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i tried to write a\ good haiku but it was one\ syllable short

Woke up this morning with this piece I wrote in 2021 in my mind

Heaven is a peanut farm

One for you and me

With friends and music, banquets and balls

And a good man named Jimmy

.

Heaven is a peanut farm

Surely it's the best

There's a porch with a sleeping dog

One where you can find rest

.

They say there is a man out there

Who made sure every heart he would fill

When God said "it's okay, you can stop your work now"

He said "no, I don't think I will"

.

When you come to this peanut farm

You will be filled with this delight

Friends and family, we gather 'round

To wish Mr. Carter goodnight

Here's what a successful free message looks like !

I was testing some unconventional C methods and got bit off track with the error messages. Source code is in pastebin.

There's others small details in the sources, such as the addresses needed to correctly free the memory is invalidated right after the "regret" verse (allockStack = NULL), if the "Worry not" verse doesn't come up. !

Moral of the story: free your allocated memory.

This is my first complete poem, ever.

The forest was on fire. The trees were scared, and felt powerless. The two candidates offered to save them. The axe, whose handle was wood, suggested that if their neighbors were “relocated”, the rest of the forest would be safe from the fire. On the other hand the old growth tree in a clearing suggested that fire was a natural part of the forest, and they’d all be okay. In the end the axe was elected, but the forest all burned.

Yes I know it’s a shitty poem I haven’t written one since middle school. Just felt I needed a way to express myself and to post it somewhere and forget about it. No I’m not going to kill myself. This is about me getting a lifelong incurable chronic illness (ME) from a COVID infection. I’m bedridden, unable to talk, tubefed, unable to process noise, and just pretty much dead. Not looking for feedback.

All girls corrupt like waves of brackish salt Stolen from the world their youth the delta mix Lies are told to make them think that it's their fault

Though women try to shield them from the stiffened gault They are dashed and churned into those bluish bricks All girls corrupt like waves of brackish salt

A purity they chase as if their ends they think they'll halt Yet purity escapes and dies along the River Styx Lies are told to make them think that it's their fault

As girls do age and stiffen up like malt To be like brick and stone for society's new picks All girls corrupt like waves of brackish salt Lies are told to make them think that it's their fault

There once was a house,

In which you were allowed to play.

To rest,

To lay,

To love,

You were forever welcomed within its halls.

There was a house,

And there were many locked doors,

But you were okay,

Helping the owner open them.

There was a house,

And behind one of those doors,

Was found a rose,

Wilting,

Dying,

Under a glass dome.

There was a house,

And the owner wanted to renovate

Not much to the outside,

But the rooms they had found,

They had so much more.

There was a house,

And when you came,

It was with fear,

For you did not see

What the house wanted to be.

You tried to not let it show,

To buy materials to help

To give advice where you could,

But could not hide the quiet.

There was a house,

But you began going to others,

And when you came,

You told the house how lovely they were.

You spoke of their wallpaper, their carpets, of how everything works so well.

As you stood on everything new,

Using the old words for me.

There was a house,

Now it is less

A strewn mass of rubble,

That you skip happily down.

Running your hands down faded walls,

You pay lip service,

As you pass the rose,

part of the centerpiece of what this house was to be.

You never see the roots,

As they climb down the table,

Wrap around all around them,

Pull everything tighter,

Together.

You complain as you prick your finger,

Dancing down the thorns,

How dare this house hurt you?

There was a house,

And the echoes still ring down the halls,

Of the name you call.

Those echoes fill every room,

Surround all that you claim to hold dear,

Because you can’t see,

That Rose is also here.

There was a house,

But there is a garden now.

I wish you could see it,

To call it beautiful,

To lay among the flowers,

To call their petals soft.

There is a garden,

But that does not mean the house has gone away.

Smooth breath

I beset from your bated breath

Unless the stress that's given to me clear

Resides unfound and unclear

The key to my restitution lies in recognition

Opaque and sticky, defiance. Then remission

Upset and overreliant on bad positions

The lever's balance is set on a dud pivot

Problems unseen stay while shit thickens

While the root is left untapped

The branch kindles