"bleakly" poems
They hail me as one living,
But don’t they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute’s warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time’s enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death …
—A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love’s heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
3.1k
I was on bed then clueless about my life.
I remember three years ago, it was a strife.
I was made to realize by pain of being alive.
The procedure of tracheotomy was done.
The other nose was cut into my windpipe.
The lower end of my throat was bandaged.
The two navels are located on my stomach.
The second navel was gained at the hospital.
The upper navel is not always here to be seen.
Blankly I stared at the world in front of me.
Bluntly I stared at a big wall in front of me.
Bleakly I stared at people coming to see me.
They would come few in numbers initially.
That time is something I can't recall clearly.
Then I was home worriedly waiting for him.
The eternal-seeming torture period started then.
The dreaded physiotherapist used to come then.
The kind man was renamed ***physio the ******
He caused me great pain, I was like a 3-year old.
He saw me writhe in pain & I begged for mercy.
He continued coming & I remained terrorized.
I used to ask my parents if they're actually mine.
I was made to disbelieve in them as my parents.
I took numbing pills directly into my stomach.
I used to remain in sheer terror all day long.
I took offence at the sound of the doorbell itself.
I was asking my parents if someone would come.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
You have only seen yourself two times.
One, taking a picture and looking at
the lovely image,
Two, staring at the mirror and looking at
your dainty reflection…
You don’t get to see how your eyes glisten,
When you look up…
You don’t get to know how
Your face lights up,
When you talk about something you love…
Or witness how pretty you are,
Whenever you laugh and smile—
You can never see how beautiful you are,
It’s kind of sad actually.
But I’ll be there.
I’ll be there to tell you exactly what I see—
***
—I see fissures on your lips
as you speak,
as you laugh,
as you frown.
I watch closely as flood gushes…
Storms of tears flowing through your eyes.
I look intently at your pale thin cheeks,
Looking at how they **** in.
Every moment smaller—
Every second slower—
Observing every micrometer of your face,
Gosh, you’re still so beautiful…
But we both know,
That your beauty can never be mine.
Neither it be his—
Gazing upon your face,
One last time,
One last chance,
Bleakly hoping I can memorise your smile…
Mesmerised one last while…
One.
Last.
Look.
It’s a little bit sad.
Only I saw your beauty.
And now it belongs to the ground.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
It was a night of music softly playing, listlessly upon the bed I was laying,
Lying awake with toss and turns without subtle hints of a snore…
And whilst this time my eyes did wander, avoiding the lids they should be under,
Suddenly as I was under, under the spell of consciousness I could not ignore…
“No, this cannot be,” I whispered, “this insomnia I cannot ignore;
Awake I lied, sleeping never more.
The clock soon read the 30th minute of two, and it was now that I knew
As I stares bleakly to the scuffled patterns of my feet on the carpet floor,
I tried to rise up from bed in hopes to gain; fatigue made that attempt in vain.
My eyes wrought forth tears from burning pain, the nightly air made them sore…
The darkness of the night air now silent but dry has left them burning sore,
Craving the sleep that comes never more.
My blanket held the rustling of my body so violently tussling
In anger—such anger that the blanket had suddenly tore;
And so now I laid there, with fluff of stuffing my blanket was ‘bleeding’,
“I fear that this must be the sleep I’ll crave, yet ignore,
For it seems odd this craving my body would so deviously ignore."
Still awake I lied, craving sleep ever more.
Restless I turned to my side, when then my eyes grew joyously wide,
“I had forgotten,” said I. “Cure for restless sleep, this bottle does implore";
Unfortunately, I took some previously- the limit to such an aid is a pity,
And the clock had struck three, three hours I am forced to ignore,
"Oh, the sleep that I needed…” I mourned softly on the time I had to ignore.
“I want sleep and nothing more!”
All the time I laid staring, the darkness faded, the sun now glaring;
Forcing a retreat of the darkness covering the scuffled patterns on the carpet floor.
A dawn’s glow shined with brilliance, against my eyes so red and resilient,
The sleep, once again a night of rest I craved for my body, so weary and sore,
For the sake of my eyesight now the sun’s gleam had made ever so sore
“Sigh, ‘tis another fortnight I sleep never more.”
© 2011
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Lips as red as rose, skin as white as snow, body as still as stone. Yet this was not the fairy tales that I had been raised to believe in. This had no happily ever after.
The heavy weight of the melancholy anguish fell awkwardly on my shoulders. I was barely old enough to even understand what sorrow was, let alone what to do when every person I had ever admired was now helplessly crumbled in the solid white room. Unthankful walls stared bleakly down at us, as they were numb to these feelings by now. It was a hospital, after all. They had seen their fair share of the dead.
Something strong, pressuring, and overwhelming continued to force itself into my chest, burrowing itself deeper and deeper. Nothing had ever felt like that, as if it was eating me until I was nothing myself. When I glanced around to my family, I could see that it had them too. Consuming them in this helpless, dark pressure, the kind you only pretend to escape. Drying them of the good memories and replacing them with pain and despair. Squeezing them until tears fell from their eyes so much I had almost forgotten what they looked like without them.
A voice beckoned me to the side of the bed. The smile that had filled my childhood was replaced with broken eyes and a grin that I knew was a lie. I wanted nothing more but to crawl into her arms and cry until everything stopped hurting so much, but I was too afraid. For in my mother’s eyes I saw she wanted more than anything to do the same.
Dad’s arm came around me and held me tight, he needed it as well. It was terrifying, to be able to compare my parents to how I looked after a nightmare. They were kids again, frightened, and desperate, and alone. All they wanted was a hug and smile and someone to tell them it would be okay, that the terror was nothing but a dream. Sadly, we would never wake up this time.
The nurse came around with a camera, and I knew then that this was the last time we would see him. I glanced down at the perfect little face I realized I would miss for the rest of my life. With the pressure eating my heart, I said inside goodbye to the little boy I had dreamed to know. His body, small and teaming with untapped potential and dead life, was an image I would never be able to forget. Yet he never even got the chance to see his big sister’s face. Maybe it was better that way, never seeing what he lost as we saw him. Things were going to be different now, without him. Things would never be the same. A nurse started to count.
And in a broken photograph, I smiled.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
I will never treat you like a ten
Because we are human
All wrapped in sin
I will never treat you so sweetly
Letting roses call out bleakly
Teddy bears stuffed with lies
But I'll sit and watch you cry
Or talk or smile or possibly die
But I'll be there throughout time
Bittersweet biting on lips
Hoping not to get the slip
I will never treat you like a ten
Because I'm human
Wrapped in my sins
Calling out with all my might
Whispering long goodbyes
Hoping Angel's wings shall break
Satan bound so filled with hate
Fingernails across the board
My thoughts are dying
Forever yours
Blessed to be the nothing you seek
Release those chains
Your soul be free
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Blackened bouncing baby bunnies burning brightly,
burdened by boils,
bleating bleakly,
but blessed by blindness,
brings bliss beyond beauty.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:41 AM UTC
The time of year has grown indifferent.
Mildew of summer and the deepening snow
Are both alike in the routine I know:
I am too dumbly in my being pent.
The wind attendant on the solstices
Blows on the shutters of the metropoles,
Stirring no poet in his sleep, and tolls
The grand ideas of the villages.
The malady of the quotidian . . .
Perhaps if summer ever came to rest
And lengthened, deepened, comforted, caressed
Through days like oceans in obsidian
Horizons, full of night's midsummer blaze;
Perhaps, if winter once could penetrate
Through all its purples to the final slate,
Persisting bleakly in an icy haze;
One might in turn become less diffident,
Out of such mildew plucking neater mould
And spouting new orations of the cold.
One might. One might. But time will not relent.
1.7k
As the waves fall on stony shore
the sword just sits there,
blunting in the washing sea-foam.
England’s winds carry the sand
from England’s rock to the grazes
on our ankles, our feet and hands.
They from the toes of Cornwall to
rocky Dunnet head
will our courage forward
through the first crawl on cam-corder,
to the last drop to earth.
‘We all began at the seaside’
Though days are gone, we linger
snaking through London with those southern scrubbers,
those diamond white men,
the Caribbean accents, the Guajarati, the Jews -
‘A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better one’
- we all patter round Oxford Circus and
climb aboard the number 9 bus.
‘Who so pulleth out this sword is trueborn King of all Britain’
And we watch the waves fall.
‘Hold very tight’
It’s there behind our ray-ban’s, our fake ray-ban’s,
their halcyon glint.
It’s the same secret, not one of us can keep -
*Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.*
-
It was London and my mother that
raised the muscles in my thighs to look firmly planted
and my face to look resolute when turned to the sun.
It was my mother and London.
They grew me up to look like I could pull out
Excaliber.
‘Lay me down trepanner man, but take the stories with you, if you can’.
So I, always King Arthur,
not a yank, not from Roehampton’s towers,
or Peckham. Not Tintagel, or Camelot,
escaped on an eddie to Manchester,
to bury stories with distance
and stare at cobwebs after rain.
'I’ll hear easy music, find out it’s easy, man.'
But in Manchester’s plastic, in Manchester’s rain
It ran all the same.
Of a blunting blade, I dreamt,
until the Phrenologist came
and I asked him if I was torn up by London grit,
London loves and London’s spit.
But he said no,
no matter where you go
there’s just one secret that you’ll never keep
*Under the setting sun between
England's canals and sheep
the living live, cry and sleep.*
-
The sword just sits there,
honest as a dog.
And the sun has more secrets than any man on earth.
my shadow scuttles through the suburbs,
the seaside, the city, sideways like a crab.
The sandy cuts on my toes, ankles and knees
are bleakly investigated by a fly.
Has anyone sat at the round table?
It’s out of reach of my skinny wrists.
*Lash me to a pole and wait for the Avalon tide
to slowly roll my English soul.*
I better keep on living.
All stories, tears and sleep.
We are all just the living secret,
that not one of us can keep.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
Show me the peace of mind that I lack.
Apart I am weak and wondering and shuttering and stuttering.
And at time's I am very alone.
More panic attacks.
More feelings I'm stuck muttering as others are meddling.
Not having a life of my own.
not completely
although maybe bleakly.
So please show me the peace of mind I can't find for myself.
Stay my mind I beg you
because the alternative is... Unspeakable.
Stay my mind for me. I don't have the strength to do it myself.
Self-pity is so easy. Comes so quickly. Flows so hazily.
From now on that stops.
Maybe it's time I learn a thing or two...
and begin to stay my own mind.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Suddenly aged and prickling inside drab suit
(that fits in every way besides the one that matters),
sip stewed tea, UHT milk, and
be gracious about it.
Faces requisitioned from Head Office
ask questions like the answers you give
could possibly mean anything.
Try not to act bored or high, even though
you're both. Pretend like
you could belong here.
Don't let on you think thoughts that are in breach of the House Style.
Don't, under any circumstances, let them
find out you write
poetry.
Don't give yourself away.
Afterwards, brittle and weary outside,
notice how it feels like
your feet inside your good pair of shoes
are nailed to the asphalt reality
of this bleakly nowhere estate; you're
crucified against the
indifference of the afternoon,
bled out by another day of attempting to
sell yourself cheap and still
not closing.
You learned to walk upright for this.
Even the sun looks old and done with trying.
If a stranger offered you a cigarette right now,
would you break your two-year streak?
The phlegmy rattle of builders' vans;
soft pale smell of saw dust on damp air;
that sense of inevitable mutual rejection.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
Staring blankly,
All I see are glasses,
All half empty…
Chartreuse drips drop
Tip a tap a top.
Atop empty glasses,
And empty bottles,
On my empty table,
On my empty room—
On my empty house,
With no one else but me.
All I see are bubbles.
Frail.
Empty.
More like the reflections,
Of the sad sad face on every bubble,
Staring right back at me—
Frail.
Empty.
What if I’d just pop,
Whenever I’d take a drink?
Fated only of two things—
To burst or to sink—
Staring bleakly,
All I see are shards.
Shards just mended together.
Shards made empty bottles,
Turned to empty glasses,
Reflecting the same empty face—
Just like glass shards…
Just broken.
I see that same forlorn face,
Behind all the alcohol bottles.
A spark quickly burning out…
Deprived even ash to even trace.
A fire that is melting…
Dying of thirst inside.
With all fingers crossed,
Hoping somehow beer could sate her drought—
All I see are bubbles,
So many bubbles,
But each single one just the same…
Frail.
Empty.
Drowning in ***
Engulfed by *****
Christened in whisky—
Sinking deep.
Deeper and deeper.
Down, down, down—
Always going lower,
Down, down, stop.
And then continues,
Colder, staler, darker,
Until I hit rock bottom,
Oblivion—
Pop.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 7:07 AM UTC
I ran away and started a new journey
Caught myself in a peculiar story.
Been to different places and found myself startled
Obscured, grotesque, melancholic, and bleakly mottled.
Meeting different people, but never got the chance to stay
Mind fickle and heart let astray.
But then, I understand now how it feels
Of these surrounding silent hills.
All those stirred up feelings gave me nostalgia
But aren't you in spasmodic sequence of amnesia?
Alas, reality throws me up in all that regression;
It teared up my obsession.
Then there goes a series of flashbacks;
It occured to you all of the setbacks.
And oh, I remember a certain old man,
Told me a something about a plan.
With conviction, he said, "Maktub, it is written;
Those who can see and listen,
One's fate has been predestined
To those who is good and sinned."
"Young one, it is about time for you,
Know all that is true
And seek to discern for your true happiness.
"Well, I say "That's intense!"
Then as I pondered on this old man's wisdom,
**** that old geezer is just random.
But what he said did make sense,
If BMW is better than Mercedes-Benz.
Though it may seem easy for him to say it,
My mind went into a frog's "ribbit!"
How vague is it to listen to such hearsay;
The horses neigh and the hearsayers, nay.
Life is giving me much more farce
Though the sarcasm is all so scarce.
Oh, I give up cause it's better to be at home
With my friend Gary the gnome.
Now I know it's better to return
Than travel further the world that is too stern.
It's all but you I see is missing
In a picturesque abode with me, kissing.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
Once upon a legend
On a day that time forgot
I felt my heart cease beating
And I knew the world had stopped
No wind stirred in the treetops
No more sweet flowers growing
No waves upon the oceans
The rivers were not flowing
The moon lost in the heavens
No place for her to go
Forever left in darkness
No light for the world below
Dawn is never coming here
No new day is being born
The sun will not be rising
Night will not turn into morn
Caught in a painful silence
All earthly life is stilled
The source of this disaster
Is a promise unfulfilled
The promise that you made me
The cruel game you played
The dark truth echoes bleakly
In the heart that you betrayed
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
Sorrow found me, he found me in my bed, he came in through my heart, and lodged there in my head.
He was rather rude you see, he didn’t ask if he could stay, he told me that recent circumstances had lead him straight this way.
"What ever do you mean" I said, and he pointed to my heart, "It’s broken into pieces, you’ve all but fallen apart."
At this I exclaimed, and looked down at my chest, he was right, my heart, it was a complete mess.
I stood back for a moment and wondered what to do, sorrow looked at me bleakly, and said as if on cue.
"There’s nothing that can be done here, I’m telling you all is lost, you better make some room, because I’m staying at all cost."
With that I shook my head, and realised with a start, that sorrow was but an illusion, and I alone had the power to fix my heart.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
We would meet most Sunday mornings,
always before 10 o'clock, when the dew from the night before
was still blanketing the grass
and the birds were still sleeping silently,
the trees cracking as they awakened from their slumber
and fog still hanging above the air like a burden.
We would meet outside of the public house,
a sign of green metal with gold lettering hung just outside
the door, welcoming cyclists and families;
advertising their beautiful beer garden which we would
often traipse through,
admiring the rose bush that the landlady planted some years ago,
and sometimes stopping to run our hands through the water
of the water feature which stood proudly in the corner.
Brick dust would hang about the air, as we perched our bodies
against the structure of the decaying wall outside the pub,
holding onto each other with our faces pressed incredibly close together,
your hands in my back pockets
and my lips pressed firmly to yours.
We'd often walk hand in hand,
passing dog walkers and old couples, who would
smile and say 'good morning' to us before passing on their way,
and you'd always be so polite to them,
and offer them smokes.
You took me to a bench by Aubrey Pond one time;
and you sat with me, taking my hand in your own
and pressing your mouth to my cheek,
"darling there is something I must tell you"
you muttered
and for a moment my heart froze and my brow furrowed
"I leave tomorrow evening," you paused.
"I won't be back."
-
It is only now, that six full months have passed,
that I have stopped to notice the dew on the grass,
and the silence of the birds
and the cracking of the trees.
I no longer read the gold lettering of the metal sign
that hangs precariously just outside of the pub door,
advertising its awfully kept garden,
and rose bushes planted by a mad old woman,
who paid a small fortune for a badly placed water feature.
I no longer invite strangers to converse with me,
and I most certainly do not acknowlegde their kind words,
and I refuse to give them smokes.
The couples will sneer at me abnoxiously and they will be
shoved on their way,
as I stare bleakly at the ground on which I walk upon,
and scuff my feet against the ***** path of the
frightening woodland.
You took me to Aubrey Pond one time;
and you sat with me, taking my hand in your own
and pressing your mouth to your cheek.
And I never saw you again.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
driving past red
calming hues of blues and greens
nature's imitator, bleakly, but resilient
if I were the ant I would step on me, too
often I am, but disguised
cracks in the sidewalk are cracks in my exterior
I paint myself thin upon tree branches
I drip - drip with gravity's whim
blurry-eyed and sleep-deprived
glutton for existing as such
in my hands, crumbled, dry leaves
relish in the ending of acts
misguided attempts at steeping leaves
harvested during new moon
tranquility is unreached at current times
I am always sure to remind what's forgotten
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
The fallow flags lull in a languid sway at half-staff
flaccid reminders for those who quickly forget
limp in the wind as faint as that day
commemoration of anniversaries' memorization's
plaintive anguished lamentations jeering at
the stuffy affected and tired testimonials
torpid, dense and listless as the President's third rehearsed
recited repeated languorous speech of the day
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
Simplistic majestic magician
That weaves cloth
Of nothing that is supposed fine
Round about fanatics
With no one around
But the mechanics
We are the lost age
With no sage but the voice
Of a 70's page
We revolt against
Nothing
But the sins of common human torture
Could it be?
Could it be?
That we have reached a modern
Utopia washed over with numbers and bummers?
"Eee gad!" screams the man
"Too bad!" says the unclad band
"So sad!" says the rest of the pickled sand
Young reefs bubbling in a restless wheeze
Torture awaits the man that sits in ye' pasture
Time is no friend of yours or
Mine
Bricks break faster then the heart does
For they build buildings
Where hearts can break
Inside themselves
As doves shatter in winged' flight
All the while blinking alone
In the blankness of the starry hot night
Ohh Demetrius that awaited a party
That never got started
Because he believed it was cool to be tarty
Too see is to
See
What your head
Wants to believe
Another night past round the blast
Where Chicago blistered bleakly
And the lights were turned right out
Out and fast and out and cast
Fish a' bleedin' orange
Orange and rocky sands
A letter opened itself
To a lover that did not
Want to feel or see
She read it out loud
To the pitch of a sound
She never meant to reach
Imaginary sentimentalists
That persuade themselves
That they are no man
Nor hold no
Robotic hand
They are
The children
Of the
Evolution
Evolution.
What a silly
Bourgeois
Excuse
To me
Tis' just another excuse
To fend off
The
Noose
May 9, 2011
May 9, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
Once again here I am,
Lost in the silence occasioned
By you and your choosing,
Not mine,
But in part through me
And my inability to calm
Us when we row,
Here I am alone in
That most dreadful of ways,
Outside the light of your love,
Outside the warmth of
Our embrace - that hug which
Means so very much
To this tortured heart,
Here I am,
Alone with my thoughts,
Alone in the cold and the darkness
Bleakly aware of your absence,
The lack of you is a visceral aching pain
That tears and coils inside me
As I pen this verse,
And we are close now
To that joy we both desire,
Because we have both been
Heard at last my love,
And the hearing has made a difference
That dispelled the need for you
To fight or me fight back,
And that cease is vital
To both of us because
For my part at least,
And I hope yours too,
I love what we have when
It works,
Im not ready to say goodbye.
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 10:43 AM UTC
I said to her bleakly,
"Honey, there's no space for you anymore."
She collapsed my cabinets of memories
locked in my mind
and made a mess out of the images
that once stole my heart
and the tears drowned out
every last bit of emptiness I had inside me
so I had to say goodbye,
so long,
and thanks for dying for me.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
swooshed the wind right through me
as bleakly whispered in my ear
the unspoken muzzy words
left my stun as they steer
for now I knew something
I knew not before
as I saw the utmost ray of hope
consumed by the darkness
craving for more
such was its haste
mollifying the very urge
just like sun relieves its ray
right at its verge
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:13 PM UTC
Deep like a river
As it rolls slowly on to the sea,
The constant current,
Here: swift;
Here: slow; but always
Moving on to the finish,
Cannot be stopped, cannot be altered.
And this river, the long, long river, it
Ends too soon. It rushes into the eternal sea,
Cannot be turned back as it passes through.
Here: it goes over rocks, faster and faster still,
‘Till it drops off,
Landing bleakly at the bottom.
And it rolls on through the ancient land to its own
Demise in the sea,
Where every river must end. Time carries it out to its
End.
All must come to an eventual end:
In the eternal sea.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
disjointed words and
tongue that are numb to icy
chattering teeth, cold
against the tender
roof of a bleakly set mouth
lips raw, tired as
the incessant maw of the
arctic tempest bites
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 2:41 AM UTC
Once upon a time my name
Was bloodlust,
And in its Stygian fury I came
Like thermonuclear landscaping.
I became that furnace
Into which all
Bad ideas are tossed, and which
Generates the white hot,
Ghost hound heat
To fuel a motor,
To fill a peoples’ festering maw,
Their yawning, gurgling need
For macabre dances,
And human plane crashes.
It went like that for uncounted eons,
Only mentioned in bleakly
Humorous passing,
And spoken by dry tongues, and
Unbrushed teeth.
I danced, and crashed, and
Held court on Hell’s balcony
While the sun shed morning blood,
Again and again.
All the while, black smoke built up like
Silt on the popcorn ceiling.
That **** ceiling, which dropped
Little dreams and teasers on the carpet
To be pried out by desperate fingers
Which only proved themselves to be plaster
After I had snorted them.
That **** ceiling.
The audience, for being so large, was so quiet
Biting their knuckles, and waiting, breathless
For the final blitzkrieg that would have rendered my Poland
A cratered waste.
I did not want to disappoint, crawling like a pig
Sniffing, searching, sweating, and
Not wanting to let them down.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC