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no matter where you say it you know you will be heard.
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The life of words. Often associated with thuganomics.
Regardless of which crazy nigga invented it, John Cena owns him, so he owns Word Life.
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Derived from Batman's Batmobile, the prefix Batmo can be used to describe well...anything! A Batmo object is automatically a very awesome object.
1. These Batmopants fit me really well and look great!
2. That girl's got a fine Batmobutt.
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Expression of something you like and/or think is cool, attractive, or sweet
The Bills just won the superbowl, Oh word!!!!!
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An Urban Dictionary editor who refuses a submission for reasons that are never fully explained but instead hides behind a policy statement. This person is perhaps better known as a "pussy".
I submitted my definition of Kwanzaa Klaus to Urban Dictionary twice, but the Word Nazi rejected it each time.
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a spoken poem before This Time Imperfect off of AFI's 2003 Sing the Sorrow. Gibson Casian, Jade Puget and Smith Puget's younger haft brother reads the first part, Davey Havok reads the second part, and Hans Wold reads the last part. It is known to creep out and sadden listeners.
Spoken Word:We held hands on the last night on earth.Our mouths filled with dust, we kissed in the fields and under trees, screaming like gods, bleeding dark into the leaves.It was empty on the edge of town, but we knew everyone floated along the bottom of the river.So we walked through the waste where the road curved into the sea and shattered seasons lay, and the bitter smell of burning was on you like a disease.In our cancer of passion you said, Death is a midnight runner.
The sky had come crashing down like the news of an intimate suicide.We picked up the shards and formed them into shapes of starts that wore like an antique wedding dress.The echoes of the past broke the hearts of the unborn as the ferris wheel silently slowed to a stop.The few insets skittered away in hopes of a better pastime.I kissed you at the apex of maelstrom and asked if you would accompany me in a quick fall, but you made me realize that my ticket wasn't good for two.I rode alone.
You said, The cinders are falling like snow.There is poetry in despair, and we sang with unrivaled beauty, bitter elegies of savagery and eloquence.Of blue and grey. Strange, we ran down desperate streets and carved our names in the flesh of city.The sun has stagnated somewhere beyond the rim of the horizon and the darkness is a mystery of curves and lines.Still, we lay under the emptiness and drifted slowly outward, and somewhere in the wilderness we found salvation scratched into the earth like a message.
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