"ashed" poems
The drug
The high
The confusion
The craving
The withdrawal
The brain feels overwhelmed
The noise creates chaos in my mind
The silence I seek
The alone time I need
The anxiety kicks in
Struggling to breathe...
Overthinking creates an addiction, to the things that cause mind suppression.
My mind is noisy, with thoughts of occurrences that have happened, and some not.
I try not to depress myself, but mistakenly think too far in the future, then get disappointed because expectations have not been reached.
Busy, distracted, chaotic, and unfocused.
I reach no end to where my mind goes...
A path of little thoughts that creates an explosion and downfall.
I crave the drugs to give my mind a rest.
To give it a sense of peacefulness...
I have failed lifes tests.
Tense, tight, my mind implodes.
Burn my thoughts and bury them in ashed coal.
Cannot sleep
Cannot close my eyes
Always in a state of overthinking...
Like my brain is constantly blinking
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Hail, dreamcatcher, hear now my thoughts
Free my soul of fond hopes of naught;
Of brokenness these dreams had taught;
Of ceaseless pain this life has brought.
This heart is weary of shouting;
Of being empty yet drowning
In insipid words befuddling;
In ashed promises succumbing.
**** this anguish feasting inside
That this shiv may be put aside;
These damp sheets be given a rest,
And that may bliss in this room nest.
Hail, dreamcatcher, hear now my sigh,
The words I'll mutter as lie
Below the grass, hear my cry;
My soliloquies ere I die.
The dreams that I wove with your strings
Are dreams that 'til I slumber clings;
Dreams that on stars I'll be wishing
That I with the stars be dreaming.
Farewell to you, dear moon, I say
Awake I can no longer stay
In peace on this bed I shall lay,
Never again shall I rise, I pray.
So dreamcatcher croon me to sleep
And let me drown in thoughts so deep
Don't wake me up, I had enough
Last wish: I be gone in a puff.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
From love we suffer
From ashed we stand
From death we escape
and from life we dream
We struggle for love
We struggle for dreams
We are attach to an illusion star
But we never stop writing poems...
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
*i was looking at an old and tattered black and white photo of my grandfather
a man i never knew and wondered about
his existence
like a horizon of dissolution
his soul enshrined in my own
and like him and all creatures
ultimately i remain defenseless
against realities magnitude
while my father loved me as a child
he grew unkind over the years
and we where set bitterly against one another other
his tyranny and my disobedience
as i gathered strategies craft
by machinery of thought
and festering gall
he, the bully
got bullied back
by me and old age
as we in tandem set fire
to his sadistic golden age of disillusionment
and here we are now the living and the dead
still locked in a grudge
a recurring spirit of revenge
in a valley of tears
before i myself join the ephemeral legions
in a pile of stones and ashed corpses
are we not
a procession of long struggles and short pleasures
a history of terrors and creatureness
stooges bound by the wheel creation
crucified by desire
and the apathy of obliterations aftermath
an archeology of death
ruin upon ruins
has God
sinned against man
or bestowed his grace
mystified
perfect and beautiful
beyond measure
yet to be discovered
in an alternate reality?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
he's put together with clothespins
he's put together with stipends
he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
he's got a little future
he's got a few dimes
he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
he's married once before
he's read crucifixion lore
he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Hands are such a unique feature in our bodies
I mean, hands let us feel what we can't see
1 2 3,....456789 10
fingers, describe our feelings when we speak.
I mean just picture how my hands move in my poetry
Hands God's greatest creation on us.
Hands are for love
when one has fallen we reach out hoping
to grab on to someones... hands..
have their own counter parts
because when we hold hands is funny how each one my fingers fit perfectly in the gaps of yours.
These are our hands
Hands used for love
but not all hands are the same
some are used for hate
a set of clenched fingers turn your hands into a fist
a fist which is use to strike in violence or self defense
but those clenched fingers that are laid upon a woman are those of a coward.
Hands are not just for feeling they are for more
they are your identity
from every ashed knuckle to every cut
Hands have a story for us
look your hands and tell the story it tells
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Lord I just ask you to guide me, in this pouring rain.
Praying for a change
All I feel is pain..
My life on this earth feels so alone
Everyone I love has met you
Don't have anyone else to hold.
I still don't know why you chose my life to suffer this way.
Broken hearted, ashed out blac & milds, emptied bottles,
Lost in a cycle..
Im praying to be strong, like my mom said
So I'm still fighting.
Living blinded, sometimes I do feel like screaming for help
But no one reached out a hand
When they knew that I fell.
Blessed that I now have an umbrella
To protect me from the rain
Im still holding on
Cause the season has never changed.
No one really heard of this pain
Cause we all sinners
We too focused on the hopes of fame.
But that's just the flick that starts the flame
How could we hold our head up in the pouring rain
One day I shall release my spirit
Into the sun
Then reunite with all of my loved ones.
©MH
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
He asked me, once:
"Would you die for me?"
I looked up at him, a smirk forming at my lips.
I slowly ashed my cigarette,
as if I was thinking of a suitable answer,
one that proclaimed my undying affection.
As I caught his eye, I said:
"Well, frankly love, I wouldn't even **** for you."
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Tell me when it was
The first time you learned to hate yourself
The first time you tripped over your own fault lines
And started taking caution in every step
When did it happen?
Was it at 10?
When your shaking hands couldn't hold still
And the shame of them drove you into isolation
Maybe it's because others noticed
Or because they did their best to make it clear you were different
I don't think you know
That the rhythm you had and still have
Is unlike the rest
It is crooked and uneven but beautiful nonetheless
You didn't know it then
And accepting unsteadiness is easier said than done
Tell me when it was
The first time you learned to hurt yourself
Could it have been at 13?
When the weight of too much pressure motivated you to lose it
To the point where bones stuck out more than your voice
Loud girl became quiet that year
And then even more so the next
When your changing body didn't morph the way you would have liked it to
Left you shaped uncomfortably
A little too top heavy
The kind that drew unwanted attention
At a time when standing out was the last thing you desired
You turned skin into a battlefield into remnants from too many losses
Wrists became front lines, then hips, then neck until
You became too much destruction to keep the war going
You learned that it is impossible to win in a fight against yourself
Tell me when it was
The first time you learned to forget yourself
Was it at 15?
When the sacrifice of your body wasn't enough
To make a careless boy love you
It was a silly thing to give it all away
When you barely had enough of you for yourself
Your efforts changed after that
Trying too hard turned into not trying at all
Feeling too much turned into feeling nothing at all
You learned to repress and erase
And start over in the morning
You have been heavy from trying to hide away for so long
Tell me when it is
The first time you learn to love yourself
Will finally be after all of the years of disappointment?
Of self-deprecation?
When you realize you deserve more
Than to be the dust swept off to the side
Deserve better than to be an ashed out version of your potential
You were not meant to be wasted
You were not meant to be washed out and pushed down
You were meant to stand tall
The first time you learn to love yourself
Will be when you realize flaw is inevitable
When your skin turns itself different colors
And nothing can be done to change it
You will then learn acceptance
The first time you learn to love yourself
Will be when you stop comparing
When you look in the mirror and see only yourself in the reflection
Nobody else
You were meant to be here
You were meant to embrace it all
This body
This skin
This image
The only one you will ever have
The same one you will have to love
And eventually you will,
You'll learn how to.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
crooked teeth but pretty lips biting into a sweet slice of cheesecake
that sounds good
i will do that
when takers become givers
and old men stop snoring and
bus 39 stops being late
old ladies with young problems like to crochet
and sad men do comedy
faces in the sheets and ceilings and clouds and even
in between
my legs
get lost in the abyss of strange
in my delicate brain
and ashed-on layers
i swear i could take a bite out of you
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:32 PM UTC
*A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.*
Ecclesiastes 3:5.
long, long long
have I known
the contradictory meaning thereof,
for I authored it,
time immemorial
till the day came
when understanding parted,
left for another prophet,
another poet,
for this how the world's words go,
round and around
left me
re commencing
re imaging
re imagining,
new era words,
newer versions,
new heards
newer mergings
stones and embraces
ha!
"Two of my favorite things"
no, that's been done...
"Let's go get ****** and..."
nope, that's been done
So,
spark sublime divine
give me a second chance,
compose me a vision
that gathers these
mutual funds of
contrasting similarities
in a bow tied connection
singular, worthy of
song and daily recitation!
*her embrace was a stone necklace
around my throat,
sackcloth was my shroud,
to the sea bottom was impaled,
by the stony apparition
of the unrequited embrace*
Ugh
*My beloved's embrace,
cracked the stones that surround
my uncaring register,
the cold still waters that hid it
now boiling from
her gathering me in*
better.
one last try before I repent
*embrace the stones
that obstacle the journey,
gather them in, together keep,
for they are the markers,
you have used,
you have been,
you have exhausted,
so long after the body ashed,
these words will trace for
those that follow the path
you marked with
these same stones
you gathered in
olden days of
simple joyous embrace*
this will,
must have to
do,
for the stones of
the angels of sleep have
arrived and undeterred,
upon my chest have,
inscribed and placed,
while bidding me adieu,
tucking me in,
gathering me to my rest,
a closing eyeing embracing,
in drowsy voices half clear:
sleep prophet,
the work done,
the words piled,
the stones now
mark your the
you final resting place
upon them ecrivez,
In The Future,
Keep It Simple Stupid
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
The date is printed orange
in the bottom right hand corner
of my very favorite picture.
It's from two-thousand and eight
And, as my cramping legs keep ambling
every gavel foot falls faster than
the one that fell before.
I'm wondering
where the Hell the years have gone.
You were all brown eyes and wide white smiles.
I was all youthful bravado.
As your laughter swelled to confidence,
I was sinking straight down to the bottom.
And the water rolled on past us,
Goose Creek
swelled with the Summer run-off...
Tell me where did all this time run off to?
The moon is looming large
in the hazing, ashed-out corner
of my wine-enchanted eyeball
on this too-typical night.
And every hyphen lends some extra space
to staggered breaths as I recall your face.
Now I'm spelling out
my own verdict:
defendant's moving to convict.
I don't know the final cost.
But I got enough memories
to say what future I still have,
well it sure ain't coming free.
I got enough memories now
that I don't know where I will be
when a year is just a yawn and a sigh,
and you're still lodged
deep down inside of me.
You were brown eyes' living confidence,
I was yellow, fading cowardice.
I know you were the better one,
and I've always been scraping the bottom.
And the water stalled beside us,
Red Riv-
-er choked with Winter ice blocks.
Don't know why I was so dumb and frozen.
But thanks
for believing
all those years.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Today, I ashed my cigarette
on the ground, but it kept
burning, and there was an
ant
when I went to squelch the embers
with the heel of my boot.
As my foot passed over it
like God's hand over man,
I had a distinct impulse
to **** it.
--but nothing else, no reason;
so I didn't. In fact,
it would have been just
as justified, just as
reasonable to have said
Good morning
and just as nonsensical.
And though he likely isn't
a listener of music, and
though he is not
likely to spend his days
studying the works
of Yeats or Whitman,
or to ponder spirituality
or philosophy, as men do,
I think he may have even
more of the Lord's favor upon him
than I.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:36 PM UTC
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
he should have panicked
but everything was just brighter
he lived from day to day
yearning to add to the pyre
he knew it to be easy
with a touch it would spread wildfire
but he was no devil
he could control his desire
so he lived in agony
even when his need grew dire
he'd never intrude unwelcome
almost like a vampire
but he was far too kind and reticent
to trap a victim whom he would squire
he scared them all away
with apathy and satire
he was too familiar with the anguish
his fire would inspire
he wanted to protect the beautiful souls
from the harm of its ire
he let his fire burn him to the ground
leaving nothing to quench the inquire
he watched as his fire ashed
his wings and invisibly divine attire
he let it consume him
alone, entire
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
he was resolutely resilient
he drove himself to the pyre
but in his final breath
he heard no lyre
he was a fool
that no one could admire
there once was a pyromaniac
he lit himself on fire
i would have held his hand
together nothing could conquer us, not the world, not a fire
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
Not sure what to make of it
I felt comfortable--
Knowing that the fire extinguisher was there
It made me feel safe
If anything ever caught fire I could put it out
I was a selfish child--full of arrogance and naivety
The world mistook my insecurity and inexperience for apathy
All I wanted was a place to call my own,
Something to hold on to
I did not worry about the still-lit cigarette
Not even when it bounced from the sidewalk to the grass
The red hot embers glowed among the dying grass
I did not worry when the fire began
I took my sweet time in getting the extinguisher
By the time I came back my world was engulfed in flames
Scrambling, I tried to smother the heat
The extinguisher let out a pathetic puff of dust
And I stood as hell fire consumed my home
Acrid smoke muffled my screams and floating ashed blinded me
All that was left was a charred fire extinguisher and the frames of my glasses
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
The best part of lent
Are the Fridays when
We can't eat meat
Or before sunset
Because my mom and I drive to McDonald's and eat filet o fish while she smokes her misty ultra lights and I listen to her favourite classic rock station with the windows rolled down watching the wind chill work its way in from Lake Michigan to the trees on Chicago avenue
We talk politics and music and god and then our own lives which always seem so small after
I'll try to work the courage to ask her if she minds if I smoke too
And she will try to ask me how aa is going
"You have cheese on your cheek"
"Oh thanks, you just ashed on your pants"
"Oh thanks"
That'll be it
And that'll be nice
And we'll drive home under the wind chill and soft leaves growing again and soft moon gently shining like her watchful worried eyes
It's only forty days
But Jesus spent those forty with the devil
It's nice to get to know his wife
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
We faded like fragments
White bed sheet tales now
We used to smoke like trains
I think I can, I think I can.
Ashed in each others hearts once or twice
But I didn't mind
With the sunlight on your face
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
I crept across the sheets
Looking at you hungrily
Your eyes danced down my back
The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout
We collided without a sound
I watched your lips part
And muffled murmurs were all that escaped
Hush little baby, don't say a word.
But those tales are only tales
And these white sheets are empty now
I don't know why you left me
How I wonder where you are.
But I mourn for you like a dying lover
And while I do,
I long for another, to take your place
Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack. All dressed in black, black, black.
Yet no one aside from you,
Has taken the time to look inside
So, slowly, I find myself emptying
Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.
And so I wait. And I remember.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
A poem
it will escape as a bird
your next notes painted on photographs
of mint velvet
and mine
mine
will do as it pleasez
no rules dangling charmingly
upon my ankle
icing up my tattoo
a Hindu ****
who believes in *****
but not in mankind
not himself
it dies ashed
stuck to a flytrap
diving the room into
dark and light
red and green
cold and hot
but cut slice the floor with your foot
as you're reading backwards
into a pool of ink
that droughts
and ... nothing
was/is left!
.. that is,
nothing--
but my hula wrists
twists and beats
waves
Light is both small particles and waves.
So it is
that
I AM.
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:39 PM UTC
I stare at her across the bar, between the bottles covering the worn out stained oak
varnish tarnished, wood soaked
from years
of ashed out cigarettes and spilt beers
slopped spirits from over zealous cheers
she's younger than I imagined, aged as a fine wine
her eyes locked on mine
I see the solar system, galaxies
surrounding the
pupils blacker than the abyss of the outer reaches of space
a lovely contrast to the lightness of her face
I pull up a seat beside her trying to spark a conversation
on life, nature, hopes for modern civilization or even space exploration
she says "quiet now my son, patience"
you're to focused on what you're saying
without hearing what you're conveying
her hand pressed to my heart and she said 43 beats I remember
39 when you sleep, but 84 when you're tempered
I asked her the significance
she said it's all about the difference
how my world is at peace when I am asleep
but pointless rage forces the increase
this life can go no faster
and you will know no master
so focused on breaking the mold, or shattering the plaster
when we really need the subtle hand to make the cast first
she said you see me all in your own ways
I saw her as a woman, soft eyes with a caring face
for no man knows the subtle intricacies and nuances that make living worth the fight
I met god in a bar, she walked me home in the beautiful night
we spoke of love, happiness and the pursuit of this life...
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, kiss
puppets?
Our mumbled whispers
that tapered ladders on gargantuan folds and slung-held
boy-grips.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing sores --
tell me how to cross rapid waters of social trends.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a car crying white chalk bricks
onto saran-wrapped concrete.
There were antennas perched like speckled,
mangy feathers,
poised, reflecting defiance toward
the wool-ashed sky.
With dirt-trekked journey marks,
there were trees growing silver hair outside the grocery store --
and frown-marked women -- that skin-folded
war paint -- yelled at their daughters to pay attention.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 9:30 PM UTC
Wake up in a slight daze
like the hanging haze when something in the kitchen is burning
but it’s the fog of hangovers, dizzying post nights
flash cards of kisses, songs, and maybe tears
all kinds of parts of me ache with bruises and bite marks
there’s opened chasers, flung boots, bottles under the bed
I spot your red lipstick imprinted on ashed cigarettes and beer cans
and when I go take a **** I discover your ******* in my pocket
I see your text, “Home. Had a blast. Miss ya! ***
and I am no longer haunted by some vague lingering feeling
that somehow this was a ****** scene
instead of our raw rituals of love
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Burn Them Memories Of Mine
Something That Was Always so full of shine
Never Wanted to pick up the pen again but i ain't one of those who sit and Whine
Our love was great secure by a relic, our own shrine..
Taking it to another level you jumped through
Mid-air nothing is able to hold us up now we missed and sort of crossed the line...
Burn Them Memories Of Mine
Something That Was Always so full of shine
You ain't looking at me you looking through me... Unable to analyze.. Sitting down on my knees i made a pray to the almighty that if he could take me up, that would be very kind
Rosary i threw he looked at me with anger somewhat that i saw in you... He gave me a chance though something that you dint do...
Metal shield sort of supernova you never heard me through you kicked me and rolled me over.. Kisses you gave burn within me rotting in ashes are our memories... Picture we clicked with all the flash flash... I walk around with a continuous flashback... Entering out exiting in, my heart on the floor, tears i flow that look for murdering... Memories i have is all that has been burning...
Look at me now ashed inside a picture frame...
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
I went to a funeral and lied
I went to a funeral and lied
In junk and drink, no grief,
Just cowardice and pride.
Fear of losing you by my side
Losing you to the other side.
Fear that shook with the gloved murderer's hide
I went to my funeral and shied
I didn't want to sleep or hide
I just held your bloodless, jaundiced face
I couldn't help but feel a fake
As two sets of opache eyes
Did not pass a tear and cry.
Just the shivering hands that stopped your last sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
I drank and stood in black and could not cry,
I strung words and made some ineloquent speech
Loved and held but held love out of reach
Spoke in riddles, played hide and seek
With a congregation of perjured freaks.
I laughed at their blindness where my guilt sits.
Last night in our death bed where I slept
Dry-eyed like your cataract eyes
Dumb mouth fish gape
In the old flat, my eyes, dry, dry eyes.
I didn't hear the trains last night
I couldn't hear grief's knock at all
There was no knock,
There was no wake or ball, just
Your bloodless gape and jaundice face
Shining yellow plumbed and spent
****** leech-mouthed, dumb,
Your cataract eyes,
Under clumsy-ashed mascara lids
A shy pass in some gothic flick
A tetany spasm, no shock or awe.
You looked up at me and saw nothing at all.
I share some dead shark surprise;
Opache, tearless rolled-up eyes
And I lay gibbering at your side
And laughed and hated your passion and cries
King over requiem and bride
Healer, dealer, hood and pride
Addicting storm and flushed aside.
I scraped blood off your chessboard marble floors
Wiped the evidence from cold-polished claws
I burned effigies of pagan-hates
Hoodwinked the sentimental double agent spooks
And threw scent off my mistress as a ******* clown.
This morning I went to a funeral and lied
I could not spill one tear from these witness eyes
That watched the hands suffocate your traumatic sighs
I went to a funeral and lied
Conducted proceedings with the murdering hands’ whys
I wanted the last of you, my bride.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
dread he came upon them. the slow father; his shadow, ill. he came upon them, those girls, punching his daughter in the stomach. had a couple years on his daughter, and weight. it was not dark. school had been out an hour. he had taken a walk. had to drop his cigarette. had to pick it up. fixed on a point beyond him; his daughter’s eyes. ***** of paper not anymore burning. first girl had one earphone in, and one come loose; a string undressed of puppet. the song that was playing, he listened. he had the time to listen. mostly his daughter read books but she would sing and he would know she was alone. he counted. there were three. it took a long a time. he paused on ‘two’, good in his mouth. the earphone girl was holding his daughter from behind. his rock cleared her braces and she choked. the two, they kept at the belly. props of delay. he ****** once and pulled the light from his lips. ashed it under the right eyeglass of the skinny one. her body made off with her soul now less a window. fat girl chewed her gum and made like she could run. he dug the house key from his pocket and placed it like a second knuckle. heard the bones of small animals, crunch of hairspray, ‘fore the key notched the back of her neck. his right hand went numb as if he’d cupped the ***** of god. fat girl good part of her landed on his daughter. he pitched her with his foot but she didn’t go easily. when a bit of day could be seen from his sentence, he received a longhand letter from his daughter and among the common she also shared how the fatty eviscerated her by email.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
More than a few years ago
I hid my mind, and have long since
forgotten where I had put it.
I sat on my softpack and I felt
remorseful pity, because
it really crushed my cigarettes.
And I felt such sympathy for them,
so unable to be used.
Then she stood up and held out her
hand, and I gratefully took the
burning smoke from her fingers.
As I exhaled she grew a beautiful blue
halo of twirling, swirling, tinct
smoke rings.
'My death angel,'
thought I.
Then I ashed it too hard
on the brim of
the ashtray.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC