Peanuts.

Pappy, the pansy. A peanut was he,
Always hung by his paletot, long as can be.
With a palaceous head he'd prance around town,
In his peanut palanquin, so safe and so sound.

Pappy, a peanut so happy was he,
People made him pallid, so shy and so meek.
Yet Pappy did palaver, with near and dear,
But with 'em outside folk, he'd be the master at palter.

Pappy never popped out of his peanut palace,
Lest should he trip o'er his morals or got little callous.
For no panglossian was our little Pappy,
Pappy pessimist peanut was he.

Yet Pappy wore a smile for every other nut,
And every other nut just called him a nut.
Pappy pranced around town, his own town,
A paradisaical world in which he'd grown.

Pappy the peanut grew paralogisic,
As Pappy began to ponder o'er much more than he bit.
Pappy pillaged his mind full of pilfered thought,
Rarely were they paregoric, more painful than not.

So Pappy the peanut, would just pandiculate each night,
Pop the plethora of pyknic thoughts with spite,
Sleep, his panacea, put him in pride opulent,
As a might platoon, pyrrhic o'er their opponents.

Pappy, the pansy. Still a peanut is he,

Still clutching his paletot, forever with glee.

The 2-D limit

Of words on paper, a life in the pages,
A book, outside it all; its shell, bustling.
Beneath, a world so flat, wages,
The life, in all it's flat splendor rages.
So free, yet confined,
So opinionated, yet submissive,
Multi-dimensional, yet living in just two.


When you start spending too much time with books, you know it. You just get to know it. How, you ask? When your jokes start to sound like a physicist on drugs, you know you're in way too deep. Broadly classifying people from this perspective, we can define the distinction of the clique that DO things, and then there are those who DO books. Yes, i hate books. Books. In all their "knowledge" and "views", somehow bring about a whole new idea of an end. Of being limited while promising the limitless. Nah, i don't hate books. Books are just a means to distract us from OUR life, OUR problems. No better than RGV movies screening in halls are a cheap excuse for sly couples making-out in the dark corners. No, books are not bad. Their idea though, is a whole different issue! I just don't enjoy the concept of there being an end to something so boundless. Putting a period on the world that the last 400 odd pages bulit.

If an escape is the search, O' voracious one,
Why, does one lead to the other,
Forever in look, words come, pages go,
Yet elude doth, still looking are you?

Books can make you laugh, cry, sick, and lost. Books evoke, you fuel. What more solace can 400 odd pages offer you that you cannot yourself? What excitement or entertainment can those words provide that watching a fat kid fall off a sofa cannot? Bah.. I hate books, i really do. They are long, boring, have too many words, big words, and more often than not, they END. Those two words that ever evoke more emotion than any of the other 10 thousand in the book, THE END. Everything you were in the last dozen hours snaps, as you face that ugly bunch of homework/office-work that was slyly tucked away behind the puppy-eyed jacket that you hold. A book is not your escape, you are. It's what you percieve. Perception is your escape. One man's bore is what another adores.

Spill forth the lines, break the confines,
Beyond any end, limits that never expend.
Burst forth from the page, life's firey rage,
This, friend; is your creation,
... devoid of an end and it's stagnation.

I just hate books, sorry.