only Ws no Ls

;MATTHEW JIN ;The actual poem is at the bottom of the page .ORIG x3000 LEA R1,FONT_DATA ;load output string's address LD R2,ZERO ;location x5000 stored LDR R2,R2,#0 ;character to be printed for 0 bits stored LD R3,ONE ;location x5001 stored LDR R3,R3,#0 ;character to be printed for 1 bits stored LD R4,INPUT ;location x5002 stored LDR R4,R4,#0 ;The ASCII character to be printed stored LD R6,FOUR ;Load register 6 with x0004 to serve as counter ;Multiply the value in R4 by 16 so that program can add the result to ;FONT_DATA to find ASCII character to be printed NEXT ADD R4,R4,R4 ;double the value in register 4 ADD R6,R6,#-1 ;decrement R6 BRp NEXT ADD R5,R5,#0 BRz ROW LABEL ADD R1,R1,R4 ;Add R4 to R1 to get to location of character ADD R5,R5,#0 BRzp NEXTLINE ADD R5,R5,#0 BRp NEW_ROW ROW ADD R5,R5,#15 ;row counter set to 15 NEW_ROW ADD R5,R5,#0 BRn DONE ;if row counter is negative, go to DONE NEW_CHA

Envy BY MARY LAMB This rose-tree is not made to bear  The violet blue, nor lily fair,     Nor the sweet mignionet:  And if this tree were discontent,  Or wished to change its natural bent,     It all in vain would fret.  And should it fret, you would suppose  It ne’er had seen its own red rose,     Nor after gentle shower  Had ever smelled its rose’s scent,  Or it could ne’er be discontent     With its own pretty flower.  Like such a blind and senseless tree  As I’ve imagined this to be,     All envious persons are:  With care and culture all may find  Some pretty flower in their own mind,     Some talent that is rare. (Victoria K.)

this is a pretty long post so if you're looking to get comments done don't read this one Among the legends of Porlock, there were none more illustrious (and perhaps controversial) than Ee Ee Cummings’ collection of twenty-nine hundred wives. Holding the title of the king, no one could argue that he wasn’t allowed to have twenty-nine hundred wives, but according to societal axioms and common sense, he wasn’t allowed to have twenty-nine hundred wives. The common folk spoke of his rumored brutality; Cummings’ palace was rumored to have a ruthless dungeon that lodged his harem, with only wooden shelves as makeshift beds. He would rarely let them out in public; despite the massive number, most people had only seen one or two of his wives, which only served to heighten the speculation. This was a glaring human rights problem Ezrah Pond was determined to fix. Taking a carriage to Porlock, Ezrah Pond was a fervent advocate of equality and civil rights (although he had never really expr

I would like to tell you that today there are Terrible treaterous times and there are those Telling others they can treat the tragedy. But they cannot treat their own. For instance, Chemists create chemicals to capture creativity In carbon compounds. Clearly, they consume clarity. Researchers rewind retold reports of related research In hopes of rediscovering randomness. Biologists bother bacteria and their brothers to bring Upon a ballet of brilliance, yet only bicker while baffling. Philosophers fiddle with fidelity to fiction and cause friction Between forgiveness and fulfillness. I could keep listing the iconoclasts of infinitesimal Insidious ignition, but that would not help you understand The uncomfortable understatement of truth that Scientists see what they want, and they are sagacious In their senses but still surprise with the scarcity of Sentientness. In learning about the world they limit their Love for it, and leave their minds languid

This is so hard I’m sitting in my backyard Thinking about words to say Hoping I’m not astray Words want to fly away Nothing to display I can’t say a word in mind That will satisfy this story Running away from glory I'm a rock in its quarry Sadly, no substitut… Can’t say that word Brief Commentary: I had a hard time thinking of what to write. Writing the poem helped me realize how important each letter of the alphabet can be. Without the letter e, my whole vocabulary became much more limited. Putting in a rhyme pattern took me a longer time than normal. - Matthew Jin 

Box (by robert) He wrote of monsters from the deep Of Christmas children half-asleep Of azure skies and rolling tides Of mended hearts and broken brides He crafted every fervent word Recorded every sound he heard Pen and paper, filled with lines Captured all his best designs But never were his works complete Perfecting stanzas on repeat He stuffed his writing in a box Adorned with grey cobwebs and locks Toiling hard for seventy years He never shared them with his peers Instead, they rotted in his crate Surviving past his headstone date Years later, his son would find The tales and stories left behind He hunted down the rusted key Pulled it wide — and set them free All the paupers, all the kings Soared away on spectral wings Published poems spread like flames Posthumously gaining fame The son still kept the antique box But gone were all the webs and locks He’d see it empty ‘till he died For poetry was meant to fly