I found this old poem my little brother wrote when he was ~15 and I think it’s great.
The Mountain Called Society
~
From the day a future parent
First puts on their ring,
They think of many ways
To make but one thing.
~
And that thing is you,
They start forming a mold
From the very first breath
You are told and told
~
You must do this, and do that,
And get a successful life.
Get smart, and get rich,
And don't cause them strife.
~
Don't worry, it's out of love,
And it's because they care.
But truly they want to see
How their creation will fare
~
On the rugged mountain called society,
With its super steep slope,
While you are young and compliant
And see nothing but hope.
~
And as you get older,
You too want to climb.
And you go up and up,
One small step at a time.
~
But as you go up it gets rough,
The rocks crumble and fall.
You fumble and scratch and claw;
To stay on you give it your all.
~
For this mountain does not have a harness,
You find yourself bruised on the ground.
But you get back up,
You don't find it humiliating or profound.
~
You work your hardest,
And you train every day.
But much like your time,
Your hope, too, fades away.
~
And now your parents
Are upset over you,
But they have a plan
Of what they can do.
~
They rebuild the mold,
And you are back on your way.
You WILL have money,
And success, they say.
~
Now there are many ways
I could go from here,
But I'll pick the one
That parents want to hear.
~
So, after climbing and climbing
And working, you get to the top
Because you worked hard,
Because you did not stop.
~
Now you are there,
You turn to look at the view.
But to your own surprise,
Frowning is all you can do.
~
Now you have it all:
Fame, a space, and a really large pay,
But still you look back
At your life with only dismay.
~
Seems you have fallen prey
To your parents ploy.
You made it to the top,
But you missed out on the joy.
~
Now this is where most
Would talk about having fun.
But while climbing this mountain,
There really is none.
~
In order to have fun,
Pick your own life, they say.
But this large mountain
Will still not go away.
~
And so,
The savage cycle repeats,
For there is only one way;
No breaks and no cheats.
~
Except for your son,
Because he is born with money
Off of your life's work,
Now isn't that funny?
~
Now your son
Has a home on this small hill,
He laughs at price tags
And the electricity bill.
~
Finally, the top of the mountain
Is flat, and it's swell,
But the funny thing is
It's flat at the bottom as well.
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pansy : draco, oh my god, i heard a rumour that potter has a crush on you!
draco : [chokes on water]
draco : [spits it out]
draco : [dramatically falls to the ground, before standing up]
draco : okay, and? i don't care, what makes you think i do?
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Tarot isn't for everyone; you have to be willing to do some self-reflection.
I read tarot for a fair number of people, both regularly and irregularly. The one criticism I will occasionally get is that the readings aren't specific enough. But here's the thing: tarot can't tell you "break things off with that person," or "buy the thing you saw in the store last Tuesday." I wouldn't recommend you trust someone who does claim they are capable of getting that type of message. True, some readers are more advanced than others and can give you a much better outline of what you can consider, but don't expect tarot or a tarot reader to be the equivalent of a Hollywood psychic.
What tarot does is tells you what you should reflect on and consider in order to get the end result you want or need. It shows you the path you should follow, but it doesn't list all the landmarks along the way.
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Remainder
There is no pattern to your arrival.
You appear silently,
unannounced,
in perfect juxtaposition to the way you left.
Sometimes it is predictable;
I am at my weakest.
Other times it shocks me;
I am happy,
warm and safe in bed.
Circumstance aside,
I close my eyes
and you are there waiting.
Waiting to choke me with lies,
carve me with broken promises,
belittle me with a single look.
Paralyzed;
your presence,
your fake smile,
a sickening sense of obligation.
I am held back.
You don’t even have to touch me
to keep me captive;
the weight in my chest
far too heavy for me to lift.
Again, I fail.
I fail to leave,
as I did for years before.
My mind is its own detriment;
I am nothing,
prisoner to a debt
I have been convinced I owe.
In sleep, I cannot remember the lessons
I have torn myself apart to learn.
I cannot remember I am more than you.
I cannot remember I deserve better.
I cannot remember it is not my fault when you hurt me.
Broken.
Suffocating.
Falling;
not in love,
but apart.
Each crack in my heart
I have plastered over,
painted to present a convincing facade,
reappears.
The fixes I have labored over
are ripped away;
it is once more a mosaic,
a thousand tiny shards instead of one.
Disfigured.
Foreign.
You tear me down.
Sometimes I feel you there,
other times I simply watch
as I repeat the mistake you were.
I scream at the top of my lungs
at the foolish girl I was.
I tell her to run,
I tell her to stop believing in you,
I tell her you’re not beautiful,
I tell her she knows better deep down.
I tell her to save herself.
If she hears, she doesn’t listen.
I shatter.
When I wake, you are gone,
but I am still in pieces.
I feel you heavy in my veins,
rigid muscles and objecting joints
there to remind me of our fictitious exchange.
Perhaps I will reach up slowly,
weakly,
to dry my face.
Perhaps I will simply lie there,
hollow,
the entirety of my being stolen by the ghost of you.
Regardless,
I will wonder for the hundredth time
when this will end,
when I will have peace,
when I will be whole and strong again.
You’re gone,
and I will never want you back.
Yet you remain.
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