Play is a toy,

A weapon,

An action of joy.

We hold it in our hands tight and it slips,

Through space it rips,

And births a kiss upon your lips.

It's the hourglass sand dropping gravity down

With levity and a frown.

The lit fuse 's a ruse,

We're here until we're not

No higher meaning

Living's a place aimed to rot.

A coincidental void,

Not the stuff from a tabloid;

Not the race

ran from

the turtle's or the hare's pace;

Void. Just empty space.

Of sorts.

With so much room,

You've got the chance to bloom,

No fear or regrets

When play, life begets

All life's creation

Is simple recreation.

It happens all the time.

It happens all the time!

With these words strung up in rhyme,

Or the face you pull when you eat a lime.

Yes, it's all art,

Even the fart that

smelled like

Apple tart, like.

It doesn't take a genius,

To not take it all so serious,

The lack of meaning and purpose,

Is not a hell-fueled furnace

Its your chance to make your own

Be it sat at a throne

Or in the eye of a cyclone.

See, I'm pulling at this thread

Because existential dread can be kept at bay

If you simply take a step back, and just play

Play,

Play.

We can safely assume that here at TheProse.com, the majority of us likes poetry. We form a community, a barracks armed with words to protect and propagate our kind. The tighter we band, the more chances of successful skirmishes whether north, south, west or east of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our emblem. It's a dog eat dog world out there and for us to make it through, we gotta do what we gotta do. Kill or be killed. Join us or die.

What would you say to someone who didn't like poetry? Convince him he does by expanding its definition? Tell him how he's lacking in his sight of beauty? Shun him verbally, condescendingly torture him as the Other that isn't us, that'll never be us?

"Bully them.

Divide and conquer.

Tax them for all they've got," grin the overlords rubbing their hands with economic policies, free trade, money money money.

This isn't a war. Wars end. This is the human condition, to grab identities off whatever rabbit hole we've fallen in and stand our ground. To pour bucketfuls of meaning on top of it and die for it, only hope that your children too will die for it also. This is the human condition. To work our way from the herd all the way to freedom and individual expression, only to clump together in separate tribes which often trade and flourish, and often stay strangers and often hate. The human condition to want to love equally and completely, to unite yet not have to cope with difference.

What would I say to someone who didn't like poetry? I'd ask them about their day, their other interests, the colour of their lover's eyes. I would not say anything at all, I would talk to them.

We can safely assume that here at TheProse.com, the majority of us likes poetry. We form a community, a barracks armed with words to protect and propagate our kind. The tighter we band, the more chances of successful skirmishes whether north, south, west or east of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our emblem. It's a dog eat dog world out there and for us to make it through, we gotta do what we gotta do. Kill or be killed. Join us or die.

What would i say to them? I would have a regular conversation with them, of course. Not everyone must like poetry and I'm certainly not one to say what one should and shouldn't We can safely assume that here at TheProse.com, the majority of us likes poetry. We form a community, a barracks armed with words to protect and propagate our kind. The tighter we band, the more chances of successful skirmishes whether north, south, west or east of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our emblem. It's a dog eat dog world out there and for us to make it through, we gotta do what we gotta do. Kill or be killed. Join us or die. nd, the more chances of successful skirmishes whether north, south, west or east of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our emblem. It's a dog eat dog world out there and for us to make it through, we gotta do what we gotta do. Kill or be killed. Join us or die.

I would probably like to meet this person. Especially if they liked to meet me. I can't talk poetry anyway, I'm rubbish at it and trashy as me and dumpster diving free meals. Would that put them off do you think? Would they still like to meet me? Even We can safely assume that here at TheProse.com, the majority of us likes poetry. We form a community, a barracks armed with words to protect and propagate our kind. The tighter we band, the more chances of successful skirmishes whether north, south, west or east of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our emblem. It's a dog eat dog world out there and for us to make it through, we gotta do what we gotta do. Kill or be killed. Join us or die. ast of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our emblem. It's a dog eat dog world out there and for us to make it through, we gotta do what we gotta do. Kill or be killed. Join us or die.

What would you say to someone who didn't like poetry? Convince him he does by expanding its definition? Tell him how he's lacking in his sight of beauty? Shun him verbally, condescendingly torture him as the Other that isn't us, that'll never be us?

"Bully them.

Divide and conquer.

Tax them for all they've got," grin the overlords rubbing their hands with economic policies, free trade, money money money.

This isn't a war. Wars end. This is the human condition, to grab identities off whatever rabbit hole we've fallen in and stand our ground. To pour bucketfuls of meaning on top of it and die for it, only hope that your children too will die for it also. This is the human condition. To work our way from the herd all the way to freedom and individual expression, only to clump together in separate tribes which often trade and flourish, and often stay strangers and often hate. The human condition to want to love equally and completely, to unite yet not have to cope with difference.

What would I say to someone who didn't like poetry? I'd ask them about their day, their other interests, the colour of their lover's eyes. I would not say anything at all, I would talk to them.

IIIA

We can safely assume that here at TheProse.com, the majority of us likes poetry. We form a community, a barracks armed with words to protect and propagate our kind. The tighter we band, the more chances of successful skirmishes whether north, south, west or east of Baghdad we have. The internet has given us guerilla warfare, we are already all over the globe from all over the globe and the keyboard is our

As if I wasn't lost enough in my sollipsism, suddenly, the challenge strips me of use of others' personal pronouns. Here I was thinking that with writing I would connect to the world and no longer stand tall as me and myself. Here I was thinking that I could give up the selfish I to eye myself to eye and not let me be, only, for me. Seems not, seems that I is I in this room too and any stirring in the mental melting pot I've pushed towards is just neurons firing right back at me.

But, at least, I have me, for myself, when my two arms hug me. And I have me, for myself, to smirk with when I look in the mirror. And I have me, for myself, in silence to understand my I mine unconditionally.

And that's enough to break away my doubt, because I think therefore I'm ready, to move forward and share all that is me. And if that little me feels cornered in the midst of my surroundings, then I'm to say that there's me-s all over to be me with.

And there are.

Remember when I played? I did, and took out the treasure map from under my bed, confidently placed the chess pieces down as stand-in figures of the adventurers. I hid behind a tree, ran as if I was part of an old-fashioned buggy video game, I looted the sights of the South Downs at dawn, as I huddled for warmth, enveloped all around.

Remember when I learnt? I did, and adapted my actions so that I'm not offensive and backwards, so that I'm always a new person and a child at the same time. A sponge, not of the freeloading type, but a soaker to take in with wild eyed fascination of all the liquids and viscosities, of all the shapes and patterns, of all the abstract and concrete that I could fit in my little nooks and crannies.

Remember when I loved? I did, and gave up myself to the dance of two, sometimes more. I gave and took, I built a house to live in and left much later when I needed my feet to move, wheels to carry me, a boat to feel the breeze in. I laughed as my hand was held; kissed when passion overtook me; cried when hurt was around me in such proximity.

I could never do that just me. And I could never have done that without me. So, here I am, me, I as I, alone but never lonely.

*I wrote this for one of the challenges (to write something both sexy and funny with "I treasure your...") before I realised that I was meant to keep at fifteen words or below. I've posted a condensced version as well.*

I treasure your treasure

Your B-cup measure

Its an all-time leisure,

An anytime activity,

Whether passively

Or really actively

It's like a sun ray

When with them I play

that brightens up my day

Those precious candy lumps

with that big ol rump - ssss

Little fella in a stir just jumps

So I treasure your treasure

Your B-cup measure

The root of my seisure

An all-time leisure

That B-cup measure

I do so treasure, treasure.

I treasure your treasure

Your B-cup measure

The root of my seisure

An all-time leisure

"..." said he

And "..." she responded

'cuz sometimes "..."

is all that's needed

to say.

Three simple words.

We learn them later

Appreciate them much later.

"..." they jinx each other

with a smile

knowing

that dictionaries can't contain

meaning

like they two alone do

For they sleep side by side

and a "..." joins them in slumber

As a vast expanse

of

love and awkwardness,

jokes, compliments, agreement

and disapproval.

Of dreams.

Only they speak

the language of everything

the language that

includes

"..."

Three simple words.