The Quick Brown Fox...An aimlessly arrogant beast beseeches her breath's chilled calming continuance. Deep down, drearily, it's the epitome of every entity's frustration. Finding a false glimpse of genuine good, he hated heartily. Is it infantile or just a jaded juxtaposition kneading, kicking, and killing lives? Longing listlessly, mountains maintained in their memories. Nested, but notably new, over outward oneness, perched a precocious peril. Quickly, quietly, and querkenly rose the ravenous, rancorous serpent, slithering silently through thick taint unchangeable and uncaring. Ubiquitous vendettas veered her verily winding her on a wayward walk-about. Her xenomancy Xeroxed the ylem of her yearning yen, a zendik for zygotes of zombies.
9 year old poetry 004FREE TOPICHmmmm... I think... What do you think about when you are not thinking? I think about these things a lot. Have you ever tried to not think at all? When you space out and have no thoughts, then you realize that you aren't thinking, which is a thought, and that screws it all up. I don't think there is a known way not to think and be aware of yourself not thinking. If you were aware then your mind would think about it, thus resulting in the end of your blank state of mind. I plan on inventing a machine that monitors these frozen moments of your mind. I'll name it the Not-Thinking-Thing-O-Matic-Reader-Device, or Beatrice II. (3/20/2001)
9 year old poetry 003FREE TOPICDeep red, liquidy stuff runs, runs through my veins. Deep inside me, this stuff just circulates and swirls around like an ocean's current. It flows all through me. It carries oxygen to my many parts. It replenishes my organs and carries nutrients. When I get cut, this stuff runs. It runs out slowly and pour seemingly never ending. Eventually it clots up and seals. It has no more detour and is back on a normal course, rushing through my blue tubed highways. (03/14/2001)
9 year old poetry 002"A Square Root of Poetry"The square root of poetry is a single, solitary thought. A moment's worth of an idea which can be multiplied into a grandeur of sporadic emotions that burst off the paper like sun spot explosions. Any idea can erupt into an array of literary brilliance, or drain off the page in a swirling whirlpool of ink that transports you to another realm of existence. The square root of poetry, all it takes, is a single, solitary idea. (03/14/2001)