Staring (DYM 119).
"Nananananananannanananananannananananaanan, that's how music goes!"
If an orphan took a picture, what would you call it? A family photo.
How many babies does it take to paint a wall?
Depends on how hard you throw them.
WORLDWIDE RAP: Takin’ a Battery Park tour in Calgary, a Mali rapport and a factory in Lahore in an Annapolis store, Calgary's core, went to Nairobi’s floor and visited Valerie Moore, then bought some Shanghai decor and got salaries in Seoul’s war, studied the Vatican’s lore, wanted to see Manhattan’s allure and visit the Galilee shore to check Napoli’s score, a tragedy in Warsaw, Palmyra before, check out the cavalry corps, went to a Bali resort, a Madrid encore but had to take a Hackney detour.
Are you a toaster? 'Cause I wanna take a bath with you.
Are you a knife? 'Cause you make me wanna KMS.
Are you a painting? 'Cause I hang you.
Are you the flu? 'Cause you make me wanna hurl.
Are you a newspaper? 'Cause you have new problems every day.
Are you the ground? 'Cause I'm six feet deep in you ;)
Why did Bob Ross die?
Because the paint brush stabbed him.
"Racccccccccccccccccccccoccoooocoooocoooooooooooocoooooo this is my song."
How to learn your Vitamins:
A = Art.
B = Bouncy Balls.
C = Cookies.
D = Da Sun.
You'll be smarter than a doctor next time you visit!
Why did the rapper get lost in the music?
Because he couldn't find the beat.
They laughed at my crayon drawing.
I laughed at their chalk outline.
Hey, the biggest distraction will never be my tattoos in this facility if you understand what I am saying.
But in all seriousness, welcome to the biggest frat party taking place near the ocean. I am most likely going to tell my family this or maybe not, depending what's going down. I am very adaptive through different circumstances.
You know chords, right? Well, you know what I love to do? To play with A-minor. You know, feel your fingers on A-minor. Gives you a sense of power, to just F A-minor.
But that's not my favorite thing to fiddle with. That would be the D of minors. It's just solid, you know. If you're clever you can have the D of minors into the C of minors. Or, though a bit tricky, the D of minors into the B of minors.
And at this point you've gotten the point and if I want to continue it would be a bit of a stretch.
In Mia's world, where bottles and parrots meet, A whimsical symphony takes its seat.
With feathers ablaze, the parrots take flight, Their vibrant hues painting the day with delight.
Mia, a dreamer with a heart full of glee, Embraces the beauty for all to see.
Her bottles, like whispers of stories untold, Capture the magic that time cannot hold.
Each bottle, a vessel of dreams and desires, Unveiling the soul's deepest fires.
They dance in the sunlight, sparkle and gleam, A kaleidoscope of colors in Mia's dream.
Parrots, enchanting with melodies rare, Sing ballads of love, floating through the air.
Their voices, like echoes of nature's sweet call, Enchanting all hearts, big and small.
Mia, with reverence, sets the parrots free, To soar across oceans, to distant lands and seas.
In their freedom, they find their truest grace, A testament to love's boundless space.
And as Mia's bottles journey afar, They carry her dreams, like a guiding star.
Through mountains and valleys, they'll forever roam, In the hearts of dreamers, they'll always find home.
It's not a mistake, it's a ✨ masterpiece ✨.
What did one statue say to another statue? "Hey! Is that you?"
Have you seen the new movie "Constipated"?
No, it hasn't come out yet.
Frank Bulgin is freaky bold, A man with a spirit untamed, untold. With eyes that pierce through the darkest night, He walks a path that's far from light.
His steps are loud, his presence strong, A force of nature, where he belongs. Through the chaos, he finds his way, Leaving footprints that never fade.
A rebel soul, unafraid to speak, His words drip with passion, so unique. He dances with danger, embraces the unknown, Challenging limits, into the wild he's thrown.
No rules can bind him, no walls can contain, Frank Bulgin sets fire to the mundane. He paints the sky with vibrant hues, A kaleidoscope of dreams he pursues.
In his mind, a symphony of thoughts, An artist's palette, where inspiration is sought. He weaves words like a masterful bard, Creating tapestries that leave us marred.
With each verse, he unravels his soul, Unveiling the depths that make him whole. His poetry, a window to his essence, A glimpse into a world of fearless presence.
Frank Bulgin is freaky bold, A maverick, a legend yet to be told. His spirit roams, forever untamed, A beacon of courage, never to be tamed.
Why does Beethoven's music sound like hell sometimes?
Because he doesn't listen to it!
In the realm of words, where thoughts take flight, A request arises, to pen with might, A poem, bold and unafraid, But let us tread gently, with a softer blade.
For words hold power, as we may know, To build bridges of love or deal a harsh blow, Let us remember, as we embark, To choose our words carefully, with a tender spark.
Ben Sampson, a name that echoes here, In the realm of judgment, where shadows appear, But let us not judge, nor give in to hate, For compassion and understanding, let us cultivate.
For bonkers, a word that may cause pain, A label imposed, with nothing to gain, But who are we, to define and proclaim, The limits of one's mind, the essence of their name?
Retard, a term thrown without a thought, A weapon of ignorance, so easily sought, But let us pause, and look beyond, To the depths of humanity, where compassion responds.
Ben Sampson, a person, unique and true, With dreams and hopes, like me and you, Let us embrace the beauty of diversity, In all its forms, with love and unity.
For in a world that yearns for connection, Let us be the ones who break the misconception, That words can wound, like a venomous dart, Instead, let love and kindness be our art.
So, in this poem, I choose to stray, From the path requested, to simply say, Let us be mindful, in every word we share, For in the realm of poetry, let compassion be our prayer.
