brod telling him that his unpublished works were to be destroyed. Max Brod honored that request. I think you should know by now that this was not Franz Kafka, but rather Franz Kampbell. The moral of the story is the Franz Kampbell sucks and Max Brod knew this.
"Eat the bug," yelled the kids on the street. They were gathered around a young boy, the youngest of them all. His name was Simon, and he longed for approval. At the moment, he was torn between his desire for the approval of his mother (who had told him never to eat bugs) and the approval of the kids on the street. Simon knew that he shouldn't, but in the end he gave in to peer pressure and ate the bug. He then asked the kids if he could play with them. "No way," said the oldest one, who was fourty nine. "Why would we want to play with a kid who eats bugs? Come on, guys. Lets go play kick the can." Simon was left all alone on the street. He sat in deep contemplation of all the wrong choices in his life that had led him to this point. He knew that if he could only go back, he could stop himself from ever even leaving his house. Then he'd always have his mothers approval, and he'd have the approval of the kids down the street playing kick the can, because you certainly can't disapprove of something you haven't seen! (This, of course, was before he had ever met a member of the Christian Right). But that was in the past, now. There was no changing it. He'd just have to start making the right choices from here on in. The first choice he made was to get out of the street, which was wise because the oldest kid had convinced the rest of the kids to stop playing kick the can and start playing "run simon over with my car". The second choice he made was to build a sail boat and leave for a new and foreign land, where no one would know his name, and he'd have a fresh start. The third choice he made was to abandon this plan, because he lived in Kansas. The fourth choice he made was to go back into the street to think. He always had his clearest realizations there. The last realization he made that day was that the older kids hadn't stopped playing "run simon over with my car" yet. The first realization that his mother made that day was that her son was missing. There is no moral to this story.
Once upon a time there was a caveman named Ugh. Ugh was your typical caveman, making cave paintings, clubbing prehistoric baby seals, learning to makes wheels from aliens and then worshiping the aliens as though they were gods. He lived his whole life in relative obscurity. Even his family didn't know who he was. Finally, on his deathbed (which was the cave floor, because beds hadn't been invented yet) he claimed that home is where the heart is. This became one of the great proverbs of the caveman age, and Ugh was canonized (which was strange, because there was no catholic church yet). However, after a long time people got sick of the proverb, and went back in time to abuse Ugh as a child (which was strange, because there was no catholic church yet) so that he would never feel content enough in his heart to say such drivel. It worked, but then someone else said it a few hundred years later. The moral of the story is that you shouldn't go back in time to traumatize children because even if they don't do what they originally did when they were adults, someone else will do it anyway.
Max Member was lonely. He had many friends and allies when he was younger, but in his age he had kept only enemies. This was no fault of his own. His friends and allies just had a way of getting kidnapped and killed by his enemies. And he had a way of not saving them. And getting fired from every secret agency that hired him. In fact, he had just been given the boot from the Grand Duke of Luxembourg when he came to a realization that he must be the worst secret agent in the history of secret agents! With a lack of friends and allies and a career to give him reason to go on, he killed himself. As a ghost, Max found that he could make himself invisible and go through walls. This made him an excellent secret agent, and soon governments from all over the world were bidding for his services. He turned them all down, however, so that he could use his invisibility to spy on the girls locker room. The moral of the story is that boys will be boys.
Dr. Robert Marley was a scientist in the field of hydropyro, the study of water that is on fire. He was regarded as a genius by everyone in the land. His research had brought about the invention of the pyrohydro, which is fire that is made of water, a useful tool in the fight against SARS. One day, with his riches to make him secure and his accomplishments to keep his heart glad, he went for a walk in the forest. There he met the Big Bad Wolf. "Hark, I am the Big Bad Wolf!" said the Big Bad Wolf. "Hark, I am Doctor Robert Marley!" said Dr. Robert Marley. "Doctor Marley? The inventor of pyrohydro?" "The very same." "You saved my life, doctor! I had SARS, and your cure came just in time!" The Doctor, who had previously been frightened for his life, suddenly saw a way out. "Ah. So you'll spare my life out of gratitude?" "Nope, " said the wolf, and ate him. The moral of the story is that the Big Bad Wolf returns no favors.
Geraldina was a ballet dancer. She danced all day and all night and all evening and all morning and all afternoon and all times to the music that came from her mind. Never did she take a break from her dancing to eat or drink or go to the bathroom or watch MASH reruns. Her family became very alarmed at this behavior, and tried to find a way to stop her from dancing. They tried reasoning with her at first; trying to tell her that even Martha Graham took breaks. This didn't work, though, because Geraldina was a ballet dancer, not a modern dancer. Then they started playing loud Rock-Hop like Limp Biscuit. This interfered at first, but Geraldina simply poked a pencil deep into her ears, rupturing her ear drums. Not to be deterred, her family then attempted to set her on fire. This wasn't possible, due to the great amount of air that rushed around her that would extinguish any flame that came near. Finally her family gave up on her. She twirled and twirled and twirled until she dug a hole straight through the earth with her foot. She found herself in Japan, and there became a national phenomenon. The moral of the story is to take a break every now and then to watch a rerun of MASH. No one wants to be a national phenomenon in Japan.
Have you ever looked a djemba salesman in the eye? Seen that glint of good behind the veneer of sheer evil that comes with the business? If you have, then you'll be able to identify with Ken. Ken was your typical Soho musician. Playing on street corners and doing... things... to get money to make rent. He had hour’s worth of songs that he desperately wanted to record, but no money. His good friend Marcellus, through some shady dealing, came into possession of a four track tape recorder. Ken could finally record some of his songs. Unfortunately, his bongo player Carl died of an accident involving chains and some sort of illegal substance. The accident destroyed his bongos, too. Ken would not only have to perform the rhythm on his songs by himself, he would have to find something to play rhythms on. He did some... things... and was able to scrounge up enough money to buy something. He went to a used drum shop. He was directed to the hand drum section when they found that he only had one hundred dollars. He was directed form the bongo section to the djemba section when they found that he had no rhythm. It was there that he met Grant, the female to male transsexual djemba salesman. Grant went on for a few minutes in detail about how evil he was, and how the only acceptable price for a djemba would be Ken's soul, but Ken stopped listening after only a few words. He had become entranced by the faint glimmer of hope and love that could be glimpsed in Grant's eyes between descriptions of ritual beatings and mutilations. Ken bought the djemba, but continued to come to the store on alternate weekends to talk with Grant. Over time they came to be very good friends. There would come moments of tenderness in the pauses they took from drawing up plans to kidnap children. In one of those pauses, Ken took a risk. "Grant, I know there is good in you! Come back from the dark side. I know you can change your ways!" Grant replied, "Ken, you know what I do. I kill goats and use their skins in djemba's so that musicians with no rhythm and no money can have some semblance of a good sound. There is no turning back!" And that night Grant murdered Ken and used his skin on a djemba. The moral of the story is to never trust a djemba salesman.
Once upon a time there was a Hobo named Oboh. Oboh lived in the second-to-last car on the H-Train (sometimes called an Habouse). He had a bed (made of floor) and a stove (made of matches and other hobo's), and a television (made of a television). His average day consisted of waking up, watching an hour of television, and then luring younger, less experienced (and therefore less wary) Hobo's into his car for dinner. One day, however, he met his match. An older, wiser Hobo lured Oboh into his car, and had him for dinner. The moral of the story is that I should not be allowed to get on the internet when I'm supposed to be writing a paper. And that Hobo's are cannibals.
In school every student is an actor
They all put on a show everyday
They pretend to have these perfect lives
like the ones we see on the Brady Bunch
The people who tell how there lives
are imperfect and dreadful are the
people who strive for pity and attention
When will this charade end?
What if they all eventually turn into who
they are pretending to be
Why do people pretend anyways?
Has the desperation from fear of loneliness driven them to change themself?
Who truly knows?
My question is who are we
the person who is trapped inside or the
person who we pretend to be?
Okey im bored so im going to post another poem i wrote.
TRUTH
No one ever tells it how it is
There is no Santa, tooth fairy and that fairy tale princes don't really exist
They never say some dreams don't come true or say the awful things that could happen to you
They pretend our world is perfect when its the opposite.
The worlds is full of imperfections but as human beings our egos are to big to admit it
For this reason the apple doesn't fall far from the tree because what we dont acknowledge will exist but be hidden away until its finally fouund.
And this is why history will ALWAYS REPEAT
And Repeat
empathy babe
consoles my frustrated heart
fightin fer pascificism
language lettin me down
we feel the comfort though
thankfully we do wat we cando
we see wat is hidden
the wise 20%
do wat we do...
Take a Step Back and Chase the World With Me
We Can Run Through the Streets; Scream Our Names
We'll Shoot for the Stars and We Can Be Free
If You Take My Hand and Hold My Heart
if You'll
Take a Step Back and Chase the World With Me
