"conrad" poems
I could blame
the moon
for taking Conrad
away
after all isn't
the moons
draw enough
to attract any
college student from
their room
but how can you
stay mad
at
the moon
when all it does is
light the
night
sky.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
Deaths Of 2013
My third year doing this.
Paul Walker, Texas ranger,
driving fast leads to danger.
Matt Osbourne was Doink The Clown,
Paul Bearer always wore a frown.
Dennis Farina and James Gandolfini,
always played a mobster meany.
Peter O'Toole, famous actor,
Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher.
President Nelson Mandela,
Dennis Burkley, was a famous fat actor fella.
Lou Reed, is now on the wild side,
took all the colored girls for a ride.
Conrad Bain and Bonnie Franklin,
tv actors who had white skin.
Paul Blair and Stan The Man,
playing baseball, when they can.
Marcia Wallace and Lisa Robin Kelly,
both had ***** that bounced like jelly.
Tom Clancy wrote famous books,
not much on having good looks.
Cory Montieth and Patti Page,
one died young, other of old age.
Jean Stapleton, was Edith Bunker,
Archie always put her in the dumper.
Pat Summerall and Deacon Jones,
played football and broke some bones.
Dr. Joyce Brothers and Pauline Phillips,
they both gave good and bad tips.
Ray Manzarek, from The Doors,
Jeff Hanneman knew all Slayers chords.
Chrissy Amphlett, liked to touch herself,
Caleb Moore's trophies are on his shelf.
Mindy McCready and George Jones,
both hit those country tones.
Chris Kelly from Kris Kross,
Ed Koch is a New York loss.
David Frost and Roger Ebert,
always had words to insert.
Anneitte Funicello from Mickey Mouse Club,
Eydie Gorme almost got a snub.
Jonathan Winters, was very funny,
to come from Mork's egg, made him money.
If you don't know who these people are,
look them up, internet not very far.
For the ones that I missed,
please don't get to ******
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
It's a bad day when you can't get Celene Dion out of your head
Titanic was good
It was not that good
I found a dried flower
Buried in Leviticus of my sort of grandma's bible
She must have liked that part
The only quote about Leviticus I've read on the internet is about stoning gay people
I hope she didn't like it that much
I saw a bagel get made
No one has the job of eating the middles out
I'm 23, this was a let down
I still like bagels a lot
I tacked the dry flower on my wall
Above the reminder that it's $3 a day to swim at the public pool in the mornings
I hope it's not a homophobic flower
I hid the bible behind Lauren Conrad's book
Lauren Conrad's book embarrasses me less
My sort of grandma
Is only sort of alive
I often feel that way
I feel most alive while dreaming of the impossible
Realistic dreams lead to disappointment
Outlandish dreams leave little 'remember when’s’'
No one hates themselves for not becoming an astronaut
A lot of people hate themselves for not losing 20lbs
Friendships are often measured in favors
That is all
That was not all
Favors are measured in sacrifices
Favors are not measured in reward
Today is a reflection of not dying yesterday
There is a one in seven chance that today is Friday
And it is imperative that we get down on Friday
Because the anticipation for this weekend is very high
If today is Monday all of that is no longer relevant to our conversation
I am losing weight
As I lose weight more and more fat girls hit on me
I do not like this as much as what I was imagining would happen
I have learned that being funny **** cool
Like I am becoming
Does not mean hot girls will hit on me
It means they will actually think about it before saying no
To supplement my soon to be chiseled physic
I am learning a Jack Johnson song on guitar
This worked for an acquaintance in 2006
Maybe I should learn Colbie Callait instead
The world would be better if schools had better teachers
The world would also be better if high school seniors paid attention to the teachers they already have
I don't know which one is easier to fix
My past seems rosier than my future
Except in the case of February 16th 2007
And now February 16th 2012
Corner buildings and modern light fixtures are my favorite aesthetics
My favorite building has neither of those features
Those features are not that awesome
Dead flowers smell like dead things
To combat this I spray cologne on my grandma's flower
I have never been to a funeral
I wonder if they febreeze the dead people
Or maybe they use Chanel No. 5
This is something I would like to learn more about
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 3:38 AM UTC
would you mind reading this and giving your thoughts? http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1533551/narcol... it's my boyfriends and i think its really good, Thx :)
Matthew Conrad 5 minutes ago
i could write many things, the biggest constructive criticism these days concerning any output of poetry is rhyming, rhyming tends to disguise the poet in not digging deeper, in all honesty rhyming poetry is dead, instead there's a desperate need for a narrative, a captured narrative, rhyming doesn't really show you anything other than a strict technique of how poetry used to be written, a very neat Victorian standard of trying to not show your emotions; but to rhyme when talking about something as debilitating as narcolepsy feels like the problem is not really embraced, whereby the rhyming only embraces the routineness of the problem, like a swing... to and fro; if he could just do a carpe diem (seize the moment) rather than stress a whole lifetime's worth of it not changing by engaging in rhyme, for example: ask him to write about a dream, get him involved in remembering dreams rather than the dreary reality, after all... he spends a lot of time in the dream realm. but like i said, poetry these days is really trying to not use too much conscious technique of what was used in the past, not rhyming does not make poetry not-poetry, it just shoves grit into your eyes... creating a sense of spontaneity... plus you feel less constrained to be forcefully hitting an echo.
p.s. necro-lepsy... i'm awake all the time, and i feel i'm dead, the poor guy just sleeps a lot, i'm always dying.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
THE HOUSE OF DUST
A Symphony
BY
CONRAD AIKEN
To Jessie
NOTE
. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.
This text comes from the source available at
Project Gutenberg, originally prepared by Judy Boss
of Omaha, NE.
1.3k
As the warmth of the sunlight lightly kissed my cheeks,
I began to sob.
Of the realization of today's events intoxicated my mind.
I pressed two fingers against the corner of a cross -
Inscribed into the wall by a fellow Conrad.
Who had also disobeyed, who had broken the rules.
Maybe they had committed mutiny
Or cowardice, or desertion.
Perhaps they were scared,
Perhaps they'd had enough,
Perhaps they just missed home.
We can only ever guess now,
Because dawn came and the pole stood tall.
Killed by their own. Friendly fire.
Who were also suffering and traumatized.
But for the act they were about to commit
Would not take it to the extremes that I had.
Or any of the people that had abused these 4walls before me.
Which one of them would do it?
What final blow would cause the end to my life?
Because for all of us it was never really if we died.
Instead the question was when.
My name is Herbert Morris
I am 17 years old.
I fought in the British West Indies Regiment, until
The date is 20th September 1917.
And today is the day.
For I had escaped
But they found me.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
Will I die in the battle?
I must remain strong in the saddle
Soldier’s thoughts having one mind
Will I still be alive?
The enemy could be a few feet away
As a Soldier, I cannot be a coward and go astray
I must stay alert and be focused
My Code of Honor
Concentration on the battle
Regardless of Bombs and Ammunition
Sunrise and Sundown a Soldier’s responsibility to stand
Salute at command
Yet a thought of Dead or Alive
It’s a Soldier’s commitment to strive
Tomorrow is fighting at the present
I am a Soldier and I must represent
Can’t turn back would be a resent
There had been times I would often cry
I felt one day I would be dead being a goodbye
But I was given the command to guard the front line
However, I was assured I was covered by the Lord
God instilled I wasn’t alone
Even during the time the Commander said to be at ease
I felt the comfort of God’s refreshing encouraging breeze
Stay the Course
God is the guiding light being the force
Battles will always have battles
But I can’t let anything make me rattle
Oh yes, stand and be firm while holding on to the saddle
Remain Strong
Help your fellow Conrad’s in getting along
I am on the battlefield where I belong
No matter what the circumstance
I have been given the chance
The enemy could one day attack on a prance
But it is the pride in being a soldier
One life but live it to the fullest in war
I am a Soldier
Bold and True
Commitment is my pursue
Enemies could be in my face
But as a Soldier
I have been trained to be Bold and Lean
I have been given the salute to proceed
I am the Soldier I stand
There is a battle in demand
Carry on Solder.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 6:36 PM UTC
Write in stanzas. Think in stanzas.
Speak in stanzas. **** your routine.
Sleep less. Go to work drunk.
Yell at inanimate objects. Yell with
inanimate objects. Fly your mother to
San Francisco (coach) and watch the
house for her, the dogs, the child, the
drunk. She is your mother.
You do not like your job. Spend
your days beneath an apple tree and
spend your workdays eating apples
in any given weather. Lie on the floor
of your bedroom belly-flat and smell
the carpet beneath you, all dead flakes
of skin and dog fur, sinew strand of
hair, black dots—tar or shoe-gum or
something other.
Think on your place. Reach to the left,
your side table with glass of water and
lampshade. Feel the hilt, small knife for
your pocket, small pocket. Free the blade,
feel the grooves, gold and blacked-brushed
blade you bought with a flask, a set, two
tiny commodities that may serve you well
in the wild or a shopping mall, what ever
little evils exist away from your bedroom
with its television and soft blankets, slow
mortal shuffle and modicum.
Stop and breathe. Feel the heart in its
always-patter. Know it will stop.
Not fret, no, only knowing.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
in anything, uncoupled, there is death.
carneys, clowns. canaries, in them, that sing.
soul: one of many karaoke bars
from which the devil was primarily
thrown. this work
of taking, from the body, its death. work
for men whose eyes if shattered would release
nothing. men at your window. men watching
you watch
horror films. the cant of each head
polling, in its mask, a sameness.
soul's arbiter: toothless.
because it is a tooth. the poor, they take
the head of an ant
from the die
of god
they take it to mean
decay.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
*and you now see what they made me do? i'd never thought it would come to this, that i had to crawl back to the mainland of europe to find a publisher, because the appreciation of publishing poetry in england is null, nil, zero, nothing, a mustard seed's worth of hope; this mediation of saving the amazon rainforest to save up on paper and the first yawn of the digital age, among cat videos and **** there you have it, a massive blotch on the intended utility of this **** thing - i'm not even angry any more, just ****** nervous - or as the old writer said in his appreciation of poverty and feeling guilty concerning what he deemed to be his riches (a record collection and a private library): happy trails kids.*
Droga Pani Anno,
przepraszam za popszedni email, mianowicie że był on bez poważnej formy i tematyki, taki po prostu skrutem. Lecz przez osiem lat nie-ustannego pisania, pisząc do osoby w pozycji umożliwienia publikacji wkroczyła we mnie trema opisywania rzeczywitości - tzn. kiedy widze śledząc pisanie innych poetow na internecie - i tą marude znaną jako rozczarowanie jeżeli chodzi o szanse publikacji, nie tylko jednego wiersza w magazynie poetickim, a o całej książce własnych wierszy to już ża dużo można powiedziec o aborcji dalszych i utrzymanych ambicji. Myśle wiec ze 100 egzemplarzy nie jest asz tak nie realistyczne, wiem że poezja snuci swą muzyke dla nie wielu czytelkników, określone najlepiej dwoma obserwaciami: w angielskich gazetach można spotkać recenzje książek na wiele tematów (autobiografie najczęsciej), lecz o poezji praktycznie nic, oraz fakt że nie dawno tylko jedna książka poezji osiągneła sprzedaż ~10,000 egzemplarzy w Angli - a mówie że 100 nie jest nie realistyczne poniewarz na jednej stronie (hellopoetry.com) mam około 40 zawziętych czytaczy - 936 wierszy i wszytkie przeczytane przez tą skromną kadre - a na facebook.com mam 178 znajomych których poznałem czy to na uniwersytecie czy też w szkole. Tak, a więc 100 egzemplarzy.
Mateusz Conrad E.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
Haber visto crecer a Buenos Aires, crecer y declinar.
Recordar el patio de tierra y la parra, el zaguán y el aljibe.
Haber heredado el inglés, haber interrogado el sajón.
Profesar el amor del alemán y la nostalgia del latín.
Haber conversado en Palermo con un viejo asesino.
Agradecer el ajedrez y el jazmín, los tigres y el hexámetro.
Leer a Macedonio Fernández con la voz que fue suya.
Conocer las ilustres incertidumbres que son la metafísica.
Haber honrado espadas y razonablemente querer la paz.
No ser codicioso de islas.
No haber salido de mi biblioteca.
Ser Alonso Quijano y no atreverme a ser don Quijote.
Haber enseñado lo que no sé a quienes sabrán más que yo.
Agradecer los dones de la luna y de Paul Verlaine.
Haber urdido algún endecasílabo.
Haber vuelto a contar antiguas historias.
Haber ordenado en el dialecto de nuestro tiempo las cinco o seis metáforas.
Haber eludido sobornos.
Ser ciudadano de Ginebra, de Montevideo, de Austin y (como todos los hombres) de Roma.
Ser devoto de Conrad.
Ser esa cosa que nadie puede definir: argentino.
Ser ciego.
Ninguna de esas cosas es rara y su conjunto me depara una fama que no acabo de comprender.
952
Whats left from the ball game
I walk through rows of soggy buns
And deluted beer
No one finishes:
Conrad creates a trash bag pancho
Brandon finds an unopened can of beer
Stephens still engaged to spider women
And the carboard folds like a soft taco
When I stuff tarter sauce in my water logged trash bag
I under stand trench warfare completly:
My toes are drowining
Andrew thinks hes a dog
Dwain gave up drinking six years ago
Allens speaking gibberish (we still love him)
I dont know why
Were here.
Each of us wear the same caps
Like a team of washed up minor league players
wondering why were still here
Even more when we have to work for the rain.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
An army base to protect
It’s the United States being its elect
A soldier with a gun
Three dead being among
A senseless dispute
The whole analysis just doesn’t compute
The soldiers are trained with honor
Bullets have no names
Lives loss being a shame
One soldier is the blame
Fort Hood being on edge
As a soldier it should be a privilege
A Soldier too Soldier salute
You’re in the army now as a tut
Death should not be among your Conrad’s on a base
This is just an incomprehensible waste
My heart goes out to the families to remember
A good night’s sleep, but will the families be able to slumber?
Fort Hood must stride to move on
The Soldiers need a reality check to get along
The army is to whom you serve
It’s respect in what every Soldier deserves
Fort Hood is where it stood
The thinking on the notion of could
A promised heart and a continuing mind
This is something I want all Soldiers to keep in mine.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Tribute to Conrad Roy III (of the Michelle Carter case)
He said he felt small,
Like a particle with a pointless future.
She texted the time has come,
Go inside and **** yourself.
In this lonely parking lot.
Words never seem so poisonous.
Couple sentences a new life cost.
Look toward the direction
Technology and evil have taken us.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
Leonard swam amongst the basalt rock.
A music box of echo and tide,
***** pipes of molten Earth
petrified in place. He stood within
the natural cathedral and cleansed himself
of suitcases, old postcards, and
sweethearts, whilst the White Stranger
looked out for his sweet Iona.
Amy bathed her feet in the Sea of Stars.
She left her clothes on Conrad's
carpet and held plankton in her palms.
Freckles of light formed in a hand-held
pool. They bent and assembled into order.
She was the forgotten daughter
of fine wine and bold name tags,
until she left them for the salt and the sand.
Ryan sat in the sun with his shades on,
stabbing ice whilst making a call
to the office. He stretched out on his
day-drunk fortune, collecting souvenirs
and belly fat, double chins and photographs;
his wallet purging in the tourist trap
of old Van Dieman's land. He thought
that he'd escaped her prison, a long time ago.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
i'm not aware of all the rules,
there are too many laws
in current circulation,
that, the ten commandments?
don't exactly seem that
insensible -
the easily digested...
point being?
COPYRIGHT: mateusz conrad.
ISBN: 978-83-64946-15-8
Publisher?
Radostowa
Starachowice 2016
Printing Press P. U. COMPUS
in Starochowice (Poland)...
the book in question?
Πoετιc Oπτoμεtρy
author? moi.
see, i don't know how it works...
so i'm attacked...
can i expect it to be an
act of the Munich, ****
Rally, of book burning...
i am naive, because i don't
exactly know the law...
but poems like
*the Frederick II Hohenstaufen
Linguistic Experiment*...
are in this book...
and on this website...
hell... send me your address,
i'll send you the *******
book, with a box of matches!
- i'd never have believed
that the youtube fiasco would
reach these underground trenches.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
Lived my whole life
near water or mountains
and lemme tell ya,
there's nothin like wakin up
next to something beautiful.
I spent all of this weekend drinkin,
partyin and just havin an all around
great time with people I love.
This past month, man oh man,
did I seriously have to revisit
some things that I thought I needed
to stay the hell away from, but
whoh how wrong I was.
Jimmy Buffett songs and
Brand New shows,
takin life as it comes
and givin up everything
for a chance at love.
I can write about God
and morality and whatnot
but if I really dig deep down,
what really matters to me
are the quiet moments.
Those seemingly insignificant
memories, such as teaching
my very young cousin #3 how
to fold toilet paper, so that
his *** didn't itch, evidently
his dad couldn't teach him that.
Am I still a boy?
Hell yes I am, and hopefully
always will be, never giving up
that magic, that wondrous sense
of possibility.
Is it a bad thing, that in moments
of forgetfulness I greet my grandmother
as Wendy Lady and she replies, "Hello Boy."?
Do I still watch the Goonies with rapture
and bliss and yell "Hey you guys!!!"
And yet I have walked through fire and death,
seen darkness in all his guises,
lived and ate and breathed horror
as only Conrad can recount.
I can cook, and clean, and provide for myself;
having lived off and on alone for years
so dare you not think me a child,
but my god I'll never give up that
sense of life, that belief and hope
that any and every day may yet be
and adventure worth the telling.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
The day started as many do
I ran up the hill of the grounds
I'd lept from bed, in fear and dread
that I would be late to the Downs
We had so many horses then
thirty one as I now recall
Only two men, to jog back then
rushed to finish before the squall
We had eight horses in that night
each hurried to finish in time
We'd bathed them all, cleaned each ones stall
life was hard back then in my prime
The rain was roiling from the west
black clouds had portended a storm
All were ready, stout and steady
for us this was just the norm
On that night between the races
I spoke with an old friend of mine
he the toughest, and the roughest
of all the horsemen you could find
His dad named him Elmer Conrad
he was a product of the old school
At eighty four, or maybe more
this young man thought he was so cool
As the oldest racing driver
I must admit he held great sway
In him I'd found, a lonesome sound
as he'd outlived all from his day
One night Elmer had caused a wreck
his temper puffed a powder keg
There on the ground, a cracking sound
he lay picking bones from his leg
But this night he drove his rig home
it was late and the roads were wet
He'd had bad luck, and wrecked the truck
I'm sure he blew it off, "no sweat"
That was the last I saw of him
his child thought him too old to drive
With no great ease, took Elmers keys
and with that his desire to thrive
Elmer hung himself in the barn
beside the home his father built
I wonder now, if it somehow
had left his child bereft of guilt
Next day I heard my hero died
where-bye we'd lost a man so great
Scrawled on a note, that he had wrote
"I am the Master of my Fate"
He treated me as if his own
and for that I honor him too
By eighty four, he had done more
than any man I had ever knew
He was the last great gentleman
I had known of four and four score
There died our best, eternal rest
they don't make those men anymore
Tate
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Jesus wore sandals, you wear sandals.
The heat from the flames seared from out the window of the black Buick.
Emails from job recruiters are trying to make you work for them. Work for the man. Don’t use your brain. Be my slave. You do not exist. You exist for me.
Washington D.C. has a neighborhood; and walking deeper and deeper into its trap will lead to the retelling of the Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.
My GPS is my angel, pointing me in the right direction. A cliché, yes, but how very true.
The Washington Post stand is blocking the entrance to the corner store like a trusted guide.
There’s a lock on the box that holds the newspapers. I’m a Vietnamese American man.
Man,
Whites, black, Hispanics, Asians; they, all give me weird looks.
Emotions course through the stem.
Sleep awaits, but NaS said, “sleep is the cousin of death.”
There is this beauty-skin book sitting on the balustrade of light green row-house, propped against a neat, white fence that holds in the pink magnolias. Rain drops on the book.
Pattering along the cover, the raindrops, slipping, now running down the cracked brick, seeping into a cigarette **** This is the neighborhood. The book is hope.
Allah, God, Buddha
The can from the soda company is in the grass in the D.C. Neighborhood. Who put it there? It is raining, cleaning my body.
The rain is pouring and I feel like I’ve found my calling.
It is to form the language.
And as that epiphany smacks me in the face, my left side of my brain starts hurting.
What does this mean?
Am I truly waking up from the dream?
I understand. You’re listening to me.
The raindrops fell on my glasses and I felt my vision was changing. The cloudiness disappeared from the lenses. Cay’s pain-stricken face turned into a smile, full of happiness, full of friendship. He’s a good friend. I’m the bad one.
I want to be good.
I want to be good.
It’s change.
For the better, for real.
When it was raining,
The lightbulb popped up outside.
And I finally had the lightbulb speak to me for the first time.
I knew I was a bad person and now I needed to change into a good person.
The car stops moving forward,
I turn the engine off,
And go back to the beginning.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
https://goo.gl/5zvwbM, sometimes a song pulls me through, while i scope around the perfect internet use & presence, this thing (called the internet) seriously needs a navigator, we're on a ship, the skies are pitch-black, we need to find new constellations to navigate; what is the equivalent of constellations in this enormous pacific ocean? i guess each other; because you obviously don't remember the times of MSN messanger, or hot-mail chat rooms... boy it was anonymous then, now it graduated to an identity - basically all social media outlets, like this are complex versions of hot-mail chat rooms, the only defence in this realm is acute authenticity - conrad is my second name, i like joseph conrad thought my surname to be a bit boring.
i found that puberty ended mid-way
through my twenties,
when i could actually hide my second
chin behind rough ***** hair of
a beard - i guess when you're a man
it's not when you hit twenty and loose
the 'teen bit of your age - all the science
has proved that a complete ****** hair
acquirement happens in your mid-twenties.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
No. I do not want to write my essay
I cannot sit for the third night
of the ninth day
of the bizillionth hour
and stare at a blank screen
at the cursor blinking my empty brain back at me
I do not want to attempt to sound intelligent
Suave and Eloquent
like the snake of a book I am trying to tame.
No. I do not want to write my essay
I would much rather sit
wrapped in the warmest quilt I can find
with the hottest cup of homemade chai
and drink up all the poetry I can.
Feel the wonderful
free musical language roll around in my brain
Roll off my tongue in a beautiful cascade of
melodious letters.
Research Pablo Neruda instead of Joseph Conrad
And bathe in ryhmes instead of lectures.
No. I do not want to write my essay.
Even though 3000 words seem minor
Are minor
I am having a rather difficult time at this point.
My procrasination is getting the better of me
and I would rather write about writing my essay
then actually write it
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
I pictured you so differently in mind
I'm disappointed with you turned out to be
Who you were all along.
I've spent my lifetime searching
Four years allotted just to you.
While you...
You talked over me
You ignored me
You didn't care about me
You made me feel worthless
And I was in love with you.
But I made excuses for you
I wrote your lines
Molded you into my Prince Charming.
I made you the lead
Of my autobiography.
But when the curtain closed
You were still the same boy
Who wasn't in love with me.
Then one day I fired you,
I cast someone else.
But you kept returning
In the flashbacks.
Stop grinning.
Stop grazing my arm.
Stop winking.
Stop
c
o
n
f
u
s
i
n
g
me.
How can I move on
If you're still in the script?
If you're still in the play?
If you're still in my life?
You know I can't,
And that's your ace,
You've done it to plenty of other directors like me.
And you've always been a good actor.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
hon-fountain / jigo hudami - googlewhack! by Matthew Conrad
hellopoetry.com/poem/1478415/hon-fountain-jigo-hudami-googlewhack/
2 hours ago - hon-fountain / jigo hudami - googlewhack! among european nations, the poles get self-conscious by comparing themselves as: the cinderella ...
[PDF]WILD HORSES; 'A DETECTIVE TALKS. - Digifind-It.com
www.digifind-it.com/cranbury/data/newspapers/1887/1887-11-25.pdf
here for ten yearn, having in thnt time two children. Fourteen yeai.-. jigo they, removed to Brazil ...... -thai hu hud ami thuiu breds-at-sca;—for from any laud that ...
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
jak biały album Beatelsów...
grafika? białe tło... i tytół
Πoετιc Oπτoμεtρy
i autor: Mateusz Conrad -
nic poza tym.. nic!
plansza: biel
tytół : Πoετιc Oπτoμεtρy
autor:
matuesz conrad.
mam dość, czekam na ten ostatni żart
i moją śmierć.
like i said being pointlessly integrated in an English society,
the Beatles' White Album:
Πoετιc Oπτoμεtρy,
white background
author's name: Matthew Conrad.
Kind regards...
whatever.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC