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 Jan 2012 Jordon Jones
JA Doetsch
Did you know Ninjas have a language
That we can't understand?
While it isn't terribly complicated
it can be tough to comprehend

I happen to be fluent
I've studied for some time
Below I've crafted a poem
using Ninjutsu as my rhyme














































I can only hope you found
my poem to be delighting
there are few things I enjoy
quite more than ninja writing
There's a ninja standing behind you.  You should probably like this. :D
Us
I'm sure you've heard the phrase
Once you're born,  you start dying
But I'd like to clear the haze

Are you born at conception
Or when your head peeks out the womb?
Were you alive, in halves
Before egg met *****?
If this is true
You existed before these cells were made
And if my words are correct
You were once a tiny speck
Of dust on the floor
Or perhaps on the shore
Of an ocean, ever swaying
But maybe your speck
Was once part of the ocean
And part of that ocean
Was once in space
Once a flash of energy
Before matter was made
And the universe's foundation was laid
In stone
Or rather
In foam
So easy to spray
But so easily disappearing
Into thin air
That was once nothing

But if we existed before we thought
Because we used to have no thought
Then it'd only be plausible
That we will exist after we lose thought
But maybe  in two
Maybe we can think for eternity on end
Or maybe I'm a fool
We can only find out
If we take the dive into the pool
Of life's slow compromise

But the sad truth is clear
You and me, dear
We are something
Something, that came out of nothing
But nothing, dear, must have a big belly
If it were to shell out something that's this heavy
But if all we knew
That we're truly nothing
We'd be quite sad
But really, we already are
So let's hold hands
And look to the sea
I'll look at you
And you, at me
We can think ourselves away
Until we find reason to be gay
But we'll have nothing left to say
For our only legacy is what's up there
Upstairs
Hidden in our squishy brains
Where you and me
Can think of eachother
And wonder
Why is it us
That think of this stuff
Maybe it's just better
That the rest of the world has other thoughts on their mind
And they don't mind the bigger stuff
They feel content, just leaving it
To
Us
Out the window
(Speckled glass)
Lives being lived
(I'm sitting on my ***)

On the kitchen clock
(When will I paint these beige walls?)
Time being ticked.
(So it goes, after all)

And even on the street,
That kitchen clock does tick,
Madly, furiously ticking-too fast
As a life quickly fades
(But not mine this time)

We (and I) don't care
'Cause we weren't there
We(I)'ve no idea
How to feel.

One life's a tragedy
Two lives are jaw dropping.
A sports team is urban terror.
Fifty lives, a massacre,
And at one hundred it doesn't matter anymore

Rest in peace,
Dear lives seen
(On speckled glass)
I'm not afraid to die|
           Because humans are bad at counting.
Well this poem certainly grew a lot after finding it in my old notes.
 Sep 2011 Jordon Jones
Dorothy A
I know why Vincent Van Gogh Cut off his own ear

We are a mad bunch, you see
Poets and painters and playwrights
On the prowl for something to
jump start our perpetual yearnings,
our keen senses and cravings,
on the quest for so much more
than the status quo,
of merely checking off just another day
from our calendars

We are those kinds of people
Who wish to reinvent the world
Often cursing at our failings and insecurites
While obsessively working to shape and sculpt
our view of this planet
To fit our own brand of imagination
To satisfy our starving hopes
and desperate dreams
To foster vivid visions
from the views that are vague  
And to wipe away
The nightmares of old
that cry out in us

We believe in make-believe
We who are misfits to "normalcy"
We rarely seem to fit into
The "real world"
Yet we know that this world is
Pure insanity
Stark madness
Sheer perplexion
Yet we are the ones
suffering for the sake
of our art
Often misunderstood
Many times branded as "weirdos"

I can understand the pain
Of not getting my art right
Of not seeing its worth
Because someone sniffed at it
Or scoffed at it
Or blindly passed it by
Many times, we want to break through
And join the world of our works of art
But we can't
We're stuck in the middle of its beauty
And nothingness

Yes
I know why Vincent Van Gogh cut off his own ear
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