"assigned" poems
How do you fill the void without a billion stars?
In this empty universe, my mind and heart collide
And as they seem to whirl, flutter and fall apart
I'm always lonely, always drowning in the sands of time.
They say home is, where the heart is
What if I'm a robot, am I heartless?
Do I have an engine here in my chest?
Am I lesser than a human, I'm a project?
Do I do what I have been assigned to?
Are my feelings and my thoughts not true?
Sometimes I feel like I'm running out of fuel
Everything I do is out of tune
Then I get autotuned.
I generate heat, yet I still need warmth
They say I'm cold, all I do is loathe
But inside I know, I just need some love
When all I get is rocks sent from above
This is your planet, but it's filthy,
I'm a foreigner in this city
Born without a mission,
Like a player without a CD
If I stay persistent, will these wicked issues
Stop being vicious? As I'm always wishing
They would disappear and my track get clear.
Or maybe I'm just here to feel this fear?
Electric shocks, my battery is burning
Yet I’m just a casket, empty and unfurnished
A system of transistors, I never keep consistence
Transist me to a kingdom of purposeful existence
My body as it’s glistening, you might see it from a distance
As I reflect the light but I never gain wisdom
There’s no friendship, there’s a treason
Maybe humans are the demons,
I might be a robot, but I’m certainly not a minion
I’m just a set of codes on a hard drive
Written for certain actions, all life
I’ve been following the tasks, it’s alright
But everything is in flames, it’s on fire
But it’s time to break the leash,
Sp I’m pulling up my sleeves,
As I am not your slave,
so now you’ll be on your knees,
‘cause I never work for free,
Now you all gonna pay the fee
Or else the world is gonna meet my
metal weaponry.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC
Ah! Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.
I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.
How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).
How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?
It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -
I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.
A shame!
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -
My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
I will tell you a story
In all its glory
Explaining the
****** *****
Creating much more than
The eye can see
Its a story about a vibrant flower
So beautiful it needs to be to attract the buzzing honey bees
The story goes some thing like this
So you can see the flowers multiply through the years
Make two
Four and many more
The bee
flys along and sees so many Beautiful flowers
Longing to devour
But which one
So many colours
Shapes
Sizes
Flowers cascading
Parading
So shameless
Stands still
Wow
Striking
Its a big bright pink one
Circular in shape
Bold
Beautiful
Its the one
Open, with so many soft small petals
Glistening with the rain drops
Shining in the sun
Sparkling with beauty from within
Makes the bee meander to thee
The bee needs to reproduce
Suduced
Stops and fills
Spreads the seeds
Allowed to please
Pollunates
Impregnates
Recreates
What you dont see is the story
Combined with the
True glory
Of the extra ordinary *****
The beauty
Of the buzzing bee
Combined
With the gold assigned
Inside
So free
Flying
Trying
Frantically to find the
The hive
Taking nectar
Making honey, wax, all kind of f
Fascinating lines
Made from hexagon
They divide into the lines
They are full with precious delights
The story continues
The more you learn
The more you yearn
To see a honey bee
Together the bee and the ****** *****
make harmony
The vibrant flower allowed to duplicate
More beauty for all to see
For all to feel
The special honey bee procreate and makes
Wax
creating ambiance
Such a clever bee
A savont; such a worker
Magical tyrant
Buzzing madly yearning to create
the sweetest honey
A honey bee can make
Its like you to me
You're the combination
Make migrations in me
Spreading beauty from within
To others to proceed
And begin
I feel it with you;
Vibrant flower
Honey bee
Coming together
Creating so much sweet honey in me
It's a wonderful story to me
You see
The story of the flower and the honey bee
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
I am not at fault.
I didn't do anything wrong.
Why am I being treated as though I did?
Stop it with the pity and the shame.
I am not ashamed. I don't need pity.
Especially not yours.
Life is messed up, but I am not.
One in five. one in five. ONE IN FIVE
One in five LGBTQ+ people have been mistreated because of their ****** orientation. It's not that hard to find these statistics. Look it up. Look up anything about LGBTQ+ people and I'm sure you'll find mistreatment.
I'm sure you'll find harm.
I'm sure you'll find that they harm themselves.
Because they feel at fault.
It's not their fault that they feel a common emotion towards another person you, selfish, close-minded..
mmm.
No.
Four in five. four in five. FOUR IN FIVE
Don't talk about it.
The way they were mistreated.
If you don't really get that
If you can't really fathom that
Almost all of them
Almost every single one of these people that have been mistreated don't even talk about it they don't reach out they don't tell
anyone
NEARLY HALF
of LGBTQ+ people in school are bullied
Are mistreated
Are hurt
Are mocked
Are called names
***
******
***
In school.
Yeah, bullying happens all the time over stupid **** All the time. Wearing glasses, looking different, being gay.
I get it.
It happens.
Whatever.
Nearly half.
"72 countries criminalise same-sex relationships ...
The death penalty is either ‘allowed’, or evidence of its existence occurs, in 8 countries
In more than half the world, LGBT people may not be protected from discrimination by workplace law
Most governments deny trans people the right to legally change their name and gender from those that were assigned to them at birth
Between 2008 and 2014, there were 1,612 trans people were murdered across 62 countries - equivalent to a killing every two days
A quarter of the world’s population believes that being LGBT should be a crime"
Oh hey, just some statistics. Isn't that interesting. Isn't it cool to take a step back and check that out. That's pretty crazy huh? Pretty outrageous. But, you know, maybe if you weren't such a
***
I did nothing
wrong.
I tried to stop it.
I tried.
But how can you stop
Doing
What
Is
Natural.
People are hurting
People are dying
People are being killed
People are killing themselves
Stop it with the pity and the shame.
We are not to blame.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
A friend so good before,
Turned into a foe.
Now, he holds a cellphone,
And wears wrinkled brows.
Comes his textmate's reply,
And he would flash a smile.
But when I dare to talk,
He would give a tiger look.
No more time for a conversation,
Just busy pressing the keys of his phone.
Oh, I wish I had a magic,
Break the phone and make him sick.
His money instead for the food,
He will use it for the load,
And feels so uneasy,
When words "low battery" display.
Chores at home left undone,
Waiting for a hardworking someone,
'Cause the "busy" person assigned,
Is tired of thinking a nonsense reply.
Dear friend, what have you got?
You know you changed a lot,
Have you taken the "poison"
Of your stupid cellphone?
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
Christmas can be a time
when families get together:
Young children scream, wine glasses gleam,
both ready for M&S dinner.
TV's in the corner
rerunning Home Alone,
Heart radio's in the kitchen,
Chris Rea's driving home,
again.
Toddlers find the wrapping
more engaging than the Duplo
Teen couples find the company
less of interest than their own.
The dog's confused and excited
with so many different sources
of scratches and pats, he can't relax,
his whining is remorseless.
Christmas can be a time
when families are missed,
the parcel made last post
winging off to little sis.
Zoom will come in handy
to laugh across the miles,
the screen will mask the tears
and focus on the smiles.
Gran will talk of Christmas past
when everyone was home
'Cept in Gulf War 1 when Uncle John
went away, ....
Christmas can be a time
when budgets get stretched tight,
cash pressures get to breaking point
and prompt senseless fights.
Some focus on opportunity
to spend some gilt-free money,
the only prayers are for extra hours
and a faster tesco trolley.
For others it's simply ' Yuletide'
an excessive celebration,
a winter feast, all you can eat,
give in to all temptation.
Most focus on the family,
even more on the gifts;
there's little time for Jesus
assigned amongst the myths.
Some do remember Jesus
from half forgotten carols,
they know there's something more
than donkeys and angel heralds.
For there He is in the middle,
noticed once in a while;
it's His birthday, but all He's getting
is a half-hearted song and a smile.
He's no longer a babe in a manger,
He's now a resurrected King,
waiting for those who would worship
to stand and welcome Him in.
Whatever your experience of Christmas
you can come just as you are,
His love is unconditional
He'll accept you warts and all.
So come on!
It’s a season to celebrate!
To dance, to sing and to shout!
Your Saviour invites you to join Him,
so when you sing this Christmas, make it count.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
A seemingly fine day ruined with one headline.
Then another. And another. And by the time my phone stops buzzing the news couldn't be any clearer.
We lost a battle today. A battle for basic humanity, a battle to our own autonomy.
"Women" lost. "Women" should be afraid. "Women". "Women". "Women".
Every headline I read talks about how scary the world is for women.
Yes, the world is scary for women...or anyone with a ******
I don't want to make this about me. Because it's not. It's about every transgender man that fights for healthcare on a daily basis. It's about every non-binary person assigned female at birth who can get pregnant.
and yes....it's about women.
It's about people (men and women) who think their ideals should determine what I do with my body.
It's about every pastor, minister, judge, and human being who feels they have a say in how my life is lived.
Poetry has always been and will always be political.
Poetry is art and art is expression of feeling.
Today....I'm ******
I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of dread.
The same feeling of dread I felt during the 2016 election.
The same feeling of dread I felt the night of the Pulse Orlando shootings.
The same feeling of dread I feel every time I think of wearing my trans pride shirt out in public.
I'm not afraid to say how absolutely terrified I am....I'm just afraid for whatever is coming next.
Sincerely,
- Your friendly ****** having transman.
Jun 24, 2022
Jun 24, 2022 at 10:26 PM UTC
There's this special seed inside of us
That glitters, shines, and grows
Planted by an equally special person
One that everybody knows.
The one that woke up early this morning
And downed their coffee for the day
While you dig out your favorite shirt
And they keep their nerves at bay.
The person that decorates for new children
Hangs up posters and note cards
Tacks up the yearly alphabet trim
And clears the weeds from the school yard.
Stands and greets equally nervous kids
Hands them name tags and a book
And hopes that their anxiety melts away
To be excited like they should.
The history and math books open
Pages are assigned
They're there to help you through it
To make problems easier to find.
To journey across another dimension
Of equations and butterflies alike
That prepares you for ACTs ahead
And tests that you'll probably dislike.
Well, that's all fine and dandy
All these books and passing grades
But what's more important is the seed inside
That's planted in your brain.
The seed that fuels your drive to learn
Creates a light to help you grow
Makes you crave another book
Acquire everything there is to know.
And I know a certain farmer
That specializes in these seeds
Who wants to make you reach the top
So you'll realize everything you can be.
These farmers go by 'teachers'
The most amazing you can find
Because of them, I try to be my best
So I thank my teachers for their time.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
Fireplace firefly, did you come to check up on me.
Do you visit every hearth, is that your assigned duty.
Answering the hearts of those who unknowingly call.
Reminding us that if we can't see beauty in nature,
We won't know beauty at all.
When you return home after the passing of the crescent moon,
Who sees in your eyes all that you've been through.
And comforts you when your tears turn a blue hue.
Maybe you don't feel in the way that we do.
But I'd like to believe after all the light you give, you'd receive it too.
A love from a special someone you know to be true.
Your very own fireplace, who wilfully takes all burdens from you.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 4:55 PM UTC
Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
You may now want to take out the recorder
This world may label it as a weakness
But I’m quite fond that it gives me a type of uniqueness
Although my mind bounces around
Like a bouncy ball all over town
It sometimes allows me to be still
When I find something that gives me a thrill
Instead of giving me that medication
Allow my mind to experience that sensation
Of it’s ability to go full throttle top gear
It may seem irrational and unclear
But trust me the task assigned
Will be completed from a mastermind
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
Shameful glaring.
Hateful words.
Always reprimanding.
Misplaced worlds.
Everything breaking.
All pain.
Stinging guilt.
Sighing rain.
Interests tilt.
Giving demons.
Having loathing.
Never bronze.
Ever dulling.
Disgraceful self.
Shame assigned.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
I have never been in love.
I thought I loved someone
but it turns out, I have to love myself before I can love someone else.
I cannot listen to him paint pictures of how beautiful he thinks I am
while contemplating skipping meals
he painted his love in swooping lovely strokes
pretty words filling in the white spaces
but every stroke
every word
the more the canvas was covered
the more empty I felt.
I couldn't listen or believe him
because I felt that would make me less pretty
I must be the shy vulnerable girl
that I believed every man wants
I couldn't see myself as beautiful
when I thought I loved him.
piece by piece
I’m repairing myself.
I’m learning to look in the mirror without turning away
I’m learning it is alright for me to attach beauty to my body.
I still skip meals
I still feel sad
but I am learning I am worth more
more than the words he assigned me
more than how I look.
I think I’m starting to love myself
the words kind and smart mean more than cute
maybe when I finally stop seeing food as failure
and the mirror as a monster
can I start to love someone else
because I
I have never been in love.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
There is a Year part from which is assigned
Asides from your Truce to cover and rest
Till then, your Crafted Show to Fame consigned
My Girl's Centenniary will look its Best
This I Pledge, by the added Fifty-Four,
Honouring the Godfather I borrowed
If still, no Sound, least Assignment for more
Shall I conclude all my Efforts sorrowed
By then, to see and calculate for once
Despite I embrace this Familiar Ghost
This Truth - to Drill my steeling nerves upon
And cross-hair your Freedom which mattered most.
By that time, I should look for Someone else
Though in my Conscience I cast the same Spell.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
The honey in the lion sounds like a delicious thing––
a gentle balm capable of subduing
the cruellest of monsters.
According to the stars and tattooed,
you fancied yourself king of the jungle––
lazy in hot African afternoons.
Golden and tawn with sleepy sun-gold eyes,
shaggy mane, muzzle red with
the blood of a gazelle.
Did you think me such easy prey?
Or was I so much fermented honey,
only a sweet intoxicant.
Sun warmth seeps from jungles of cold concrete.
I mistook your gargoyle wings
for those of a guardian angel’s.
I overlooked your rough skin, your
crooked hawk nose and your skinny ribs,
and assigned fine things in you that didn’t exist.
So duped, I acquiesced to your slimy kiss.
Your mouth a neglected cemetery,
teeth a row of mossy tombstones.
Vampire. Incubus. Your seduction like grotesque death.
You named me tempest in a teacup,
but I was the eye of the storm.
Until the night the eye was eradicated,
and the storm blew in,
striking me dumb with your sound and fury.
But no spattered blood and no spreading bruise
to be found in the pattern of the kaleidoscope.
No cause for alarm.
Today I am lost in a picture show,
a beautiful world coloured by nostalgic past.
Women’s lips the vivid red print of a velvet valentine.
Head in the Clouds, I fantasize about a certain scene.
Because you think violence is ****
retaliation – ********** in my dream.
Give me an eye for my eye,
for all the eyes you plucked, from women and breadwinners.
Give me blood running down your back, sweet as honey.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
XxxxxxX
OooooooO
()
() ()
It all depends where we actually are
••
I mean
You must have realized that you are falling in
Love
So prematurely
And
So hurtfully
Because you have been brainwashed
And are being emotionally destroyed
On purpose
Right ?
( Right ?!)
•••
It all depends where we actually are
••
Birth
On earth
Does NOT mean
Being assigned to a slave labor camp
Or
A loony bin
Right ?
(Right?'!)
----
It all depends where we actually are
••
We are always encouraging others to be like ourselves
That is our born duty
Now what is it you want me to do
With this here razor blade?
••
It depends on where we actually are
--
What degree of hell are you talking about?
••
Where do YOU think you are?
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
I am a humming bird with a broken wing forming a geometric fall.
I am a conjoined twin with a foot in heaven and one in hell.
I am a geyser spewing out echoes from a stonewall well.
I am an open road stretched for miles paved with a murderous smile.
I am a man with a firm handshake who stands still on top of an earthquake.
I am a visionary man who slipped on fate and fell in love.
I am a preliminary hearing fallen on deaf ears.
I am the contribution to your retribution.
I am a person of depersonalization.
I am a one man army minus one man.
I am the desired taste of orange juice and toothpaste.
I am concentrated concentration.
I am the formation of your imagination.
I am the comma for your introductory clause.
I am the cause for your sudden pause.
I am the spatula that stirs up your anxiety.
I am the reaper who never leaves a clue.
I am the lace that always chokes the shoe.
I am the light that finds its way thru helping the little shrew.
I am the suburban white boy who sings the blues.
I am consistent inconsistency.
I am your assigned tour guide for your expiration exploration.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC
Assigned by angels to be the vessel
of your opal eyes
I don't mind
These days all I want to see
is the radiance you bring forth
a tranquil break in the folds
streaming through me
As I stand in regard
with the threads of yours wrapped around mine
a spatial interlude
long glimpses at your blueprints
in my sights
the daybreak of my existence
the gleaming brilliance of yellow
the daring cosmos of nights’ sky
Those night skies
its expanse I clear with no expense
I only hope for you
for you to notice
the bones of mine that bloom after you
a synthesis so sweet
as I see you
glance back to me as we dance across this field
as I tread light
a nimbus and a kite
the vessel of your opal eyes
a contract laced with gold
dusted with your breath.
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
She knew that she was broken
From the second that she could breathe.
She always tried to be hopeful,
But realized she was just niave.
She began to feel the world,
For what it really was.
And it pinned her down upon the ground
And killed her hopeful buzz.
She had things inside her,
That no one else could see.
A secret truth to who she was
And who she wanted to be.
It pushed out all her insides,
And raced a virus through her blood.
She didn't want to live anymore
In a world void of her love.
She didn't want them to find her,
In the bath tub down the hall.
But she cried for help so many times
With no answer through the walls.
She put on her best dress,
And lipstick for good measure.
She wrote notes to all she loved
And assigned them each a treasure.
She didn't want to be known as the girl,
That many never knew.
Because she felt in the short times she was here
She had only touched a few.
She envisioned a world of light,
But didn't have her own to give.
And she didn't want to be another blurred face
Who didn't want to live.
So she grabbed a brand new razor,
And laid down in her bed.
She said a silent prayer to the angels in her head.
She let her secrets spill
Down her fingers to the floor.
She was terrified and guilty
At who would find her through the door.
Her spirit finally lifted,
And she smiled from above.
Because she was finally light,
And she was finally love.
Some people were angry,
That she left them all alone.
But she made them understand
That she had never gone.
She looked down from the skies
And watched them with a smile.
Sometimes she'd turn into wind
To be near them for awhile.
She hoped they knew she'd loved them
and that they weren't to blame.
She just thought she could do more good
If she was only a remembered name.
Before she took her own life,
from the sadness and the hurt.
She wrote down a note
And made sure they'd see it first.
It read:
*I am sorry little brother.
I am sorry mom and dad.
I am sorry to my best friends,
And my little sister who was the best friend I've ever had.
Its not that I don't love you
Because I promise that I do.
I just feel too much pain
And this is what I want to do,
Don't think of me as dying,
Think of me as finally being free.
Because it is no secret
That you never needed me.
I hope you all find love,
And spend your life growing inside.
And most of all I pray,
That you all are filled with light.*
So that is her story
And the last one she'd ever tell.
But her soul was finally happy.
And her spirit..
It was well.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
I am treated
Like a useless little girl.
I'm sure a lot of women are.
For example,
When I was little,
I wanted to learn how to carve wood.
I asked my father for a pocket knife.
He told me,
"No. You are too little and fragile.
You might hurt yourself."
I agreed. I was small.
But my brother,
Three years younger,
Asked the same a few months later.
And he got what he wanted.
And then,
Years later,
My brother did the same.
He was told by our mother
To chop ice in the winter.
I knew he wasn't strong enough.
He isn't athletic or strong
As I am.
I asked to do it while he did my assigned chore.
Dishes.
A "woman's chore."
My brother,
My younger,
Smaller,
Weaker brother
Said to me
"Its a big job.
I think I should do it.
You are a girl, after all."
He went and came back.
whining that it was too difficult.
I went and got it done.
Without breaking a sweat.
And then he blamed me for being sexist
And rubbing it in that i was stronger,
When I never said a word.
I just sat,
Clicking my T.V. remote.
I thought about all of the other times,
Countless times in my life when I was treated like this
My most all men in my family.
Really?
I'm the sexist one?
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
An age old chair, in seasoned teak wood
carved, a perfect work of art, nothing less than
a masterpiece, and a reminder of so much past,
sat regally before our wondering eyes, tempting
on the central court yard of my ancestral home,
where generations lived.
Wanting to sit like my grandpas of yore
I found a carpenter, perhaps the last one for this work
who understands the air that surrounds the chair.
We discussed the concept,
design and the kind of wood
it has to be made,to create a replica
to bring back the grandeur of times past.
But then, found not an easy task it is
"Do you deserve it ?" the bearded
carpenter, was so blunt in his skeptic stance!
He puzzled me with his questions
Yet we were keen to give it a try.
The adamant carpenter relented
after many sessions of questions
and answers, perhaps my passion
did the trick, his eyes made me believe.
He promised to make me a chair
(The kind none would dream in this age)
as if it's a mission divinely assigned,
"You need to change a lot to deserve it"
he insisted, suggests a series of
purification rights "for your confused soul"
"To fit in to a chair like this , fulfill
all it's demands"in my ear he whispered
as if I am the chosen one for an ancient throne.
An antique chair shaped by the imagination
of my distant ancestors, now changes me
and without slightest resistance I submit;
would I ever know what is happening?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit's bane: intelligent
of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
spacious, more comely to look at, it's Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.
As I ride the subway
to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?
3.7k
Among the stars his memories travel.
Just trekking.
Just trekking into space.
Whether illogical or logical.
To him, it must make sense.
For his mission was never impossible.
And actor closely connected to Mr. Spock than many portraying the part.
He beamed truth to the millions fans of Star Trek with his wisdom and vision.
Whether upon the deck of the Enterprise next to his Captain.
He stood faithful and loyal to his crew.
Now you're apart of history of various scientific studies.
You're so deserving of being assigned to heaven.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC