Who’s ready for Autumn? – Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare



That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the deathbed whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.




Buy it on Amazon.com

Thankful Thursdays – Be Grateful you can still Fight… Do not go gentle into the Good Night (Dylan Thomas)



Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


DT’s father was going blind when DT wrote this poem. The dying of the light is a reference to darkness and being blind.




Buy it on Amazon.com

Art & Poetry – The “L” Word / Lost & Found


The “L” Word


Lost & Found





Buy it on Amazon.com

BLW Limited Edition T-Shirt Art Piece from Charles Postell Contest Giveaway!!! – Why you LOVE Life Contest?



BLW Limited Edition T-Shirt Art Piece from Charles Postell Contest Giveaway – Why you LOVE Life Contest?

BLW is proud to present to our fans a chance to win a one of a kind art piece from up and coming artists Charles Postell. Charles has been a media and abstract artist for the last ten years, which you have seen one of kind art pieces in many different publications.

This Limited Edition t-shirt design calledNumchucks from Postell is made out of fabric paint and is totally all hand made. It’s a Men’s Large and made out of Cotton. If you’re a fan of old school martial arts movies, you’d totally love this t-shirt, which Postell only made one of these pieces making it valuable and unique.

00005230 00005232 00005233 00005237

If you want this amazing t-shirt art piece, you must submit an art piece or a story or a poem about why you love life. It can be short or long but it just has the message on why you love life.

Submit your art pieces by typing your link to your submission in the comment section below. So, put your art piece on your site then send us a link so we can check it out. Also, we will post it on BLW so other fans can check out your great art work.

Good Luck!!!

Postell’s Facebook and Website         


The War God and his Dark Side by Imperfect Girl (BLW Contributor)

You see me there
Starring in vain,
Looking at the stars,
Asking for the War God.

The reason she was asking for her God was to pray and hear him say: don’t you worry, child, your day will come. It will be fantastic and dark, as the nights here are.

‘I’ll ask you once again, why? Why do I have to be in charge? How can I stop him from leaving my side?’

Then, he replied: ‘You can’t you sweet child of mine. He will die and then reborn with a stronger mind and soul. He will then take your hand into his arms and love you till the end of time’.

‘But I don’t want him to deny, I can’t stand him going to the ground and I definitely don’t want him to visit the dark side’ she replied.

(Her fallen angel):

‘Baby, I am here but, why can’t you hear? Why are you slowly dying, why is the War God almost crying? I am here, I’ve always been, looking up at you smiling but, lately babe, you’ve been crying. Let me tell you something, my sweet dear darling, me and you can only dream about us laying. We can never speak again, cos I’ve hurt you back then and I could never ever see you again’…

‘Good night my baby, tell my little angel: daddy is there for her, and not a stranger’.

Check out other great articles from Imperfect Girl

Art & Poetry – Into the Fray



Poetry Mondays – Roll the Dice (Charles Bukowski)



if you’re going to try, go all the


otherwise, don’t even start. 

if you’re going to try, go all the


this could mean losing girlfriends,

wives, relatives, jobs and

maybe your mind. 

go all the way.

it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.

it could mean freezing on a

park bench.

it could mean jail,

it could mean derision,



isolation is the gift,

all the others are a test of your

endurance, of

how much you really want to

do it.

and you’ll do it

despite rejection and the worst odds

and it will be better than

anything else

you can imagine. 

if you’re going to try,

go all the way.

there is no other feeling like


you will be alone with the gods

and the nights will flame with


do it, do it, do it.

do it.

all the way

all the way.

you will ride life straight to

perfect laughter, its

the only good fight

there is.


Enter this Referral Code when Applying: SISYPHUS1

Poetry Mondays – 90210 by Ryan Fu (The Hated Ones)



I fucking hate everyone here.

This whole city

can go to hell.

These old money,

trust fund fucks

with their lip injection

fake smiles.

More evil than

Jabba the Hut

with their botox shots,

treating everyone like cunts.

These men with their

power suits,

power lunches,

money is power types.



protected by

high walls with racists pigs,

which even Mr. Orwell

would’ve been horrified with.

Keep hiding behind

your glass houses.

Cause I see through you,

I see all your cracks.

When the “Big One” hits

I hope it strikes here first,

swallowing this whole place

back down to hell.

If there is any justice left in the world,

it will happen.

If not, I’ll just keep

praying to Satan.




Buy it on Amazon.com

The Sailboat & the Lighthouse by Ryan Fu (Happy Father’s Day – Miss you Dad)



Just give it up bro.

Fighting off 

your second heart attack 

making the doctors 



jumpstart you 

like you were an old Mercedes

with a faded car battery. 

I wanted you to stop, 

end your suffering 


move on 

to your next adventure. 

But it wasn’t in you to quit. 

It wasn’t in your nature 

to give up. 

Growing up I never seen you 

take a days off 

always being a steady workhorse. 

You were a fighter all the way 

to the end. 

You fought in hundreds of battles

fighting off your demons. 

But we couldn’t see you 

suffer anymore. 

We had to throw in the towel. 

You wouldn’t go down

for your own good

because you wanted to die 

on your shield. 

You were a warrior,

a teacher,

a businessman,

a husband.

You were my father.

But you look foreign to me

laying in your death-bed

looking weak 


a shell of your former 

strong lively self.

You just lay there waiting 

for the boatman to ferry you across 

to the next world

staring past your family 

at the foot of your bed 

looking at that whack ass art print

in your room of a tiny sailboat 

heading towards a lighthouse.

The meaning was simple 

but I wonder if it was meant to be there

making your transition easier. 

In any case, 

this was your last voyage,

saying our goodbyes.

We will all miss you.

O Captain! My Captain!

Take to the rough seas 

one last time


head towards the light

onto your next adventure.




Buy it on Amazon.com

The Rebellious Typewriter by Ryan Fu (The Hated Ones)



Sitting down on her tiny table top chair furiously banging on the keys on her cute old school turquoise typewriter, typing right in front of the Apple Store during a busy holiday season at the Grove. She was in her own universe creating her own world as she typed out poems on demand by people who gave her donations, but honestly I think she would have done it for free because it looked fun. After finding out the epic thing she was doing I was totally enamored by her. Plus, I wanted to check out her work maybe even writing a poem for me.

I wait patiently even though I was the only one waiting in line for her to create a poem for me. At the moment she was in the middle of finishing up a masterpiece for a nine-year-old girl. Her parents looked like artistic hipsters, who also thought what she was doing was cool as well. The tiny tot looked on as the bigger version of herself typed with a purpose occasionally missing up on a word and manually fixing it on the fly, which we all take for granted with Auto-Correct. We all forgot the simple pleasure of carefully typing in words but if you messed up, you really had to care a lot to correct your mistake but it made you into a better writer.

As I watch her being in the zone as the little girl danced around her and her turquoise machine, a crowd started to gather like a Sprinkles Cupcake store when they have giveaways but you don’t get sick of too much poetry maybe a little crazy but that’s a good thing. Some people looked puzzled at her prehistoric machine. Even workers from the Apple store where a bit confused on what she was typing on, making comments outside of the store like,

“What is that? Is that an old computer? Where is the screen?”

But then the comments became a little more abrasive as the employees showed off their Hater Degrees, telling each other that she shouldn’t be there, which did not faze her one bit. She continued on finishing the little girl’s poem even with the rude comments from the Apple employees.

When she finally finished her poem, she handed her completed piece to the toddler. The look on the little nine-year-old girl was simply priceless. She made her feel like it was Christmas morning and the parents were so happy giving the poet a generous donation. I couldn’t wait for my turn like a fat kid next in line at an ice cream truck on a hot summer day.

I confidently step up into her office as she asks me what she wanted me to create. She wanted hints or pointers on what the poem should be about. I tell her that I was in terrible mental and physical discomfort like a prisoner in solitaire from working at the Grove for then last thirty days. She gives me a smile from chin to chin as she could see the pain in my face but also knew that I had a good sense of humor. She confidently tells me to wait on the side giving her ten minutes to type it up.

I was simply amazed. 10 fucking minutes, it took me that long to type up a title!

It takes the poet prodigy ten minutes to create a poem? Now I was totally intrigued because what kind of art can you create in less than ten minutes or less. She takes a minute to digest what I said to her then she takes one last look at me then off to the races. She begins to get to work, systematically and carefully constructing my piece. But like everything else great in life, nothing lasts forever. Security finally notices her surrounding her in the middle of my poem. 

“Excuse me miss but you have to leave,” as security kindly tells her.

Without lifting her head, “Sure, but tell me why,” continuing to finish my poem.

“Ugh, I’m not sure miss but you have to go.”

“No, that’s not a good reason,” she calmly tells the security guard making him look at the other security guard for support but he just shrugged his shoulder. 

I couldn’t believe what was happening. She was so feisty and rebellious towards authority like revolutionary poets of old not giving one fuck for anyone’s opinions except for their. Before the security calls his manager she tells him she was done, “I’m finished. I’ll leave now,” handing me my poem, which by the way she completed a little over ten minutes.


I handle it like an ancient piece of artifact making sure I didn’t smudge or bend it. She quickly wraps up her operation before attracting any more heat to her picking up her typewriter and folding her chair. I was so excited that I get my poem, which I didn’t even get a chance to read it. I was like just a happy kid and I was simply amazed how she continued to do what she loved to do in the midst of so many haters. I graciously thanked her and gave her a generous donation.

She gathers her things proceeding to leave to the Grove not because of the security telling her to do so but own her terms because she already made her point. That you can’t stop art or control it, you just have to let it be.

You can make art anywhere you want to with any kind of device, just make you sure you have passion for it and don’t give a fuck what people think because any good artists will tell you that you must have a bit of rebellious nature if you’re going to be a great artists because you’re pissing off the status quo.

Good art is a little dangerous because it can evoke emotions, which sometimes is not all positive but at least it makes you feel something for it. Art is supposed to make you feel alive making you forget the mundane motions of your life. Great artists add the beautiful bright colors to this dull grey world making us believe that we can do and imagine anything that we want to be in our lives.

Sometimes we have to act like rebellious typewriters in a world dominated by obedient computers.




Buy it on Amazon.com