War is the javelin piercing the troubled heartbeats.

The thorn across the mind that ensnares the spirit.

The body is the war; our bodies are the jungle, humanity frolics through the Jungles of War and Ambition.

Ambition fuels rage, passion, lust, temptation.

Ambition is what created America. Ambition creates everything…

But ambition creates destruction. The same people who built the great settlement designed to ensure this breathing man’s freedom, made the same atomic bomb rendered forth to destroy it all.

Our arms like trees rise and fall with our heartbeats.

Our limbs like trunks root and uproot.

Our heads like the clouds swing thoughts, like the frozen cirrus clouds; cold and warmed by the breathing sun.

Shadowed, or embraced by rain.

Rain slumbers in the midst of this man’s fellow mind.

Is it a flood of passion come forth to tremble the light?

The ear is the metronome of flesh for the sound and caverns; this fellow-man’s skull’s interior is equal to the endless caverns the mind wanders through.

Do we serve as our own phantom? Do we play a haunt unto our own bodies–

Are we ghosts inside our own bodies; Do we possess ourselves?

Or does society string us along?

Do we awaken ourselves into the air of our wanting drives?

In the sunflower fields of light, does this fellow man derive.

The nose is the great pillar of us all; embracing the air we thrive.

My eyes the seeing pedestal unto all this fellow of one and many;

humanity in an overture. The chessboard of fate is right there, in us all;

the body is the war; in where lone politicians or perhaps many of the like, search high and lo for Liberty’s Bell.

My fellow good man, our heartbeats play a host to the very ribcage of Liberty’s cell.

Copyrightcopyright April 18, 2019


The Wrath of Winter





The winter is beginning.

The hour is at hand.

The trembling embrace of the snow.

Like a blanket for this land;

the body is the land. The farmer is in for it–

the worst of winter, for the bitterness abroad is bound to take shelter,

like a wanderer or maybe an adventurer.






…forgotten warmth.

…And there it is again,  the song of the bones in overture, and then–

With every 

swing of the clock’s crimson arm.

Winter becomes bearable; even in the midst of its revenge–

Copyrightcopyright April 17, 2019



The heart, is just one small chest beat away from understanding.

In the mind, the rapture of all things made realized; destiny is in the palm of my hand.

The galaxies are beckoning of being reshaped in the cobwebbed corridors of my very mind-

the cogs turn for the taking, and the rapture of light is made crested by the sound;

of the relentless expansion.

With a stance the ground is cratered by a superhuman’s footing.

With a broken sound barrier through Andromeda my flight pattern turns into a diamond;

Copyrightcopyright April 14, 2019

Destiny’s Pasture


The swinging art of humanity before the throne;

walking in the shadows, hearing in the light–

the rays from the sun uplift the minds to embrace fate.

Fate goes before the heartbeats of one another;

I call thee my brother.

It is here that the air is glided with the shroud of luminance.

Across my skin is the gleaming light of day;

in the beauty of dawn.

The birds uplift a full grown man within the flapping wings of fate;

over yonder we go–

across glided light forming snow.

The soul is a soul, is a soul–

building a bridge ‘cross the shrouded unknown-

the air uplifts into the lungs that we are breathing in–

and the heartbeats form the very overture of every single rhythm believing in.

Copyrightcopyright April 4, 2019

Strengthening a Country


Writers have the ability to take over the world.

All they have to do is write laws that force everyone else to be illiterate.

Writers invented America, kings were taught how to write, even God is a writer; He invented and wrote the Bible. The strength and cosmetic power a pen can hold is undeniable. Barbarians fear the illustrations of dragons scrawled behind on the caves for them, even if they were all imaginary, they fear like everyone else the telegrams sent in letters to us by our future selves

They who write be them male or female invent the race the others must run, but an illiterate country is a warzone inevitable to happen. Which brings us to the second trait that must be known;

Now that we are literate, educated, and are able to write be them male or female, we must also know how to defend ourselves.

Educated, technologically advanced, able to articulate, and can protect themselves from anyone unagreeable as well?

The countries that excel in this will dominate all the other countries, even if the other country is another super power.

Copyrightcopyright March 25, 2019



Hello everybody! It’s been 5 years since today that I made this blog!!!!

Thank you all for your support!

I actually got the idea from my once success coach at Georgia Gwinnett College that I should make a blog and put all my writing on.

Lo and behold that this was the same exact “success coach” that told me after I went to ask her for advice in some classes that my grade weren’t so good in, that if college is seeming too hard for me, that I should just drop out and quit college!

I of course didn’t, but ended up leaving that bad college, and coming here to Strayer University to take up IT.

I’m now a straight A student, ever paper I write is an A, and am doing far much better than ever. The blog remains, so that’s just a little brief funny history behind the creation of Named after one of my stories 🙂

-from Gregory Thomas

Catching Fire


Peace that floats like a butterfly over the network.

The soul like a bird swinging a crown across the aether–

the voice of him, her, them, you–

the sound of a fidgeting harpies’ battle cry for us all;

her hair is the swinging embrace of fate, amidst the beckoning sun over air;

the overture of fate without wings to fly, is a falling heartbeat across one’s watching eyes,

the face blushing with joy for the morning, and the air thrusted up the nostrils of the wandering,

peace be the swing of souls over souls, the eyes bid watch–

and the heartbeats of curious veins are lost, in the wonderland upon us.

Is it this dystopia that bids you anew in this world?

Or the pale sunlight across our skies, where the clouds float ominously? See them glide?

See the frost along the silver line?

The coldness in your voice, is the coldness in the air. Breathing in this man’s breathing air; despair is despair.

The golden sun is a glowing orb. Catch it with your hands.

The wandering ghosts of freedom in our country, catch it too with your hands.

Copyrightcopyright March 20, 2019