Poetry Of A Rake

[DaveyFresh"]

Originally Posted by Prof.Diorry

Yall not serious this is so lame not to mention time comsuming women dont give a fuck about poetry anymore were not in the 16th century further more you are setting the frame for Romance and Love not Lust which is the point of Seduction but I could be wrong to each is his own

Woman like what they hear, and thus you completely miss the point. Aren't you here to learn? Then why are you against a method specifically that actually works. Poetry until the day all love has died will ALWAYS make a girl "Feel"

You do not know your game very well if you do not understand that "How you say words" to a girl is how you effect HER. Poetry requires a very flamboyant and style of wrd utilization, I have to think of my lines, therefore I must think of my words first? NO?

Romance is lustful, girls aren't only to be lusted, you must instill MUTIPLE emotional stimulas to keep a healthy relationship.

I feel you should be quiet, you should learn and adopt a open and more understanding outlook, and you should apologize for disrupting my thread with a insulting flame such as yours. Any further flaming wil be reported thank you.

[DaveyFresh"]

What becomes of us as people, when the best of which beats living as everyday slowly is turned from its most precious graces, when the seeds of hatred creep amongst us, when we turn to are fellow man and with no hands we beat him down even more.

What happens when all the good men have ceased to care, when a woman scorned by demons of her own innards no longer sees what we can give to her, that we may care and love, show and adore, and yet she is blinded by the valueless paper with nothing but a dark and rusty number printed upon its ragged edges.

We are not impressed by such fickle things as a pretty smeared on face, or the falseness that lurks so obviously nestled within every line you spew. We die everyday waiting for you, and you leave us waiting within a quiet ally with spurned ears, bt no pleasing sounds.

Men, are the last to say what has become of love, as women have come before us declaring the same. We as people have turned are backs to it, and thus we are becoming a people of love, reformed with dispair. . and a unending hatred.

[DaveyFresh"]

I know of where I belong, and the road of which can be created to reach the top of such mountains as a thin, but radiant blue air blows amongst such jagged edges, of even higher and mighty mountains. That just but to climb you may look upon a world and from that point, it is within the rights of the living to say that this is a beautiful sight, as the world lies upon my vision.

I have hated and it makes me know that it wasn't a feeling that fills you of such joy that you could brave anything. but rather it tears you apart, and injects but the very flames of a roaring fire straight through and burns a certain degree upon your heart, a degree that grows scorched and cold, never to rekindle as a living thing.

You are either alive or you are dead, and living with no hope of a bright and glorious tommorow, is but the very thing death is. May we smie as the sun falls, and the moon rises, for life is within these moments, and we are certainly moving away from them as such a rate we must.

[DaveyFresh"]

The melodies, as though sung from softest pitchs of such a lovely crested throat, and may I say the voice that would stop but a deaf man, so help he be cured by such graces, of such sweet sounds.

Does but a angel dream, whilst she string alone tunes from a glowing golden harp rested above for all to be comforted, as the clouds part and the winds brush so ever gently along mighty earth and the treasures hidden beneath the veil. Whispering pure, she knows the feathers hanging gently, as they but appear to just lay upon the rustles of her magnificent wings.

To dream of the gardens, where tress but sway and rejoice amongst life, and where you can see just but the trickle of a stream running its spans down the old rock which hath protected such blue azure blue waters, if but to look. . you see all reflections.

This angel may rest her head down, and alow her eyes to drift far, and between to what ever beauty shall present itself to her dreaming and faint rests, and so she simply lay, with small creases just faintly grained upon her lovely cheeks, she closes her eyes, but not the world, and the world brings its colors to her. . and she says, but this as she starts to slowly fade.

Love the air, and the trees, for they hath never lied to you, for all but the wicked contentions, and even more prudent lies, a man is what he can become, but hath he the caring love he needs, he will be.

[DaveyFresh"]

Those whom strive to allow themselves to be small, this hath no justice to enduring the love sought with pains of life, and that pain for which is most likely to loom so presently upon you, is not your destroyer, for with love, it becomes love, and for allowing ones own love to grow as big and as proud as the booming thunders sent fourth from the sky with strikes of white fire, upon the solid and aged ground of are birthing mother, she does not scream.

I speak of love, as though it radiates upon my face, as you can see endless joy through which my brown eyes will show you. I desire you utterly, I am a slave to what is passion, but no control does it command me, for with love, there is conviction, and conviction, there is truth to knowing.

That I have seen the deep grooves of dispair and have returned to send a message, that to fall upon darkness, no dark stops the heart full of desire and the burning lights it unleashes, with but weak limbs, I crawl until my legs will one day rise again anew to allow me to walk, and walk I shall as I stride, as proud of loving my life, I am equally proud of the persuit, to hold and to cherish the girl who lurks within my dreams of night solace.

I know of you girl, a hundred dreams has never removed your figure from me. I have endlessly dreamed of the day I will hold yo upon my young and strong arms, and without a love with lfe, I could never love her the same way.

[DaveyFresh"]

Love is the roaring thunder sent from stary skies, as the white strikes of burning fire casted from the daunting clouds. It hath no form, but is raging full of a savage desire to cerish what is deemed and seen throughout my dreams. For many nights I hath thought of nothing bt nightmares upon the quiet hints of my lurking mind, and as a man I grew fearful for which I was unsure of what I was seeing.

But fear is but a illusion, and these dreams were no nightmares wishing harm upon me. They were the proverb that hell hath no fury such as a woman scorned, that these beautiful creatures are harmed by the beasts of men.

I wish to allow these beauties the words rested in a parched throat, they move me with but there great smiles, I close upon them with strong arms.

[DaveyFresh"]

Anger is a killing thing, it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before, it takes all that he has and turns it tarnished and brittle, and leaves but darkness casting his mind or upon his very soul.

No man can atest that he never feels his rage burning as the couldrens over a blue kindled fire, that he see the smoke of which blots his vision, and leaves him gasping at the slightest drops of lingering air. To hate but the reflections so presently placed upon you, you reflect from no one else but your self, and thus you torment those of which the pain comes of you.

Turn your backs upon the notions of love, turn your backs and allow your dispair its strengh to hinder and bind you upon a chain you hath no key or pick to shatter. Turn your backs as the tears slip from your dark and swollen eyes for people have forsaken that of which is love.

Adamantly, for which we know, we are losing ourselves as people, the entity of are strengh, for men have lost there honor, and woman hath lost there dignity, we are but a people gasping amongst the shores as fresh from the sun blue waters that crese the beach so ever daily.

I say for which these are seldom words, I declare not all men will sit and allow death before they have lived, I am but one of those men and for this may history no matter the blood that has been forgotten, remind us of a better peope, of which we use to represent as united we were, and diveded we are falling.

[DaveyFresh"]

The tears graced as of heaven, angels deepest recess of which burdens so heavily upon golden wings, for the dark hath but blackened and estranged wings of which a flight is no more free then the chains of death which holds it as though it shall never move a moment of enduring or lasting freedom.

That we are falling for which are brothers offer us no support, a cold shoulder or no words which escape closed mouths, but the spectacle of which lingering and trailing eyes never let us rest. We are falling as forgiveness hath died from the depths of the trudging lies of which we tell are loves, or are brothers, and for within all these lies, we are lost amongst the words which hath formed into a valid evil amongst one another.

The weak men can but never learn the virtue to forgive for his heart is heavy, and more so does he worry of which he hath no control. Only the strong may forgive, they are not of a heavy heart, for they know that history has blood amongst it such as the feelings they devote, they know full well that to forgive will never remove such pains as they have endured from life, but that it is within all forgiveness that the roads of the future become more serene and with peace. They know full well that to forgive is to allow ones hatred to turn from its darkened days, so that it may serve all but the greatest justice and allow the light to seep to my brothers, and remove there pains so they may stand high and proud, and the joys of all of which is love may spread amongst and across all but the lovely world, and for the vision of it.

Forgiveness, for a life of sins of which we know we commit, we must forgive our own pains, are own lies, we must find truths amongst are own deception, we must become what is best unto ourselves, we must remember the great trials of which love hath spawned, we must never forget to forgive is to accept, and to accept, we have finally learned to love, for whom we are, and all of which we may so adamantly call our breathren.

[DaveyFresh"]

Those nights of which I held you as the words slipped from my mouth so presently with sure, a tender care as I had to gently caress your ears, allow you to pause as your mind seeped to the depths as which my thoughts allowed you to vision the worlds breaths as ever and all I see, for which I see the beauty, and it allowed rings of which vibrate allowing me continous joys.

I loved you beneath your dark, the hidden pains of which you held, they were of which the dark musks your eyes and of which I hath known so very long. It was but a moment, it sunk my heart to have learned of your deception upon me, of which as I read anothers seductive letters to you, and quoted upon the day, the day I had vowed that my past hates be lifted, so I may love without need of a reckless return. Within that moment, hate had swallowed me of which rage had tempted as a seductress and my thoughts were eburst with a ever anewing fire. The shame that it was of you that was faulted and of which though this man chased you, I had wished him grevouis harm, to wound him.

I had burned and within this fire, I learned that man decides when he is a man, trapped in a dark of which you wouldn't follow, and I called myself, save the dawn and silently trapped without a voice, a soul, I grew and I knew a cheating heart doesn't equal mine, that I will not hate you of which I should, but you hath a dark and I shall not follow.

[DaveyFresh"]

Imagine, the dark prisons, where you have no opportunities of which you may prosper with right and needed light, to be nawed upon, chewed, and spat out as nothing. You feel cold as though heat carries no warmth, death holds a glorious meaning, and a sound claims no echoes.

As when there is no room within hell, the dead shall inherit the earth. It is within humanities greatest written holy text, words and I quote as a man whom knows god to be the embodiment of virtues, that he commands the faith to raise the dead. The sounds of rattling snakes, as cold aged bones begin to quiver, as they find there other, together they cometh. Bones as flesh, with no blood, they come together. Breath upon these slain, these of which holy words demand faith through necromancy, of the embodiment of evil.

Breaths fell upon these slain, and life was given. But it is within embodiment that these represent lessons. That it is not a physical body that endows death and life, it exists within and beyond understanding, that of which only leaps of faith of ones choosing, may he cometh upon death with life.