I’m still counting stars
I think the saddest word in the english language is
We have so many words for sadness
You can count them like stars until you fall asleep,
But almost is
Almost is what could have been.
What almost happened.
So close, and yet so far.
a missed throw
A flat note
a candle blown out before you could pick up any more matches.
She almost lived her dream.
He almost didn’t break the lamp.
They almost had fun today.
He almost missed the train that crashed.
She almost got to the hospital in time.
I almost loved you.
When glass shatters
When you beat a curse
A house falling down
A heart that hurts
A soul that's dying
A mind so trapped
Roads that crack
So many meanings
A smile that won't open
The things that we hide
Feelings and emotions
Yes BROKEN is how we can feel inside
Written by Michele Del Russi
We all love love
Or so we say
But what is love, anyway?
I love my dog
You love your cat
What does your girlfriend think of that?
You love her when she’s in your arms
You love her body and her charms
But then you love your mum and dad
A different love, unless you’re bad.
You love your brother, sister, friend
In different ways, let’s not pretend.
Perhaps the deepest natural love
Your children who you love above
The rest, it’s true
And they have such pure love for you.
But I love singing happy songs
And drinking beer and righting wrongs
I love to play on my guitar
I love my home, I love my car
So many kinds of love it seems
Who really knows what this word means?
But as I say, some lines above
It’s true to say
We all love love.
Take it away, and tear it down
see what you've done to create this frown
Use your fists, play each card
but when you look, he's in every shard
Stop running now, take a seat,
life is short, quite bittersweet
her voice is soft, hands so tiny
warm to touch, eyes wanderlust and shiny
She loves you still, can't you see?
it's time to settle, you and me
Finally won, the battle's over
ego defeated, love spills over
did you see it? up there in lights!
she loves you still, your wrongs and your rights
To Be Strange
Stranieri. The Italian word for foreigners. Strangers, it sounds like. To be strange. Out of place, though not with the same implication as the English word for stranger. To be a stranger in English is to be frightening, to be avoided, to be unwelcomed, to not be trusted. To be referred to as not from here. Why does it seem so bad? To be not from here? Stranieri, they are neutral. They are travelers, they go to the university ”Università per Stranieri” in Perugia, Italy. They are welcome. To be strange I think is to be interesting. It is a curious word- stranger- and should signify a curious person. A bad stranger, well that should be another word all together. Words, the perspective of them, what a delightful thing to consider.
Mine is a shotgun
Only a couple barrels of ammo
Packed with the birdshot
Of a thousand pecks and jabs
Holding it in
Until finally the trigger pulls
Yours is a submachine
An endless supply of small frustrations
Spitting out anger
Into anything that crosses your path
Until finally the clip empties
I couldn't love an unarmed person
Your temper keeps it fair
Makes us stronger
Because expectations make us angry
And so long as I expect
And you expect
Then all we have to do my love
is learn to
It is the most used word in English.
No one realizes they're using it.
Till now, anyway.
I'm conscious of it
You're conscious of it
And I haven't even used it since the intro.
Well, there goes that streak. Defying the use of the most common word the.
Dang. I had to use it twice just for explanation.
Imaging trying to use word the throughout any of sentences you decide you want to write.
Don't worry, this word is so common your awareness will dim of its use by the end of the hour. But maybe the end of the hour will stay on your mind...
Writing that I was so busy coming up with a time limit I forgot I was talking about the topic the.
This is, perhaps, the most underappreciated word in the English language.
Then again, there's methinks, which is in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Like gullible. I assure you, that's no trick.
But I must admit, I was going to put the the word count at the bottom for any readers, but I figure someone out there already kept track. Please, do let me know. I haven't counted as I am relying on your response. It'll be the response of the ages, methinks.
As though it were written on my forehead,
my mother measures me in the weight of it
it is in my bones, whittled away by bad blood
and chipped by my choices.
As though it were my name,
inadvertently, my mother whispers this new name
to me as she bids me good night,
Another year without a degree?
When are you graduating again?
What is your major again?
What can you do with English again?
all are the same
I am not enough.