A poem about the infiltration and destruction that arise from anarchy and punk. (although I do love the music) My fingertips don’t leave prints of ink.
My mouth doesn’t speak melodic words.
My eyes don’t portrait the revolutionary vision beyond a common world.
I've incorporated lots of my favourite poets and stories and little hints to the creator of the riddle, so eek them out if you dare (most are pretty obvious :P) Part five, I hope it is ok - again, please tell me if it is not What do you deem as "Common Sense"?
Here is my perspective, feel free to share yours! :) Soon as it dropped again, this hollow, this void befell my soul permanently this time around. The words literally sunk in letter by letter with a bold font as if to reinforce it all again. This proble... i have two mother tongues and they're both right and wrong and there's no middle ground. Al-Aviv's no haven from these Punic heathens. My take on being brown (specifically, Indian) and growing up in America. ALL PICTURES ARE FROM MY TRIP** I went to India in November this year, to attend my friends' wedding (two of my close friends getting married to each other!).
This is a love letter to a country, peop... by tbanarchy When some-or many-people think about the banjo, the usually think about the opening scene of that Deliverance flick where that creepy-ass hillbilly kid plays that "Dueling Banjos" song.
My young eyes see the skies through colours of blue, red, yellow and grey. I often wonder how long this vision will stay. Will I forget the people's faces, I greeted yesterday. Is it alright for... I spent a month living with the Awash people in a remote village in Ethiopia.