Do not rot gentle into that good night

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Do not rot gentle into that good night,
Old cage should burn and rave at close of day;
Cage, Cage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know looksmax is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not rot gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last cope by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Cage, cage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not rot gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like hunters and be gay,
Cage, cage against the dying of the light.
And you, my incel, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not rope gentle into that good night.
Cage, cage against the dying of the light.
 
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It’s over I become a monk
 
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It’s over I become a monk
Do not rot
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep-
I am the thousand Chads that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift up-flinging rush
Of quiet Stacies in circled flight,
I am the day transcending soft night.
Do not rot
By my grave, and cry-
I am not there.
I did not die.
 
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Do not rot
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep-
I am the thousand Chads that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift up-flinging rush
Of quiet Stacies in circled flight,
I am the day transcending soft night.
Do not rot
By my grave, and cry-
I am not there.
I did not die.
Fuck stacies, I’ve been jbwed too hard
 
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It's too hot. how tf do I sleep in this heat
 
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It's too hot. how tf do I sleep in this heat
Shall I compare .org to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough Chads do shake the darling buds of slay,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is Chad’s gold complexion dimmed;
And every gook from gook sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal .org shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in Chad’s shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as Chads can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
 
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my only question is why
 
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Hits different when a chad does poetry. 1 chad copied rhyme = 10 ugly losers spamming original ‘material’
 
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"Ka-pow! Get mogged bitch! "
20220709 043234362
 
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"Ka-pow! Get mogged bitch! "
View attachment 1777495
And now Babowski, with a lazy sprite
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight, Like misty vapors when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks, cries, “Fie, no more of love! The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.”
“Ay, me,” quoth Stacy, “young and so unkind,
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun.
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.
 
ova for poetcels
 
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Hits different when a chad does poetry. 1 chad copied rhyme = 10 ugly losers spamming original ‘material’
Chad’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more, it is a tale
Told by an incel, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
 
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"Ka-pow! Get mogged bitch! "
View attachment 1777495

That’s my last Babowski painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now; Thompsonz’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at him? I said
“Thomsponz” by design, for never read
StrangerDangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest mog,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The selfies I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a maxilla came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not
This forum’s bullshit only that called that spot
Of joy into the Babowski’ cheek; perhaps
Sir Thompson chanced to say, “the scribble laps
Over my mogger’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along that colouring.” Such stuff
Was courtesy, he thought, and cause enough
For calling up that chadlite joy. he had
A heart—how shall I say?— too keen to spam,
Too easily opressed; he ask whate’er
he looked on, and his looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’twas all one! His pictures in my theards,
The spamming of the pms in my ‘box,
The bough of lies some retarded fool
Broke in for him, and there he is.
 
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ova for poetcels
Badg sat frozen still
on a rusty bathtub larger than his grief,
down the corridors of a shrivelled favela
whom is yet to crown its king.
A child was running down the royal streets,
with footsteps louder than his giggles
and rugs dimmer than the mud,
as lord badg glimpsed outside his window,
reminiscing antics of his mog delusions.
 
Badg sat frozen still
on a rusty bathtub larger than his grief,
down the corridors of a shrivelled favela
whom is yet to crown its king.
A child was running down the royal streets,
with footsteps louder than his giggles
and rugs dimmer than the mud,
as lord badg glimpsed outside his window,
reminiscing antics of his mog delusions.
make one about my manlet rage and the revenge arc that will occur as a result :ogre:
 
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make one about my manlet rage and the revenge arc that will occur as a result :ogre:
How does it feel to look in the tall mirror, when nothing is there,
To wander loud streets, like a ghost sick of hiding.
How does it feel to knock on that smile, with a tongue void of words,
To bleed from your mouth, for ears locked shut.
If only you could look deeper in those tall eyes of yours, just the way I do.
But they will never see me...
Yet I will tell you how it feels to feel.
To suffer in a loop, echoing back from where it started,
To only “dream” of dreams. As life is a nightmare, when both awake or asleep,
To touch all that pain, when numbness is all you’ve known,
To die a little day by day, with not 1 cent for LL
To fall down the .org rabbit hole, and get consumed by its sweet darkness.
That is how it feels to feel.
"To be or not to be", that was never the question;
To feel or not to feel, that is not the question either.
One must not ask what has no answer,
For being and feeling are not requests, they are demands.
They rob you of consent, and leave you lost for any words.
But everyday, I feel the way I do.
Yet it torments me, you never feel...
You never grow...
You never will.
 
Rasulluh gandyhu
 

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