Dillon+R

Nothing but Death by Pablo Neruda

There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.

I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread.

Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

This poem is just all about death. This poem represents all the dark bad things about death, it represents all the dark things in life. This poem shows about life, but its talking about the death in life.

Believing in Iron by [|Yusef Komunyakaa]

The hills my brothers & I created Never balanced, & it took years To discover how the world worked. We could look at a tree of blackbirds & tell you how many were there, But with the scrap dealer Our math was always off. Weeks of lifting & grunting Never added up to much, But we couldn't stop Believing in iron. Abandoned trucks & cars Were held to the ground By thick, nostalgic fingers of vines Strong as a dozen sharecroppers. We'd return with our wheelbarrow Groaning under a new load, Yet tiger lilies lived better In their languid, August domain. Among paper & Coke bottles Foundry smoke erased sunsets, & we couldn't believe iron Left men bent so close to the earth As if the ore under their breath Weighed down the gray sky. Sometimes I dreamt how our hills Washed into a sea of metal, How it all became an anchor For a warship or bomber Out over trees with blooms Too red to look at

Safe Sex by Donald Hall

If he and she do not know each other, and feel confident they will not meet again; if he avoids affectionate words; if she has grown insensible skin under skin; if they desire only the tribute of another’s cry; if they employ each other as revenge on old lovers or families of entitlement and steel— then there will be no betrayals, no letters returned unread, no frenzy, no hurled words of permanent humiliation, no trembling days, no vomit at midnight, no repeated apparition of a body floating face-down at the pond’s edge.

Mom? Dad? I’m no longer the boy you’ve used to seeing I’ve changed a lot, plus I’ve grown to hate every human being My mood swings have now turned my dreams into gruesome scenes Now I’m doing things I don’t normally do When illusions seem to be the only pleasures I can gain Heck, if I was sane I’d put down the mic and say man I’ll never rise to fame But with the wicked records I contain, I could probably jeopardize your name No lovey-dovey let’s ignite the flame if you’re lucky you survive the pain Sorry that ain’t very merry to say, why is this game so scary to play?

Hopsin is saying in this song that from his child hood he has change alot. He has became insane because of all the things that has happend. He obviously enjoys dirty violent things based on this part of the song, he seems to have some kind of problems with his head, thats why i enjoy this song because its violent.

What Have I Become?
I am, Dillon Ruediger I am, Psychotic, and evil I wonder what runs through people’s minds I see gruesome, evil things that aren’t normal I hear the loud screaming noises in my head I want to be a leader and destroy everything that doesn’t obey me.

I am Dillon Ruediger I say things that people are frightened from I pretend to be normal but I don’t successed I feel sorry for people that step in my path I worry for all the people that hate on me I cry of joy when people are dying in pain.

I am Dillon Ruediger I understand I have problems I dream that my problems go away I try ohh so hard, but always fail myself I hope one day I can say that I am living sane. I am Dillon Ruediger