"claire" poems
Dear J,
I may be at a loss for words half the time, and the other half I might have too much to say, but I can almost always say this; I love you. I have felt fear and I have felt bravery and I have felt loss. I can look pictures of us and I can recall everything we did that day. I can listen to videos of you and I can tell what you felt. And I know that you didn't think I was paying attention, but I knew how you looked when you thought something was unfair. And I knew the look in your eyes when you saw the light just right in a sunset and you knew that nothing could ever be recreated quite like that. I felt the same way about you.
Wherever you are, know that loving someone isn't a matter of feeling something or not feeling something. It's a matter of knowing what you're feeling and when you need to let go.
I think that people know that letting go involves unfurling your fingers and watching something fall from a great height. It's the act of following that objects downward motion that gets to us. That once it meets the ground or whatever surface it is deemed to hit, it's gone. What was there is gone. And once you think about that you think of what could have been there. That one last touch, that one last feeling of bliss that comes with knowing that the moment you wake up the sun will be shining in rivulets through fingers that tangle in hair fresh off the pillow. It's sad to know that nothing like that will happen again.
The sun won't shine the same way. Instead it may simply fall. It won't cascade, it won't flow over the edges of noses or smiling lips. It's the same way water may lose a stone from a riverbed and from there on after it doesn't run quite the same way. But another stone, another pebble will fall in place because replacement happens.
I guess what I'm trying to say, is that letting go is letting someone else take a spot. In order for something else to happen you have to let your joints move out of their grip and unfold from their hold on something that wasn't meant to be held by you anymore.
Sometimes you have to let them land somewhere new.
I only hope that it's somewhere even more beautiful than before.
Claire
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
When a handsome, charming teenager named Noah (Ryan Guzman) moves in next door
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, newly separated high-school teacher Claire Peterson (Jennifer Lopez) encourages his friendship and engages in a little bit of harmless (or so she thinks) flirtation. Although Noah spends much of the time hanging out with Claire's son, the teen's attraction to her is palpable. One night, Claire gives in to temptation and lets Noah ****** her, but when she tries to end the relationship, he turns violent.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Light the Endearing Youth she introduce
Of Trouble Death's Warrant I cannot spell
Meet me this haply; Your Mind I deduce
Transform a Stranger to a Friend so well
I know you Love him. In Degree of Soul
That a Year's Promotion is not enough
The Author advices his Name; In Truth
So merry comfort your Will to adopt
See? Now he prepares for his Loved Event
Inspired by the Contract for his Dad
If I were you, wear those Sprint-Shoes you spent
And chase the Best Moment you ever had.
Once it's done, come set your feet by this stool
And let me rub-in some Herbs to be cool.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
Spanish
Debout sur mon orgueil je veux montrer au soir
L'envers de mon manteau endeuillé de tes charmes,
Son mouchoir infini, son mouchoir noir et noir,
Trait à trait, doucement, boira toutes mes larmes.
Il donne des lys blancs à mes roses de flamme
Et des bandeaux de calme à mon front délirant…
Que le soir sera bon.. Il aura pour moi l'âme
Claire et le corps profond d'un magnifique amant.
English
Forsaking my pride, I want to show the night
The inside of my cloak, plunged in mourning for your charms.
Its infinite handkerchiefs, its handkerchiefs black and black,
Piece by piece, tenderly, will drink all my tears.
The night lays lilies upon my burning roses
And cool cloths upon my feverish brow…
How good the evening will be! It will have, for me,
The luminous soul, the profound body, of a magnificent lover.
6.7k
You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.
Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines? Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.
Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.
Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ****** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
Double red daisies, they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
In a big quarrelsome house like ours
They try it sometimes—but no,
I root them up because they’re my flowers,
Which nobody else may grow.
Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.
Double red daisy, that’s my mark:
I paint it in all my books!
It’s carved high up on the beech-tree bark,
How neat and lovely it looks!
So don’t forget that it’s my trade mark;
Don’t copy it in your books.
Claire has a tea-rose, but she didn’t plant it;
Ben has an iris, but I don’t want it.
Daisies, double red daisies for me,
The beautifulest flowers in the garden.
4.5k
Yesterday
I was just like you
I rose with the rising sun
I brought a smile to all those who passed by me
Alan spoke about my colour
Brendon was amazed at my arrangement
Claire wanted to touch me
Dorothy wanted her perfume with the fragrance I carried
Emily wanted to take me with her
Francis wanted to give me to his lady love,
I thought I was the most important being on earth
I thought everyone loved me
I thought I brought a smile to people's face.
But today,
Am no longer loved,
Alan just walked by
Brendon bothered not
Claire cared not
Dorothy drove past
Emily ensured the same as did
Francis.
Because,
Today
Am nothing more than a withered rose
With my strewn petals in the pathway
And that's right
Step on or sweep away
For
All you people
Might one day end up just like me!!!
- A Withered Yellow Rose.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
I think about our memories intermittently.
They still haunt me.
Especially the bad ones.
Thought about writing you another letter,
but the chances of you not reading it are high.
I've needed to give myself closure.
I did love you but it was wrong and I could never love you in the ways you wanted.
In those moments,
you were my best friend,
someone I counted on.
Now you're a distant memory,
a counterfeit mirage.
I've written about you,
I've talked about you,
and now it's time to forgive you.
Forgive you for what, you might ask.
Forgive you for breaking me to pieces.
Discarding me like one of your toys,
and acting like I never existed.
I forgive you, Claire.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 10:38 AM UTC
Puisque de Sisteron à Nantes,
Au cabaret, tout français chante,
Puisque je suis ton échanson,
Je veux, ô Française charmante,
Te fredonner une chanson ;
Une chanson de ma manière,
Pour toi d'abord, et mes amis,
En buvant gaiement dans mon verre
À la santé de ton pays.
Amis, buvons à la Fortune
De la France, Mère commune,
Entre Shakespeare et Murillo :
On y voit la blonde et la brune,
On y boit la bière... et non l'eau.
Doux pays, le plus doux du monde,
Entre Washington... et Chauvin,
Tu baises la brune et la blonde,
Tu fais de la bière et du vin.
Ton cœur est franc, ton âme est fière ;
Les soldats de la Terre entière
T'attaqueront toujours en vain.
Tu baises la blonde et la bière
Comme on boit la brune et le vin.
La brune a le con de la lune,
La blonde a les poils... du mâtin...
Garde bien ta bière et ta brune,
Garde bien ta blonde et ton vin !
On tire la bière de l'orge,
La baïonnette de la forge,
Avec la vigne on fait du vin.
Ta blonde a deux fleurs sur la gorge,
Ta brune a deux grains de raisin.
L'une accroche sa jupe aux branches,
L'autre sourit sous les houblons :
Garde bien leurs garces de hanches,
Garde bien leurs bougres de cons.
Pays vaillant comme un archange,
Pays plus *** que la vendange
Et que l'étoile du matin,
Ta blonde est une douce orange,
Mais ta brune ah !... sacré mâtin !
Ta brune a la griffe profonde ;
Ta rousse a le teint du jasmin ;
Garde-les bien ! Garde ta blonde
Garde-la, le sabre à la main.
Que tes canons n'aient pas de rouilles,
Que tes fileuses de quenouilles
Puissent en paix rire et dormir,
Et se repose sur tes couilles
Du présent et de l'avenir.
C'est sur elles que tu travailles
Sous les toisons d'ombre ou d'or fin :
Garde-les des regards canailles,
Garde-les du coup d'œil hautain !
Pays galant, la langue est claire
Comme le soleil dans ton verre,
Plus que le grec et le latin ;
Autant que ta blonde et ta bière
Garde-la bien, comme ton vin.
Pays plus beau que le Soleil, Lune,
Étoile, aube, aurore et matins.
Aime bien ta blonde et ta brune,
Et fais-leur... beaucoup de catins !
3k
Two creatures' eyes have seen the sun,
and now their lids are filled with dust.
But if their eyes were blue, or brown,
I cannot tell, and yet I must.
St Claire's an Amiable Child
who sleeps secure and snug as Grant,
but who can tell me of his eyes?
(The city parks curator can't.)
And Johnson had a cat named Hodge
who fed on oysters, and was fine;
his coat was black, but not his eyes,
whose shade I cannot now divine.
Two creatures hold me in their gaze,
and thoughts of it I can't dislodge:
the nature of your eyes, my friends,
your sleeping eyes, St Claire and Hodge?
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 3:14 PM UTC
Darling you know i love it when you play the black chords
Let them echo through the house for a long minutes time
and show me the god in your fingertips
a lover's hand you have with that percussive beat
rumble those strings with a heavy heart
give the dead ivory a taste of your lip
the ecstasy, the thrill
the trill and timbre
the infantile touch of a player's soul
strumming through that sweet sound
It is my youth, my zenith, my dying wish
my every happiness
to hear your musical singing string,
'till the very end.
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
Lately, all the darlings have started tasting the same and all the books keep preaching about the catharsis of going forward and I'll not be condemned to be Lot's wife's' tragedy but ******* this is growing up and everything is shrinking like the bible my mother threw in the washing machine by accident. All the wild has gone to my fingertips and there is no longer an energy to board trains to god-knows where because I know better now.
I don't longer miss you and I call my father daily now and I have a fond appreciation for dead things. Sometimes I think of all the times I prayed and all the times I sinned with you in mind and I know this is the guilt of poets. We are the victim and the instigator, we play our cards right and you resent us for it. And I write to you because it's easy to say things to people you hate. Like kissing someone and not tasting their blood but someone else's and enjoying it. Revenge in, not one, but all the ways you know how.
I often dance naked to Claire de Lune, do you know why? There's an elegance to being primordial and vulnerable. There's grace in things we find obscene. I cannot dance, mind you but I dance thinking you're watching. Much like shaking the hand of a married man and lingering with his wife within earshot, there's a thrill knowing you'll be caught.
Thus, I write my inhibitions and fears in poetry hoping you'll someday read them with absolute stoicism. I dare you to show a little emotion. I dare you.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
She rolls along the high wires
Tightrope walkin' moon
She graces life's big circus
She is gone too soon
Huge! A glowing fairie
So luminous! So bright!
She's suspended on the ropes
The performer of the night!
I watch her intently
As she's held aloft
Then she slips toward the hills...
... she is fallin' off!
But she bows down and curtseys!
A smile on her face
She's lost not her dancer's poise,
She maintains her grace.
Finally she exits
The horizon sets the stage
She is only a faint glow
The night has turned the page.
I'll remember her with fondness
As she danced to Claire de Lune...
In her sequined tutu
Tightrope walkin' moon.
SøułSurvivør
8/26/2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
i like wearing miniskirts and i read marie claire
i like bubblegum pop music and i like to dye my hair
i like rich thick hot pink lipgloss and i like to pretend
i still dress up all the time even though i’m seventeen
and im learning how to defend myself
i pretend my legs are made of silk and i pretend im sleeping beauty
i fake like im a natural blonde and fake like im a cutie
i like having kitten pits and i like kissing girls
i like clothes that show off my **** and i like wearing pearls
i like the way my hair smells of peaches
and i like it even when it reeks of 15 different kinds of bleaches
im a ******** soft girl
im a pincushion queen
a raspberry swirl cheesecake
a pretty little thing with a head full of snakes
deliberately unclean
deliberately obscene
pretty as yesterday’s underwear
pretty as the roots of courtney’s hair
pretty as my favourite les mis scene
when anne hathaway’s fantine dreams a dream
and her nose starts running as she starts to cry
and everything felt real for once in my life
i’m covered in face powder and i’m covered in dirt
and you’ll never know joy if you never know hurt
and that’s why they make disney princess plasters
so when you skin your knees you’ll only feel prettier after
let’s talk about all the junk we like
and re-learn the art of laughter
i’ll be in the kitchen making raspberry tea
whenever you wanna join me
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Thoughts and beliefs bubbling in my head
Yet when the nozzle opens
The water remains stagnant
The chute blocked by a language barrier
An English lad and a French Claire
Both hearts galloped in stampede
The two magnets draw in spontaneously
But does love exist from the front cover alone?
The vast terra firma
Perforated in years time
Earth plates sever the one masterpiece into pieces
The scraps bounded by a shimmering blue frame
Engineering, Psychology, and Humanities
All in uniform language
But still segregated
Even with a paint degree
Does the artist know what note the musician is playing?
A gallant soldier
Survived the war of “learn how to speak German”
Two languages under the belt, but 6,498 to go
Illustrious pride stifled into humility
Will there ever be a language compromise?
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Dear J,
Happiness is a relative thing, or so I've learned. There are different versions of it. Your happiness probably differs from mine, which is most likely the reason we don't talk anymore. Your happiness didn't mesh with my own, causing some friction that lit a fire, at first starting love but then flaming into contradiction. That's okay. Happiness being a relative thing keeps us all from enjoying too much of one thing.
You see, as humans we always expect that the people we love most share same interests and ideas and joys. However, this is wholly untrue. The most compatible couples have completely different opinions on what makes life better than others. This ensures that we have a wide variety of happinesses to choose from. If we were stuck with one our whole lives that happiness would eventually become nothing more than regularity. And that's another reason we became nothing more than acquaintances.
Our happiness became so norm that we abandoned it in hopes that a new joy would come along, taming the fire of contradiction. When nothing was directed our way we instead became bored. And that's also okay because a little boredom reawakens our old happinesses.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope you found your happiness. Whether that be the way the sun falls on her laughing mouth or the music you write or the poems you read, I really hope that they make you see what life can be about with this happiness in it. I loved you so much you became my happiness, and then you outgrew the position. Become someone else's happiness now.
Love, Claire
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:11 AM UTC
I am sorry mum
for everything,
For who I am,
For what i've done.
I am sorry mum,
For everything,
For what im not,
What I havent done.
I am sorry mum,
For staying away,
For being with friends,
For being far away.
I am sorry mum,
That I am ugly,
For what I wear,
For the state of my hair.
I am sorry mum,
That my opinions are wrong,
That I spoke without asking,
For the things that I know.
I am sorry mum,
That you think I dont care,
That I have upset the family,
That they never wanted me there.
I am sorry mum,
That you couldnt love me,
That I wasnt normal,
That other people like me.
I am sorry mum,
That I have expressed things,
That I have dropped things,
Caused a mess in your home.
I am sorry mum
That I wanted to study,
That I liked being outside,
And that I looked untidy.
I am sorry mum,
That Im an embarrassment,
Have caused so much shame,
And that I cause you pain.
I am sorry mum,
That im always a disappointment,
Showed you my photos of Africa,
I know now that I shouldnt.
I am sorry mum,
That I didnt have the right friends,
That I didnt wear enough make-up,
That I read about Science, not fame.
I am sorry mum,
For being vegetarian,
For picking out bits of meat,
In front of everyone.
I am sorry mum,
For when I didnt know what i'd done,
And you had to stand on my foot,
Or pinch me hard on my arm.
I am sorry mum,
For going walking,
For not doing house work instead,
Or finding something else to be done.
I am sorry mum,
For my work with charities,
For my love for Africa,
For feeling there so free.
I am sorry mum,
For having weird phobias,
And letting you down,
By mentioning it to others.
I am sorry mum,
That I struggle with Maths,
For being dyscalculaic,
I know this is bad.
I am sorry mum
For causing you sickness,
And for not being there,
I know it looks like I dont care.
I am sorry mum
For upsetting others,
Being the cause of all problems,
And hurting my brother.
I am sorry mum,
For my choice of work,
For the places i've been to,
For not always putting you first.
I am sorry mum,
That I made you so angry,
You had to hit me in the face,
And I made you go to bed unhappy.
I am sorry mum,
That I was quiet in school,
That Claire was my best friend,
That we were both quiet in school.
I am sorry mum,
That I chose Scotland,
For moving far away,
It cannot be forgiven.
I am sorry mum,
For my musical instruments,
I know I dont play them well,
That I gave you a headache instead.
I am sorry mum,
That I played the violin,
At my brothers wedding,
For you- ruining everything.
I am sorry mum,
That i;ve never been good enough,
That I always let you down,
I am just never good enough.
I am sorry mum,
For speaking about family,
For letting you down again,
And the family.
I am sorry mum
That I struggled so much,
You had to put chilli in my mouth,
As I couldnt do my homework.
I am sorry mum,
That I went "home"
That I let the **** happen,
That I spoiled your "name".
I am sorry mum,
That I do not love you,
I have cursed myself and tried,
But I cannot love you.
But I still hear your voice,
And it tortures me still,
And the thought of your anger,
Still gives me chills.
I am so sorry mum,
That I am a failure,
But I am no longer "Emma"...
...I am "Nomkhumbulwa"....
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
Our adult selves are so cunning
Are they not?
They hide from the child inside us
And on occasion
Play hide and go seek
With them
In the most peculiar of ways
Taunting them almost with the
Promise that one day the baby
In their hearts will outgrow the
Adult on their surface
Placing hope in snow-globes
On high shelves with grown-up arms
So that the child, if it were to
To seek more than hide still
Could not reach it
And in its seeking would bang on the shelf
That the adult knew to not do
And the snow-globe would fall and crash
On the floor
Leaking out glittered blood
And broken crown-shaped pieces of glass
That only an adult is allowed to pick up.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
Claire is cleaning fragrant poo
off her baby's buttocks
and she feels
"this experience
fulfils my need to have children
and makes me happy
but it's work!"
Claire's husband arrives home
and she asks "How was your day dear?"
and he says "I've had a long hard day at work,
and I'm tired
please give me my my dinner."
He does not asks how her day went
and Claire feels
disappointed and unhappy
that her husband
thinks that she does not earn money
and therefore what she does is not work.
As Claire
puts a white plate of steaming steak, peas, carrots, potatoes
on the dining table for her husband
she says "Would you ask me how my day went?
Mothers work too."
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 11:55 AM UTC
La belle lune qui dort dans la nuit,
Sa couleur de lumiere , elle est si jolie...
La belle lune qui j'ai vu ce soir,
Un trainen chaque gare.
Douce comme toi,
Elle est indécise, sa joie.
Le café qui tu as pris,
L'espérance pas encore finie.
La belle lune froide dans l'hiver,
Je t'offre une quimére.
La belle lune si claire, si amoureuse,
Je t'aime lune farceuse.
Victor Marques
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 8:32 AM UTC
In her eyes you can see death himself smiling back at you telling you a date. She has no clue i say in my mind, not but one clue!. She goes with him only wanting his eyes, they're bodies soon lay in **** sweat.
The wind cooled off the room, and soon everything was quite. Hello? sounds a faint voice of a british school girl in search of her Rolling stone father. He left with cold war and the silence lasted long. Her tender eyes met his one day, old and frail. He died knowing she stood for everything she stood for; Love,hate,war,fight, *** and the slightest thought of Homosexuality, yes ADONAL Homosexuality.
She walked the lonesome evening with the icy fear of death but it hit her other wise- she died hopping to find her old father humble and beautiful in the night. HEaven smelt of jazz and Claire de lune, the gods played Mingus for days and then some rock and roll, HA! devils music they called it.
Where are we? and god said, you are in my hunting ground for bad men wanting the clouds. sure its a beautiful place but its hot here, its uncomftorable for me. Please believe me like all the other poor ******** who did. All those idiots and stupid folk queers, rapists, phycos , Negros and the Notorious white man himself… believe me. How else would you live without dying? this gives me comfort for all else is but a ******* lie and a promise i have made to you, i will not die? ******** Is this why we have religion? to comfort man from the thought of death?
Stop breathing on me.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
the oldest profession
doth bring much needed funds
housewives and mothers walking the streets
to supplement the household income
Mrs Jones is plying her female wares
in a motel suite somewhere
those extra dollars
shall pay the education fees
for her daughter Claire
as day to day living
isn't cheap
mothers and wives working the pavement
at any given time
the money they receive is a bonus
a nice little earner
a few bucks can be most helpful
as the family budget oft sinks in a well
these women don't haggle
with their clients too much
they give them what they want
and in return get what they need
a dime is a dime
it can be so useful
when the fortnightly paycheck
is so skint
the ladies of the night
aren't always in the game for the purposes of romping
they're lying on their backs
to fill the hole
in the domestic
piggy bank
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I hope this ol' train breaks down,
So i can see,
The inside of your mind sweetie,
its opening up, one crack at a time.
One family member closer,
One 4 month closer.
Your mind, will forever be a maze,
and I will forever explore,
each word you spoke,
to much love for one world.
Our loves bleeds onto others.
These conners of your heart,
is just enough room for my findings.
Hold me closer, pin me down.
And never forever longer frown.
You have me, and you have my hands.
Hold them, rub them, ring them left
because you will have been a theft,
of my ever curious mind.
Mrs. CC, Baby Claire, and Lovebug,
the names I never thought I'd hear,
from those nights in a red corvett
To the days we spent
sperate hearts
much to far apart
can make one love,
with many unworthy words,
and to much unwasted time,
and many memories:
Baby i could spend a life time
folding away these late night memories
into my deep rolling brain waves.
My dreams are lucky to be holding you tonight.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
Rush, Rush!
Gunky plush bagog
Nugget sog
Peedle glog
Plundering down the boulevard
I saw what seemed to be a Schmagtap
Slukavard.
Under his buttons, there grew his
Mutton.
Mutton branch, penal franch
Sogging down the grittle bog
And briggenfagig squeezing a bib,
Soaked in carrot juice frib
Muggafloo
Plubderp.
Schmubderp.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC