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We looked inside some of the posts by hofdojo and here's what we found interesting.
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1
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Text
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Fun Fact
Women make up for the other 50% of Tumblr’s audience.
Text
Where You Rest Your Head
Look quietly, there you will see a trail.
Not many walk it, for the end is far
From whence you come, wherein each step a sail
Full drawn, the winds of life blowing ajar
That which fears you, and which you fear the most.
This trail, treacherous though it is, teaches
Each man of mettle to grow, to not boast
Of their success through wood against beaches
Formed from forgotten failures, blinding you.
Do you walk this trail of dreams or fall too?
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Text
To Mine Own Brother
Oh brother, you lay before me, bleeding
From every vent through which blood boils to pulp.
There is silence in your lips, proceeding
Your last breaths, turning you to marble sculpt,
Becoming a mere phantom of great war.
They will hear stories of your bravery.
And when our lord speaks soft of silent gore,
Our armies shall revile such knavery.
God above will know man’s many mistakes,
For what he may give unto us, he takes.
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Logline: Two mobmen meet to discuss a potential job, before unveiling secrets about their organization that question their foundations of trust.
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Words of Job
In that great town so far away, A man rode in on a horse. The people looked on, in awe, A captive audience by their own choice.
He tells those looking of where he came, Though the place he spoke of they knew not where. The man stepped from his mount upon the Earth, As eager eyes stabbed through his silhouette.
This town was not the first, Though the man knew no different. People surrounded him in uncertainty, A response he had seen many times past.
The man spoke once more, Asking simply, “Where is your bread?” The people frowned, and the man climbed his steed. “Gone,” they told him.
He turned to exit where he had entered, Telling the people one final proverb. “So it is. So it must be.” He wandered, yet again, for bread Though he knew he would find none then.
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The Meadow
There is a meadow, one lost there in time.
In there, a fountain flows, the current red
And dust overtaking it with great grime
Growing with age, born of many who bled
To honor the meadow they never leave.
They all come, good and bad, matters little.
They all pay a price put forth to bereave
Young lovers left lonesome, their hearts brittle.
There is a meadow, its name never known.
The fountain is dry now, the seed is sown.
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