2004-10-22 -- 7:18 p.m. Ok… so if you read my diary you would of noticed that my poems and such have become quite… shall I say… corny… as Liz put it “EAT THIS BITCH” well at a certain point yes. However I do not want to sound like a raving loony that can only think of his ex’s. As such I would like you to disregard the last few entries except of the Bush Optimized one, and think of this one as being something a little more thought out rather then pure un-harnessed emotion. This one actually took me two days to think of and write. Also if you’ll notice the very first stanza is from a previous poem. Don’t worry I’m not being stupid or corny. I just really like the way that sounds. And if you catch this poem sounding something like iambic pentameter, that was intentional. Although I most likely failed… that’s ok. I think it sounds good. And does anyone know the Shakespeare word for ‘into’ or to force something onto some one… I have it on the tip of my toung but can’t quite remember it. Thanks. Anton. I have become dead. Death so many days bled, My breath so lasting, So thin, so dead. My friends, Wither, On this winters eve, So many times, Repeat it self, O’er under it self to seem, So merely self sustained. But lass, So withered, Kiss upon my naked chest. Sheave, thy sword, Entered so… beneath my breast, Unblessed my unsacred ward. But how, so simply naked, So unclad, lovely, maenad, Dyad once dreamed, Fall’s underneath a sky lit, Black and broken heart. ‘Tis truly something vivid, More… something more, gaited. And of course unforgotten. Breath thy breathe, Chosen as such by a recluse. Educe to think of me by such simple means. Means unknown even to such a recluse. Nevertheless, think. Simply you cannot forget.