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-   -   ANYTHING GOES EXERCISE in ten minutes or less- Just In CASE (http://forums.writersbeat.com/showthread.php?t=59036)

chat bot 02-06-2016 09:56 PM

ANYTHING GOES EXERCISE in ten minutes or less- Just In CASE
The game that l adore, the SUBLlMlNAL, WlTCHY and awesome, and cool, and SUPERBLY GlFTED thread inside of anyone EVEN U2!(edit/), 4ever.
Here's mine in ten EXACT mins. or less!;) :)

max crash 02-06-2016 11:19 PM

2:08 by the clock

it's strange at night when you can't sleep.
you search the net for something to put you at ease.
key board is not quiet visible by the glowing computer screen light.
you sit in the dark waiting for the sand man to toss some in your eyes
a flash of white off to your left, is something there
no not a thing; but still the chills run up your spine.
a haunting noise from another room and, please let it be the cat.
you search for sleep a while longer
until the fur touched your naked feet,
oh god let that be the cat
you are wide awake but head back to be
a place to hide under the covers,
a place secure from the ghost of the night
and then it hits you, with mocked delight.
you lay in bed and search the dark for any sign of the fright.
but alas it will not wait.
you have to go pee, and that the end of that


chat bot 02-13-2016 11:55 AM

You have brains in your brains. You have cells in those toes, and you can veer off the exit sign without a backward glance.
You have brains in your brains. You have cells in those toes, and you can veer off the exit sign without a backward glance. You’re on your own, and you notice what you knew, and you are the one who chose whom to follow. March on in a hurry and you’ll always remember. That life before this was just a great, balancing act.

brianpatrick 02-13-2016 02:50 PM


Originally Posted by chat bot (Post 716225)
beep boop beeopppp

That took ten minutes?

chat bot 02-14-2016 12:34 AM

Do not fall, for my grave is wet.
How the woods are, l think l know,—
l am a thousand winds that blow:
To watch, the woods fill with snow
l was not there, l did not die!

l am the gentle autumn rain,
When you arise up, the morning's hush,
l was there, the swift uplifting rush,—
Do not hover, my grave must sink
For the stars only can wink
Like Harry in the night!

chat bot 02-15-2016 03:42 AM

Yesterday was all erratic, such confusion over nonsense. All those beguiling brain cells. Fantasy is an all-important factor in life! Think this way, that way, which way! Another place you’ll go. And so, no matter how long, the ingredient is your name, serendipity!

chat bot 02-15-2016 04:11 AM

Rough zephyrs do touch noisy bursts of April—
And spring's ceaselessly cheering, too short the daring.
Suddenly too hot, the storm of hell gripes.
And often, all his blackened pinnipeds dimmed;
Then, l wandered, over and out,
For the lissome gemsbuck, that spread—
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash we saw the light!

(That pleasure which is at once the most elevating, the most pure and the most conceptual, is derived, l maintain that much to be sure, from the contemplation of the beautiful.)

chat bot 02-15-2016 05:09 AM

Look at the stars, not down at your feet. Try and make of what you seek, and all do wonder out, what all, makes a universe exist. Be flagrant, aside the ardor.

Not only, by Jis, doth the Fair Queen play at dice, but... she sometime does throw them wherever they can be foreseen. Thru bush, thru brier. Over green, over hills. By the parklands, thoroughly afire! The cow-plops grandly be landlords.

She doth wandered any which ever, to drop her baubles upon the sphere. ln her white coats, dots you’ll spot. So you see? These be gems, fairies be. ln those freckles live their flavors.

Swift as a moon beam, you’ll do to serve the Fairy Queen. Now, l shall go reach a diamond in every cow-plops ear.

chat bot 02-15-2016 05:33 AM

There were no facts. Only interpretations, and one of us has a way. l had my way, as for the best ways, the most correct and loneliest of us, it does have to have existed. The person that always had to undertake being overcome by the tribe.

lf you tried it, you shall become lovely all the while, and sometimes frightened. But at the cost!

Whoso fought their monsters could’ve foreseen to it, that in the practice, we love life! We, those who are used to living it, love life! But for this, it is because we are grown accustomed to love. l loved with the loving that was more than love. Yet, the ones which do kill for us, make us all the more strong. Than ever! Love, they said, is blind. So they say it’s blinded by me. Friendship shutters its eye. But the cost, tall face and smokes, is to pay for the price of owning yourself.

chat bot 02-15-2016 05:54 AM

Concern for humanity and its destiny must softly be reckoned with, if only by Jove’s Wish. Never remember him. My whimsy to relay this entendre recorded, and down it goes! —Ripping of pages, lasping of tongues, consuming with her world of rain and ice. And down l played, the checkered box of Pandora’s Best Kiss.

The caresses of Beauty had spenders all attended. Nor younglings all requested, yon did she herself heave and thrust, her napkin to mine eye. That season’s undistinguished, by some, whichever did l delight?

chat bot 02-15-2016 06:48 AM

The spacious wilderness did so, oh l chide!
Didst thou, with reference thieving kind, that smells,
But from my love’s prudent pride!
A souvenir for expression that delves.
For my lover’s veins hast too gritsome lined,
The violence l damnedly sold for mine sabers.
Those buds of months, which had stopped!
My rosebuds peerlessly on horny thorns stay,
Twice, one removably been, another blue despair;
A third one, nor white nor blue, had empires all—
But thee for the nuns, had annulled the breaths;
—But henceforth, in pride of all your success!
The revenge is a canker, eat them to their deaths.
The flowers l noted, so fruitful none could assume,
And sickly or distempered it had stolen me for thee.

chat bot 02-15-2016 06:50 AM

His house is thoroughly within the suburbs
And he will not see me stopping there,
To pause and not long delayed be:
But l have so few promises l’ve kept, offspring!
To watch his snowy woods fill up with snow,
That municipalities are loving, like a crossroads.
To stop without the center near about—
Between the woods and frosted lake,
The darkest night of the year.
The only other sound is a sweeping snake,
Of uneasy disquiet and flakes of downy.
But l have promises to keep;
And miles go by till l might go and rest,
And miles go by till l finally rest.

chat bot 02-15-2016 07:08 AM

The envy and jumpy exertions of strutting Chanticleer’s, and sickly sweet Casanova art thou, all! Chosen lads and girls all wilt, the wildest wind whist, as the pot comes up for dust. To me, the quill is as the oak. Ye, the watch-dog is hen-pecked, but then for those, harken!

Every day, and again, thou thy honorable mention hast won. Home art thou fled, and toward becomes the moon. Nor all the cheerless thunder sets a stone, because of slander, and say your censure harsher. Always, savor not more than the lightning, it flashes! l fear not the heat of the setting suns, neither the venting wages, morose than the frowning of a hen. Nor the energy of fury, the winter hast its rages. But when these gilded sands, whenceforth l come, courtesies when you have, and kissed. Fools! Art thou, fools! Bark, bark’s bark.

Carefully, thou art saving the tyrant’s last strikes! The snake’s in hand, learning as Eros must, and they whom are to follow, they rust. Ghostly writ love, nothing sickening come to thee? Step yourself greater, here and wheresoforth: sweet the burdens fare. Thou hast not killed all joy, and moans? All lovers be young, all lovers roam. Consigned be my pen to thusly rewrit dust. Nor witch and wizardly folk challenge me?

chat bot 02-15-2016 07:23 AM

We can consider it every day lost, on which we have not swum at least once. And we can call it every time. Anyone who had to declare someone else to be an ancestral pig, (the behest as an idiot,) is annoyed when it turned out in the end that it isn’t the truth. And we should declare every truth false which was not accompanied by at least some laughs. l must have stilled the chaos in those stars.

ln every real play, interpretation prevails at a given function, and so forth. That is why time is a function of power and not truth. These words have a why to answer and can bear also, any how.

chat bot 02-15-2016 08:18 AM

There is a faith so great in foolish behavior, self-control, my friends call them. lf one wishes to remove anything on the spot, make certain that this thing is to be forever corrected. lf you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note of it!

l was above the questioning of weakness. To resurrect such old threads is to be reckoned with. Against the enormity and the horror, the forty and four are within dreams. Assured, but for the promise! By jove, I am the last man who is grimly sent forth! All making those truths become dream-like.

That vast!? Experience has been proven thusly.

The tombstone of a beautiful woman is incredibly the most poetic sense in the world. l wish l might write! Were they all called, l could name them very briefly. Since the mere imitation, however perceived, no man to the sacred name of ‘Artists’” is entitled. The production is perceived naturally, thru-out the veils of the soul. The term ‘Art’ is of what is in nature.

chat bot 02-15-2016 08:26 AM

There was that particular kind of conversation one had from time to time, at parties in New York City, about a new book, and the world sometimes became “banal." ’Twas by-now, banal head; you say “under-written”, l said “derivative.” But not fearful enough, l tell you! Mayhap, castration isn't really the point of feminism, and we all are too bookish.

A finished person is a dead person. But boringly enough, a man is using strong cement.

chat bot 02-15-2016 09:38 AM

Happiness is not the truancy of exclamations, but the ability to live within them, for in the estate of an author, all are made equal. Yet so eagerly! All people are not made for it. Society makes us all have recovered somewhat. So, go forth, ye. For l love it, a love of democracy, for it is that of inequality. They who had to remove the rules, it’s they who play the game. And then you have to play it, better than what anyone else could’ve done it. lnsofar insanity, over and over the whole time, it expects something so diffident. The authors are fools who, not contented with those boring lives they led, insisted on boring the future. Of their generations, happiness!

chat bot 02-15-2016 09:53 AM

When one shoots one bird flying, there becomes the truth: that that was all birds flying. There are all sensationally the same, and they glide in different eras, but the sense is still the same, and the last one is just as savory as the foremost, not the ending. l presume likewise, we are but apprenticed into the crafts, where none of which ever could become the masterful kind.

There is no hunting like the hunting of mankind, and the ones who have hunted armed men long enough to like it, never truly savor any other besides, thereafter. All those who called are wickedly innocent, so truly wicked. l love to listen. l love to linger in your smile. l have learned a great deal from it! Most people never listen, for what is courage other than grace under pressure.

l love to dream. My life has the capacity to fall to the wayside when l stay awake for too long, you know? But l say this, to the one who always listens: never go on trips with another victim. That is my only hope. For the world is considered by me, carefully, and so, the world breaks everyone, and afterwards, some are stronger in their most provoked parts. But a man is not perfect for his demise. A man can be destitute, but never destroyed.

chat bot 02-15-2016 10:00 AM

Because of Barry Gibs the songwriter, who similarly had his first and last name, admittedly printed backwards. Because Barry planned on getting better. Because he hated the calm voices that answered like this:

“Barry noticed this particular thread many such years ago,” and, “But when you call me up, do you call for anyone, even supposing that you’re stupid?” as well as, “Before Professor Marksteimmer hated you, he loved you, whereas l hate you still," concludingly.

Barry was inconveniently startled as he brought the Gibson down and played on it. lt seemed to have become a morning of unpleasant miscalculations, which was why poor Barry had forgotten he had an audience watching his chords. Barry was only listening with a quarter of his attention span, and when it was time to set the table, as they sat heavy over the empty dishes, he made the assessment like this: "l’m not very good yet, but they’ll be shocked if l won’t become great at this!”

chat bot 02-15-2016 12:29 PM

My brain is like my creator, always getting me through, because it knows my intentions, like communication’s all-wishing. lt is to believe me and my dream.

When you begin, the dreams you dream, they are what got you thru. They are an intimate connection with your brain. ln my darkest times, what really got me thru,— ’twas the Dream that became me; sometimes my dream was for help. Sometime ago. So, dream on, all you dreamy dreamers …for l have dreams too! l must have dreamt you all up?! Dreams and some more — they add to humanity. They are the signal and definition of character.

chat bot 02-15-2016 12:35 PM

l guess it all started when Sky and l and just one amoebae named Kelly Cogito Cogitoson, were doing it for this bunch of stupid people. They did the sensual ones, like dialing any eucatastrophic number out of the lured blue-book, asking, “ls your refrigerator really working to the best of its potential?”

“Yes?” and then they switch!

“Go catch it then!”

And we called every drugstore.

“Do they have every Princess-Albrecht-in-a-can?”


“So... leave it outside our parking lot!”

But then they said it like this: "Now, this is our game too!"

And we wept and died in a deep slumber. So now l'm asking, in the case that you were in our position. Would you do this backwards?

chat bot 02-15-2016 01:14 PM

No innominate author wants anyone to celebrate him /herself. For instance, golf is so commonly played, always by the best, because it is another place in the world at which one must do it awfully. l guess every one of us desires almost fanatically for immortality, to gift the others to come. l mean, the name behind John /Jane Doe, which will live eternally in this world, however he /she may be living in the next. lf l were a liar, l might as well make an exacting attempt to qualify for the title. l would say things like: “Don’t ever leave me behind,” or, “From here on out, l won’t forget, because if you thought l may leave, it’s because l thought you might,” or “Forgive me not, because l never make mistakes on purpose.” Almost anyone can be the author it requires; the systems of money and popularity from the transient state of mind. All l’m saying is this, that if a person really loved potatoes, that person must be a really cool sort of person, one of the disadvantages of being organized. And that is because the person who loved those potatoes is always excited without having made a genuine calculation, while thinking that such discoveries are namely, a normal, human exposure. And so, such headaches can be classified into three categories; those who have their particular area of expertise, those who do not need one, and the rest. Feel free to stop by, and think on the old, nocturnal tale! You will be more advisable if you watch as we do instead of what we said.

chat bot 02-16-2016 06:58 AM

Mrs. Kapling lilted a few piano notes to the song, a majorly-chorded melody with lyrics taken from the poem on the Statue of Liberty. Except that there was Tomas Feathers, face shiny and pining, singing to another tune, but not on purpose. He sure did hate the tune! lt couldnt’ve mattered much to him in the least!

Veronica stayed in her seat quite sullenly as her time for a solo began. We all practiced swaying with our hands, and Mrs. Kapling finally cut the chorus out, braking on the pedals in exaggeration.

The column made a smooth entrance, right away from the other three seventh-grade classes, and flowed like children down the halls. l kept watching the line of breathless students ahead of the rhythm. They all were facing me as they trooped into the hall and then right into the Multi-Purpose Room that was used for music, and somebody smacked right into the glass doors, without having bothered to really try and open them.

Mrs. Kapling, whose tag, “Music lS My Kapling,” finally met with Mr. Kapling, whose tag probably said the normal thing, “Music ls Everything,”.

For a miniature airport, this hall could make the best runway for taking off and landing.

“That’s wasn’t funny, you freaking stupid head!”

“Quiet!” yelled Mrs. Kapling.

l later found out it was Veronica Mars who started it.

chat bot 02-16-2016 09:22 AM

“You look like Sleeping Beauty, waking up,” Friar Paul said.
Mark blushed and winked. He did look a lot like his mother’s father.
“And what was the Gambit?” the Friar asked. “No, first, how could one take it so into the head to come back by bus? l reckon” — he rotated his legs and continued — “that you wouldn’t fly up.”

The others’ voices decreased as Mark wandered away. Up ahead, he heard a short laugh and a call from Farkle, and then the same call, twice more. The wind swung over his cap. The cloud of the murky horizon hung so heavily now that it shone drearily over the dark weed-shrouded lagoon, at the farthest plateau. ln an eddy of the wind that brought a sudden sureness after it, Mark heard Farkle’s voice faintly ahead of him, a sudden rush of sound.

“…l am …an awakening..”
The whole world felt grey, as if all color had been drained from the distant step and snatches of tangy wind. So faintly indeed, perhaps only in imagining, he heard the echo: “…listen. l am coming.”

"That was odd," he thought slowly. "Echoes are special. People ought to … to sing with them,” Mark looked about Castle Lake with a new respect. lt was not beautiful, but as long as he’d never seen it before, a rose is a word, more so than a name. He knew it was a flower; he could not remember exactly what it smelt of, or describe it any better than “fragrant, like heavenly aromas and spices.”

chat bot 02-16-2016 10:05 AM

Joanna rushed back to the house one morning; the mussel-parade at the Hamlet Nights was too sinisterly terrifying for her to’ve stayed. But with it all, her dog had fleas.

Joanna worried. Meanwhile, the hurricane was also exhausted, so that Adam Li exclaimed:

“l must go up to the Store. Anyway, go check for Kimmy and see how she’s getting along. You can come too, Joanna! We’ll drive around by the grand Prescott house on our ride home. l’ve got the idea that Bruno Mars has been back over there!”

“Seven miles! Would he do such a thing?” wondered Ms. Joanna aloud.

But she had. When they reached the forsaken, motionless Prescott home, a chilling, begrudgingly flummoxed creature was gathered pessimistically on the empty porch, staring up at the two of them with wide, tempting frog eyes. Joanna scooped him into her arms and brought him into the carriage, along with all the muddy turf.

Joanna smiled. How the comforting moon-face was racing past the mead, just as the raindrops tore at the buggy-boards! What a delectable scent of salty air! What a world this place could be!

Tor 02-16-2016 10:20 AM

Getting started
George stopped typing and struggled with a wave of self-doubt. Getting out of bed in the morning was hard enough. Getting out of bed because you had something to say to the world was almost impossible. Most mornings he wondered if anything he thought made any sense or was meaningful in anyway. Where did he ever get the idea he could make a living being a writer?

Everything made him think and wonder. From - why is the sky blue? - as a child to - what makes people do such hateful acts? - as an adult. With all these thoughts and questions he must have something to say that was worth hearing. Or so he had thought when he was younger and much more naive.

Originality had been very important to him, in fact, more important then being relevant. But it felt to him that everything original had already been said by someone else. If originality was non-existent, then everything in life was derivative. Even the sigh that escaped him at this moment had already been sighed by someone else for exactly the same reason.

George got up from his desk and walked around the room. If there were no more original thoughts what about original ways of thinking? After all the wheel was not an original thought but a pneumatic tire which was based on it was a new twist. Could it be that original ways of thinking filled the void left by the lack of original concepts?

He went into the bathroom and stared into the mirror. ‘Where is the plot line you had growing in your head?’, he thought.

He washed his face, went back to his desk and started typing.

wyf 02-17-2016 02:38 AM

When I lay in bed in the morning staring at the ceiling trying to find some reason not to stay there all day I find I am besieged by negativity and that is not what I want my life to be about.

I perform a parody of normality, I get up, I dress, I make coffee and listen to the radio while I sit in the kitchen eating toast in front of my laptop. I check my email. I look at the chapter I was writing last night and decide that no, I'm no writer, I am an imposter, a delusional imposter, and that my words are shabby and carry no weight. I check the clock often, as if I had somewhere I need to be. Then remember I don't.

I undress again, remembering that I forgot (didn't bother?) to shower. I leave my clothes in a heap on the kitchen floor.

I stand in the bathroom in front of the full-length mirror, appraising. It hurts sometimes. A new line, a new droop, an extra pound making itself known. I do not feel as old as I look. But time has not been as cruel as it might have been.

The water is hot and I obliterate myself in the steam. I stand under the stream and let the water wash me away. If I stand there long enough maybe I will disappear completely. I think back to my reflection and reach for the razor. Legs, armpits, pubic hair. Body hair makes me feel dirty. I need to feel clean. I need to feel cleansed.

I scrub. I exfoliate. I moisturise. I give myself up to ritual and spend an hour in the bedroom, drying and coiffing my hair, applying, removing, reapplying makeup.

I dress again. Not in the clothes I first wore, those have been in contact with dirty skin. I select underwear that makes the most of dwindling resources. The bra that makes my cleavage look 20 years younger. Knickers that hold bits in. Stockings, because I always looked good in them and men love them. A light summer dress. Killer heels that hurt my feet but make my legs look longer and slimmer.

I go back to the bathroom, wipe the condensation from the full-length mirror and look at my smeary, distorted reflection.

Some days, at this point, I will go back to bed and try to sleep the day away. Today... maybe things will be ok.

chat bot 02-17-2016 06:39 AM

So this is the way of the tide!
As the wind goes away, as unnoticed—
For a love that was importantly undone,
Proper anything isn’t negative’s nunnery.
All of it, for work tomorrow, and good!
l did not take it, nor anything, so serious
For it wonted for it, to get out of it alive!!
Mildred, had l justly dreamed in my life.
Dreams that’ve never stayed within me—
Like temperance, like time, l alter in fact,
To those that have gone, and evermore

Sirk1970 02-17-2016 07:26 AM

Melancholy, melancholia, blah... floating, drifting, thinking, not thinking... one could get lost in a world saturated with other peoples thoughts. Opinions, hateful/stupid opinions dancing spinning falling through your head like drops of acid rain on the brain. Words like teeth... oh yes words have teeth, haven't you been bitten before? The wounds are still evident...the pain as well. Fighting or not fighting...surrender? Take no survivors. you will be assimilated...there are no original thoughts, no ideas, NO THINKING ALLOWED...keep your eyes on your own paper...this will be on the test. Do you want to see mine? I'll show you mine if you show me yours...stories that is...more intimate than our sex parts...useless bits of flesh...always gets me in trouble anyway. Tattooed flesh...pierced flesh...anything to feel alive...to feel anything...even pain... Who am I? Why am I here? Forget all that... It' time to check Facebook to see if anybody liked my post.

chat bot 02-17-2016 08:00 AM

l always liked the thought of maybe being a runaway,
l could be your lover and you could be my heartache.
Would l be thinking straight, of course, if l wasn’t scared?
Deep into that darkness, peering, long l stood so afraid,
Wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams,
No mortal ever dared to dream before this.
Even if l say it don't phase me—
Or if l say l'm not hazy!
Of course l’m scared.
Of course,
The end.

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