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"carves" poems
My mother should be an author She carves her soul into millions of pieces Leaving it behind all of the family photos When I see my mother I see a woman Who wants to hide her soul in a needle Just so the screaming can stop in her mind, These bottles are rattling in the living room You see they have put shackles on her heart, She can't love anymore Without having ***** in her water bottle. Where is she hiding her beer? I feel like my mother is giving me a scavenger hunt From the shards of glass that were left on the baseball fields My mother used to take me to. You know she always wasn't like this She was strong minded and had a big heart Tonight I will tell you the story of a woman Who lost her soul to the Keystones to the Miller Lites To the ****** Mary’s. Let's rewind time See how to **** the soul in ten years 10- I look into my mother's eyes and I start to cry Because I'm looking at a woman who I don't know anymore 9- I refused to bail her out of jail again Because I'm afraid her kidney will fail if she drinks again 8- My mother staggered into the theater and disrupted the whole play, My cast mates turned to me and asked, isn't that your mother? 7- I had to hold my mothers hand Because she was throwing up the cocktail of drugs and alcohol 6- Daddy had to get mom out of jail she was drinking again 5- My mother throws the bottle across the room And told me the reason why she drinks is because I'm Autistic 4- My mother overslept for my piano recital, I didn't think it was a big deal But I remember she spent the whole night crying With a wine glass in her hand. 3- Mommy I didn't know your prescription came in a needle 2- Mommy the prescription say 2 pills a day why are you taking 6? 1- My mother went to the doctor Found out that she has Rheumatoid Arthritis I don't know what that means, But I know she will still be strong right? 0- She took me to a Dodger game for my birthday. I remember Sammy Sosa hitting a home run that game She told me that the only person that can **** your soul is yourself
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Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
How To **** The Soul In 10 Years
My mother should be an author She carves her soul into millions of pieces Leaving it behind all of the family photos When I see my mother I see a woman Who wants to hide her soul in a needle Just so the screaming can stop in her mind, These bottles are rattling in the living room You see they have put shackles on her heart, She can't love anymore Without having ***** in her water bottle. Where is she hiding her beer? I feel like my mother is giving me a scavenger hunt From the shards of glass that were left on the baseball fields My mother used to take me to. You know she always wasn't like this She was strong minded and had a big heart Tonight I will tell you the story of a woman Who lost her soul to the Keystones to the Miller Lites To the ****** Mary’s. Let's rewind time See how to **** the soul in ten years 10- I look into my mother's eyes and I start to cry Because I'm looking at a woman who I don't know anymore 9- I refused to bail her out of jail again Because I'm afraid her kidney will fail if she drinks again 8- My mother staggered into the theater and disrupted the whole play, My cast mates turned to me and asked, isn't that your mother? 7- I had to hold my mothers hand Because she was throwing up the cocktail of drugs and alcohol 6- Daddy had to get mom out of jail she was drinking again 5- My mother throws the bottle across the room And told me the reason why she drinks is because I'm Autistic 4- My mother overslept for my piano recital, I didn't think it was a big deal But I remember she spent the whole night crying With a wine glass in her hand. 3- Mommy I didn't know your prescription came in a needle 2- Mommy the prescription say 2 pills a day why are you taking 6? 1- My mother went to the doctor Found out that she has Rheumatoid Arthritis I don't know what that means, But I know she will still be strong right? 0- She took me to a Dodger game for my birthday. I remember Sammy Sosa hitting a home run that game She told me that the only person that can **** your soul is yourself
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47
Sopor fuels the pen Darkness devours the sun As she carves the page With beautiful words *Ethereal, Opulent Sonder, syzygy* *Vellichor, Gambol Efflorescence, Effluence* Words without meaning Lurk in the shadows And hovels of ambition Creep onto the page But the mind embraced In a blanket of obscurity Cannot find their worth *Her Mellifluous song Ensorcelled her lover Bliss in limerence* How can the stagnant Heart waltz with stars, write of love, Beat in unison? How can the lifeless Soul connect with humanity? My words are worthless
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Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
Her Words are Worthless
the water carves its caves out of the black rock, little turrets of the wind walking the battlements of the sea's dark fortress.
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Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
the water
I hear the rhythmic clapping And feel the pounding of feet on the ground As dust swirls and dances around While I sit facing the sun In all her divine beauty. Encased in the wood of the red gum tree, I am at peace. Burnum carves my totem outside Surrounded by holy men, Loved ones and ancestors. This is my signifier and protection. I am Miki the moon Recently returned to my tribe Heeding the call of the spirits. My people mourn deeply But know I will come again To be at one with them, First I must commune with the great creator Rainbow spirit of the sky For now is the time for dreaming.
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Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
Miki
I made you of breath of shadows and sunbeams of boundlessness of folding out and in like wings of fallings and risings from the gravity of things I am your leaves without limbs or leaving I am the circles and spirals your body carves from air your leaps toward heaven when you most love the earth I was before you and will be after you, I am the center and the circumference I am within and without you And I am your comforter when the cold winds come in I am the point on the line I am brief and desirable I eat oranges and watch the Northward flight of geese my being roars like oceans I rock myself in the cradle of self doubt and other emotions I sometimes let take control I rock the world like a baby I kiss the air like my lover here and here and there I embrace you, World I am your second Moon that rose from the South I am your eyes, your mouth your star, your tree and something else I am sand, river, feather, grass, moth, l am forever yet lost and not found and I am something else and I always will be something to someone else.
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Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
Your second Moon
*pain knocks on weathered doors fastened ever tightly cryptic access is denied it camouflages in the shadows stealthily it watches hypervigilance enhancing catastrophe awaiting it strikes in latent graveyards the gale begins to form and unleashes its fierce torrent the latch shattered and torn there’s now an open entrance creeping in it slithers engulfing to encompass digging up emotions buried underground there hovering and foggy tho’ murky does not smother but fleshes out the psyche entombed and cobweb covered it crawls along the edges and peers in secret ledges seeps into sequesters like dust settled in feathers it slides through every feeling and when it’s at its blackest it carves the darkness out and let’s in sunlight’s presence © 2016janetaylor
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May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
hidden places
Western Sources Mist, rain and snowmelt gather And soak the Montana crests. A trio of rivulets carves the slopes, Grow to rivers that braid into a single course And the Missouri is born at Three Forks. Shoshone and Hidatsu rest from the hunt, Kneel and cup their hands To raise life giving liquid to their lips While horses bow beside them Bellies filled with the refreshing waters. The river flows north dividing the tall grasslands, Plunges over the cataracts at Great Falls, Churns on the rocks below And drives inexorably toward the sea. Mandan and Sioux Soft flute sounds drift from the Mandan village Intertwining with the riffling music of the river. By its banks a coarse French trapper roasts a rabbit To share with his Shoshone child-bride. Sacagawea sings softly beside him - Charboneau's son stirring in her womb. Sioux warriors on horseback Stand guard by the shores. How many travelers have passed? How many are yet to come? Beyond the rolling hills A buffalo stumbles and falls Pierced by Lakota arrows and spears. Boats in the Water At River du Bois where the Missouri Collides with the Mississippi, Forty men slip into boats and take to the oars To interpret Jefferson’s continental dream - Their keelboat laden with sustenance, Herbs, weapons and powder. They carry trinkets to dazzle the natives And cast bronze medals to give them Bearing images of their "Father in Washington" That none had asked to have. May,  2004
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Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
Missouri Triptych
The hardest part is letting you walk out the door Back to your life That I know hurts you That I know exhausts you That consumes you I want to be there for you To take away the hurt I want you to be yourself again To be happy To be free To say and do what makes you content Without regret I adore touching you Kissing you Loving you The taste of your lips on mine The touch of your tongue on mine Every caress carves with such intensity Sometimes too unbearable Because I want this so much With you Your touches Your closeness Your warmth Makes me whole again I will wait for you My door remains open I will let you in
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Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 6:15 AM UTC
Waiting...
Each battle their swords clash mighty men stagger back, with every hack and slash little cracks break into those blades. Each force of energy carves a new path-- victories told by this warriors tale of sand beads of red spill openly, and more brown rocks turned into blood they are the clear sign to a samurai's way to end. A jar on the counter filled to the brim-- layers of dust coat the outside within the hearts of mighty men whom were slain all by one man; now he old and gray living in a younger age. His only wish was to be a true samurai, one to turn into sand, to become part of the trophy case-- sword in hand and a slight bow he does the honorable way, to join his samurai men.
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May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
The Samurai's Sand
In a lonely place succumbs. To my childhood till this day. Carves the age of longevity. When colors were once remained. Blue captured eyes like fame. Streets pathed along the way— Guiding to a melancholy lane. In times of November breeze. Boat by boat each one sail's, The building's growing moss— that cries the tears of rain. Slipping like a sultry state, Washing what can never stay. Filling through but twas too late. To the race walking in romans. Sparkles every narrative palm. Marigolds that lead their way, The cold traded from warm. Everybody's longing a friend. Dark night was a weeping tomb, In places were life meets the end.
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Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
◦ Blue Lamentation
I’m just a more miserable version of myself and my pen is my weapon that it uses, Leaking out the gas I consume and fogging the paper with words of death. It carves out my pain to a permanent grave, doing the bleeding for me, slashing across the page; ink runs, tears run, but I can’t run.
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Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
ink
there’s a piano player on the highest floor who lends a different genre to the san francisco fog, the same piano player whose lonely sound deepens and blossoms while everyone’s busy listening to their own sad luxury. this is for the piano player who carves the chore out of all those stairs so the burn in our legs can finally yield to our heartbeats, the piano player whose fingers we feel but cannot see.
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Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
to the piano player
*Simplicity cannot be embellished With the grandiose of sophistication Its stark beauty carves out the facets Of the rarest of diamonds, set within* The Heart
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Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
Simple Beauty
I’ve been crying a lot lately. — Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it. The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry. That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die. “Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,” those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it. — Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard? That was the first time I sat on the public toilet, crying. — “What’s wrong with crying?” A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ... — So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them. I cried. And cried. And cried and cried and cried. — I’ve been crying a lot lately.
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Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
I've been crying a lot lately.
I’ve been crying a lot lately. — Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it. The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry. That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die. “Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,” those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it. — Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard? That was the first time I sat on the public toilet, crying. — “What’s wrong with crying?” A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ... — So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them. I cried. And cried. And cried and cried and cried. — I’ve been crying a lot lately.
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22
the skilled craftsman he labors pen on page in nights silence the names and faces of his students vividly painted to him in small ways on each page the girl with her flourish of drawings in the margins of her work a bird delicately drawn to appear to be dropping the words onto the page in amongst her arguments that shakespeare was a charlatan... the young man from the morning bell who dose not write as much as he carves and hacks his words into the dull instrument of the page crafting it in his way to resemble the angry face he wears within this quiet man teacher he learns too from the patchwork quilt of humanity that passes year by year through his world some shine brightly others faded away into obscurity's cage see him sitting in nights silence pen in hand a master craftsman at his labor of love
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Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
teacher
There's a tiger in the tree top, playing checkers with the sun king, cutting light across the cloudscape, as black takes red for another king me, God carves the stubble along the jaw line, clean cut remedy we all sing for the twenty-third century break me down, break the matchbox, light us up, burn the red wood down, tiger's gonna swallow the world, tiger's gonna bleed a rectified rainbow realist chorus, all the pawns are at root, all players underfoot, God's got checkers playing with the son killing world feaster, tiger tiger, what do you fear? oh tiger tiger, what hell do you bear? oh tiger, how death plays you so so foolish, tiger tiger, you fall
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Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
The Cannibal Game of God and the Tiger
Mirror, mirror Said the queen Self-conscious, Not wanting to be seen Mirror, mirror Every day Urging wrinkles Not to stay Mirror, mirror She was taught If she was ugly She was naught Mirror, mirror She cannot feel Emotions ruin Her appeal Mirror, mirror She feels dead To the husband In her bed Mirror, mirror Her heart is failing Her lungs are gasping Her kidneys wailing Mirror, mirror The doctor said She has a growth In her head Mirror, mirror She cannot stand But she's still the most Beautiful in the land Mirror, mirror But not anymore Her place taken By the child of a ***** Mirror, mirror She needs a heart The child has one There's a start Mirror, mirror She's in so much pain She doesn't know How to be humane Mirror, mirror The child is dead The heart is weak But she has fed Mirror, mirror The heart has failed There is no other That ship has sailed Mirror, mirror She is desperate to live She finds a corrupt magicker And gives all she can give Mirror, mirror She feeds on death Each soul she takes Lies in every breath Mirror, mirror She carves words in her skin EVIL, VAMPYR DEMON, SIN Mirror, mirror She moans in the night Her husband sleeps in a separate bed Yet still quakes in fright Mirror, mirror The child is not dead All the lives she has taken When she could have taken one instead Mirror, mirror Look at her now Twisted and broken Macabre magick on her brow Mirror, mirror The child must pay Perhaps her soul will be redeemed It is the only way
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Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
The Queen
when asked the question "why?" I reply by shrugging my shoulders why? I don't know, maybe I am depressed or maybe I am just sad, maybe I need another cigarette, maybe I need to pour myself another drink or maybe I need a half-naked pretty young girl to **** whatever has clawed it's way into my skin out and into the sweaty, dark room I sit in, so it can evaporate, rid itself from my being; no matter how much I smoke, drink, **** the loneliness still carves it's entire existence into my bones like lover's names in trees, it leaves blood stains and leaves me longing for so much more
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May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
confused
From the beginning You were running Searching for The unknown The anonymous The subconscious The atomic particle A molecule that would Capture you in full And catapult you into The great and vast blue Where only far and few Have gained entry to However, you are not You have not You will not You are rotting wood Maggots feasting upon Vultures destroying bone While consuming flesh Flesh of past Undiluted Virtuous Clean Sane Unbeknownst To the carves Upon thy Self with Name For slavery is The Owner of The name A simple Tool
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Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Journey of a Fool
darling, you wear your depression as a mask of undeniable normality- don't say you're messed up. it carves wells beneath your eyes, streaks your face with a natural glow, weighs down your heart so you don't fly away to the stars... away from us- don't tell me it steals your beauty. darling, it keeps your pen going during those early mornings after all the caffeine has run out and your mind can no longer battle the long, black fingers of sleep grasping for you- don't write any more society-approved lies. it leaves art on your skin, whether it be permanent or with assorted colors of paint, that tell stories, your stories, without words. no longer hide the battles you've fought- don't let others scorn your victories. darling, you are a masterpiece, you are perfection. don't let this depression own you, but become more than it.
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Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
to those who may struggle
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning. A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died. Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed. A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ****** Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission. Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous  skies as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies. Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past, a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast. Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match. No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same. Logan Robertson 8/4/2018
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Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
The Knife of Life Carves Indiscriminately
The peaceful river does not sleep but carves a road that runs so deep. The silent waters trickle down and calming lullabies do sound. The peaceful river does not cry though soaked with tears and never dry. A lonely journey leads it home to oceans wide with drowning tones. The peaceful river does not anger no wrath contaminates the martyr. Temptation does not flow to sea does not hold the river free. Instead the river feeds the soul weaving life where're it flow breeding hopes for future fruit and wiping clean the ash and soot. Humble savior of unclean soil without reward despite its toil. A ceaseless flow of blessedness The peaceful river of forgiveness.
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May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
Agape
a river runs through a ghostly town soaked clay red with the blood of the earth, the land is marked with tire tracks like an addict's elbow crease sweating oil and electrical wire, fields tilled with the claws of a paper beast sprout telephone poles and generations of debt amongst indigo coffee beans, rotting tin roofs striped with rust creak folklore in the pouring rain, muddied palms clinging to trust on mala beads are stung with poisoned ink leaked from shrines golden and winking, an ornate temple carves god sharp into a clouded sky its steeple piercing his hands shards of bone spilling ash onto upturned foreheads, sun scorches unsuspecting soil and it cries exhaust fumes, the sputtering song of a motorbike is answered by the howl of a stray mutt in an alleyway reverberating pleas to a clenched fist, an unremitting flame sweeps ruin across leaf barren trees wind choking on smoke coughing up skeletons, and the planet heaves and the planet heaves weezing on humanity's delirious daydreams
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Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
tin roofs and manmade poison
If my blood could illustrate, A picture to the world, It will tell you the exact state, How my heart pumps its hurt. Each ventricle pumps emotions, Pain, anger, hope, Up to my brain, And down to my toes. Slithering through each artery and vein, Blood carves my hearts pain, In my head, In my head. Working through each capillary, It forges anger and rage, In my bones, My aching bones. After its done its work, It fights back through each valve, And pours back into the atriums, Devoid of fury and pain. It was used up, Just like my tears, My wasted energy for nothing, It brought me no good. Just more hurt. And just slowly, As the pain and anger dissipates from my system, And fresh blood is packaged and sent, From my bone marrows, It brings along a slimmer of hope, That this new cycle of blood would carry no more pain.
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Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
Blood
My fingers pluck the strings Of willow wood mandolin Upon my knee it sits The wood of willow As smooth as a feather pillow Atop my knee sits In steady posture In my heart of hearts There tears a lonely hollow My voice shrieks shallow The willow wood mandolin Shatters into splinters Splinters pierce my skin Filling through my body From my heart of hearts A willow chisel carves Away the organs That flow and break From my eyes Bleed wood chips My tongue drools Sawdust A girl no more sits Under this willow But a wood sculpture Of steady posture
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Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC
Willow Wood Mandolin