Like you know?

Spur my creativity, I quite like my vague.

I once called you all 'rusty little cow humpers'. You all deserved it loooosers from your discount travel agency cruisers! Aw man that one sucked. Minus five points.

Just avoided an existentialist pop-up.

Ok, so the theme of today will be: well i just want to show you guys something i wrote for online English. Quite the poem. Rondeau per its technical name. Anyway, I just knew this had to be on the internet, it will be well used one day.

Author: Phillip Andreev [Poet (who gives, we have a math test tomorrow {don't forget brackets} + premises if you are doing philosophy test on Wednesday) - nothing for you Biology]

Aw man, minus another 10 points.

“The Flag of Fashion”

The Union Jack, like evening tea,

Redressed as fashion as we see,

On the catwalks- walkways, rather,

Colours blend, they boldly gather,

For modern mode by this came free.

Watch the Spice Girls, do agree,

They clothed the United Kingdom to be,

With shoes on platforms- British glamour-

The union Jack.

Not to say there exists one key,

Yet the tricoloured simplicity,

Unlike legally blond – her platter

Served pink and dull: more so the latter,

Is the taste of something British, something ‘tea’,

The Union Jack.

How I Feel: A Story Based on a Perspective of the Author of This Post, and Perhaps What he Thinks About Paris,

namely Phillip, who will describe it in one sentence, because one is with and without, it is all and it is nothing, and can last for as long as the scale calibrated to the nth degree will accomodate, not that it will serve a purpose once the reader, in shock, looses their train of thought, but then with that loses their shock, and notices the spelling error, but notices not the feelings of this author, who quite frankly has feelings - that is at the extent that they show themselves, but even not then- and perhaps while they wish to be concealed, the equally urge to escape, and thus catch themselves as they launch themselves: i throw my anger, catch my guilt, and throw my guilt, and find my weakness, and find every other goddamn accommodation to that weakness, and then i throw that, and find my strength, find my smile, and carry what I can on my shoulders, hold on to the hand that holds me, and then live in a sentence that is one, and when I am a sea of soft waves, I am also the wind of kind scent, and wish to show that scent - I wish to show that scent!- and when I am a fierce wind, or sometimes a quiet, gone wind, and maybe even a wind that wishes to visit Place de la Concorde, visit the obelisk that stands, aged and worn, but with a beauty so refreshing, that the wind itself cannot not sing- carry the birds, tuck in the clouds, and cuddle with its waving subjects, the fields, who long to dance on a day any- and therein notice that I am always the wind, and that I feel like the wind, and I want you to feel like the wind too, and I want to feel like the wind myself, and there I climb to tell you, this, with the meaning subject to a flow of words, rather than a track of words to tell a meaning, I tell you, are my feelings, this; thus.