...a sword never kills anybody it's a tool in the killer's hand. From Ad Lucilium Epistulae Morales, Letters to Lucilius on Morals, Letter 87, c.63-65
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There are more things, Lucilius, that frighten us than injure us, and we suffer more in imagination than in reality. - Epistulae ad Lucilium
Latin A sword never kills anybody it is a tool in the killer's hand.
A sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer's hand.
quote by Lucius Annaeus Seneca
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This body is not a home but an inn, and that only briefly. - Epistulae ad Lucilium
Drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness. - Epistulae ad Lucilium
Fate leads the willing and drags along the unwilling. - Epistulae ad Lucilium
Just as I shall select my ship when I am about to go on a voyage, or my house when I propose to take a residence, so I shall choose my death when I am about to depart from life.
Seneca in Epistulae Morales
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Nothing is as certain as that the vices of leisure are gotten rid of by being busy.
Seneca in Moral Letters to Lucilius
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An Autumn Letter
I want to write a letter to someone in the autumn
In the Autumn, I see lonely fountain streamed from a deep valley
And want to wet the lonely heart
I write a letter in the autumn night but knowing that cannot be sent in the morning
Now there is a postman who delivers letters in the air in the days and nights
So I am sending letters
I regret but the unsent letters always cry
I send the thread tied letters in the air without stamps
The letters of the poet opens its eyes with holding their breaths
poem by Kyungdae Min
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Please Sign Your Letters
(sylvester / clarke / hicks)
Please sign your letters
Please dont make me blue
Please sign your letters,
And then Ill know its you
Cant stop thinking of you
Youre always on my mind
Please sign your letters
Please dont be unkind
I read your letter
I read most every line
You said you loved me,
Said you would be mine
My heart was jumping
Something shook my mind
I found your letter was left unsigned
Chorus
Your letter said wed met some time ago
Id like to see you,
But somehow you just wont show
I just dont know which way to go
Repeat
Chorus
Please sign your letters
Please dont be unkind
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Am Not Telling You That I Am Right
my only choice is to talk,
and it is not even loud, it is a careful whisper
not even to your ear,
because i know for sure that you
can hear and see,
my choice is to hurt, because i have the truth
and it is like a sword,
it kills,
forgive me but i am only a tool,
and they all use me
to strike at the center of it all,
ah, forget it, just like what i said
when we first met, i have nothing to say
actually.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Killer For Hire
On a night time ride
Find that nothing's left.
Not a thing in sight.
I’m going to my death.
Cut a deal with the Devil,
I’m signing my name,
Cuz I figure I’m going to Hell
Anyway.
Bringin’ my fire, Bringin’ my sword
I’m gonna fight you know.
I won’t be ignored,
Gonna rock and roll.
Ready, aim, fire
I’m a killer for hire.
(FIRE)
Killer for hire.
At the next sunrise
I might not be there
When you open your eyes
The demon might come to take his share.
Bringin’ my fire, Bringin my sword
I’m gonna fight you know.
I won’t be ignored,
Gonna rock and roll.
Ready, aim, fire
I’m a killer for hire.
(FIRE)
Killer for hire.
poem by Timothy Lee Hollandsworth Jr.
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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50 Years Later
I have no letter to show you my son
Said the modern father to his
Postmodern son.
Epistolary novel is a form of past
Why are you worried about such
Trivial matters like letter?
Asked the modern father to his
Postmodern son.
I got sms in my message box
I got mails in my pc
And deleted to make way to
New ones
Nothing remains forever dear
Said the proud father to his son.
I read about letters in little mags
My friends say it was really amazing
To share thoughts, feelings
Through letters
But you have nothing to show me
Ha! It's really very sad!
You should have some letters dad!
Said the postmodern son.
poem by Amitabh Roy
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Fear keeps pace with hope. Nor does their so moving together surprise me; both belong to a mind in suspense, to a mind in a state of anxiety through looking into the future. Both are mainly due to projecting our thoughts far ahead of us instead of adapting ourselves to the present. Thus it is that foresight, the greatest blessing humanity has been given, is transformed into a curse.
Seneca in Letters to Lucilius V
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Letters To No One
I wrote a letter to my love
and never received a reply.
I've often wondered why that was.
Did he up and die?
Yes, he did. It's a fact.
And because I didn't know
I kept writing letters
and kept feeling low.
These letters went to no one.
So no one wrote to me.
I've often wondered if all my words
would come back home to me?
And then one day they all came back.
'Undeliverable'
is what they said.
I guess my lover moved away
or maybe he was dead.
And so I stopped my letters.
I never wrote again.
I still have all those letters,
unopened and unread.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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While I write this letter, I have a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other.
quote by Boyle Roche
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The role of morals
Death and threat
Evaporate your morals.
Sex and lust
Drive away your morals.
Greed and hunger
Put to death your morals.
Teaching morals
Is an entertainment.
13.10.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Write by Return
Clerk, corresponding,
“Rooster and Comb”,
Here I sit idle
“Thinking of home”;
I must be grafting—
Living to earn,
More correspondence,
“Write by return.”
Clerk in employ of
“Shoddy and Woods”,
Thinks that we have not
Forwarded goods.
Parcel we sent them—
Missing, I learn,
Says in his postscript:
“Write by return.”
Here is another
Letter from Bland—
“Cheque he expected
Isn’t to hand.”
How we forgot it
Cannot discern,
“Forward remittance,
Write by return.”
Here is another—
O how they come?
Treats of a “Bender”
Planned by a chum.
See on the margin,
Big letters: “Burn
After perusal—
Write by return.”
Mail in from England,
Letters for me—
Dear little sweetheart
Over the sea.
“Quite broken-hearted,
O how I yearn
Only to see you. . . .
Write by return.”
One who will “never
Think that I’m bad”
Writes me a letter
Tearful and sad.
Thinks that I’m starving,
Filled with concern,
Sends me some money—
“Write by return.”
Letter from father,
Sent to his son,
“All is forgiven—
Fat calf for one.”
O that I ever
Thought he was stern—
Money for passage—
Write by return.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Who Says That Life Is Fair?
and so it happened
that one day
i told her
frankly in class
that life
is not really fair
the rich gets
richer
the poor gets
poorer
the killer
is on the loose
and the
heirs of the
victim still
grieving
justice
is not in the
hands of the
innocent
and with a stare
i look at her
and tells her
who says
that life is fair?
raise your hand
and indeed
she raises her
hand
the following day
she kills herself
i guess,
she proves it
slapping
me on my face
with her
untimely
death
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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