"derivative" poems
~for L3igh~
the briefness of brevity,
the quality of giving
and indeed, it is a-quality,
a luxury item so affordable,
yet, so totally, rarely purchased,
When
giving up the
requisite,
only the lonely, but
always the critical,
relevant or necessary
exquisite
in a few words
Let us practice:
I love you,
but only the very
first time, in a memory
bronzed and burnished,
putting to shame the way
too short modesty of
forever…
uttering a precious
precision of a soulful
thank you
to a passing
stranger, who runs
into your home afire,
saving all of your
family's lives
could go on, and on,
But that would not be,
A Concision,
instead,
a concession, to the
very few times in a day,
in the world's entirety,
when those are the words,
are only the only,
a sufficient holy,
a devout summary
spectacular,
akin, but only a
just, derivative of,
a sincerely uttered:
Thank You God^
nml
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 8:02 AM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience.
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation. Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor.
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC
I sit doing my calculus homework
The homework that I should have done yesterday
The numbers swim in front of me
Until they spell out your name
I take your derivative
To find the critical points
And realize that our entire
Not-quite-friendship
Has a downward slope.
I still ride that curve down
Pretend I am falling in love
Instead of falling deeper and deeper
Instead of what is really just
Begrudging tolerance.
My homework remains undone.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
There is a harsh beauty in mathematics.
Under curves and over slopes,
Equations rise and fall endlessly
In a perfectly measured void.
Optimized, rationalized, sterilized;
Formulas that never lie,
Theorems looming before us
Like an archaic God,
A golden deity whose
Volume is maximized.
How I dream of drifting in this flux,
Concave up and concave down,
Riding the sign of my second derivative
For positive and negative,
For better and worse.
I would not travel alone;
With C by my side,
Friend, ally, brother,
Always paired with my antiderivative,
For whenever we journey back
Into the past, it is necessary
To have a companion to pull us out again
In case we are unsure of where we started.
Rules and laws
Strict organization, control;
There is a harsh beauty in mathematics.
Order; two plus two is always four.
Sines and cosines and theta
All dancing in the unit circle of life,
A conga line that joins itself
To form a mathematical ouroboros.
But the harshest of the harsh beauties
Presented in this Divine Subject
Is that though there is an infinite capacity
For positivity and growth,
So too is there the possibility of stretching
Endlessly towards negativity forever.
However, it is much more terrifying
To lie in the middle;
To be undefined, unknowable, and to add
Or subtract to no effect;
The most fear inducing, mysterious, and gorgeous number
Of zero; nothing yet something,
Infinite yet not,
The most grand of all contradictions.
A hole; a jump; a discontinuity,
Easily removed from life and smoothed out
If you just apply the formulas.
Graphs and coordinates, integers and ordered pairs,
Is that not what life is?
We live within the grandest equation,
Each our own variable,
Constantly solving for ourselves
With the harsh beauties of mathematics.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Part II of "Got 0 Followers"
aim high
to keep
it low
expectations
such an
Awesome Awful
curse
others infect
you with
don't, yada yada,
ya wanna be like
Tom, **** and Jane,
even Harry, a transgendered
friend and fellow (ha) outcast,
all with a good job
prospects of a
goodly tented long life?
so ya write poems
to nobody
about nothing and
you are pleased
to be pleasing just yourself
in writing you have
nothing to prove,
so read them
like keepsakes
ya like,
keep 'em & me hid,
in the shoebox
under the closeted
pile of ***** clothes,
special designer outfits concocted
so they keep my remains,
privatized and unsanitized,
my equity,
hidden,
disguised as disgusting
but for god-sakes
don't follow me,
unless
you want to curse us
both with
Expectations of Expectations,
then comes with
illiteracy of
Affection
then the literary
pre-tension
that always follows,
leading to
Affectation,
the first derivative of the infection of affection
yeah,
then comes
caring
and it instantly it's too late,
you're *******
right up the mental heine,
lost condemned
ruined annihilated
crushed subverted
crushed into
mental death camp suffocation of more, please ma,
can I have some more?
crap, why did you have to go and follow me?
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Before there was anything that mattered everything that would ever be existed , it was the essence of totality , it was without dimensional constriction or necessitated form . Optimistically speaking time had no relative realism to it’s progression because realistically nothing had happened yet . As it continued it became according to it’s innate inflections as a functionally integrable form . The questionably understandable nature of it’s conjunction was an omnipotent directive beyond necessitated action or morphological construction . The enigmatic consciousness of it’s relatively interrelated conception was spontaneous and yet it continued without elemental omniscience .
As the relative complexity of it’s interrelations evolved dimensional consistence was born. Humanly understandable laws of physical integration governed many facets of it’s conjunction yet the totality of it’s ramification was beyond humanly realistic conjecture .
The organic morphology of biological ontogeny was a conceptually reflective derivative of functional physical mechanics yet it’s diversity exceeded it’s physical complexity , understanding evolved . Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeeded in a hierarchy of functionally integrable forms .
Retrospectively speaking pragmatic practicality is a humanly rational possibility . Rational logic can conceive of individually totalitarian structural forms , yet the implosive nature of their rational cohesiveness becomes a practical partiality due to the diversity of their definitive impetus .
Perhaps the essence of our being is the logical counterpart for the matrix of our subjectively conclusive social fragmentation , or perhaps we are evolutionally incapable of cumulatively rational correlation . Problematic diversity could be perfectible on an individually infinite level or contrarily perhaps ubiquitous causality is the ultimate survivor .
In any case it is beyond our subjugatively rational cohesive coercion to intercede en masse on our own behalf as an integrated unit. Our conceptual abilities have been thwarted by the unmitigatably individual nature of our extraneous conclusiveness .
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Against the saturated
Horizon of dawn,
Loitering in the dark timbre
Of emerging consciousness -
Dissipating somnolence
And preemptive despair,
Tacitly adumbrate the
Yawning abyss.
Chastened by the cunning and
Lubricious nihilism,
Igniting fermented provocations,
Silent subterfuge; death,
By mirth - the inane;
Lament of the mundane.
Fallow paradigms, accretions of
The last gasp -
Evaporating empty liturgies
Of suspicion;
Charity and equanimity -
Lost in confinement,
Triumphant avarice bearing
Descendants
Of intransigence;
Wielding imperious
Schemes of orthodoxy.
Pollard fragments of
Silken tapestry,
Miasma draped depression
Abridging;
Conversely,
Permuted flurries of anxiety
Dislodge
The vestiges of meaning
That abide
In brazen equivocation.
Tributaries of dogma reach
Their confluence,
Watershed moment,
Numinous effusion
Streams naked epiphany,
The precarious vision -
A gesture of providence,
Certainty and contingency;
Gratuitously derivative, life
Equals choice.
Verdant branches of intention;
And opportunity the vine,
Live forward -
The pen, my voice,
Piquant conduit pouring,
Exuberant wine.
Footprints found in givenness
Underline,
Penumbrae of my soul;
Mirrored silhouettes,
Thoughts and words engender;
And in verse adorn
Fecund soil, Line after line,
The cosmos altered,
Continuum of permanence -
Artist’s art articulating
Essence of my imagination,
I proliferate, I design
Phrases unique,
Participation mystique.
Words creating world,
The apparatus of infinity
Heidegger, ontologically precise,
Language -
The house of Being,
Ineffable, Promethean
Literary devise -
Envisioning possibility,
And abundance to allow,
I occur
Inhabit
Manifest
Future phenomena
Experienced as now.
©2008 & ©2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
Love
Is not an equation.
There is no
x, y, or z
No variable
No shortcut to find a companion
If there was,
Well,
It wouldn't be love
But a cheap imitation,
The store brand of human emotion.
And yet
I still yearn to be a
Derivative
So that I might lie tangent to your curves.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
the pitch dark symmetry
of spiral engraved
glossy jet black
vinyl
the ***** claws
and webbed spiders;
graced with impeccable
scratch
words come back around
from dog day afternoon;
entwined in ritual
beatology
technique absorbed in prowess
dedication assimilated by passion;
human form and synthetic resin becomes
overlayed
polyvinyl chloride or
unsaturated hydrocarbon radicals;
a derivative by any other
name
I'll leave that nugget for the pub quiz
and relax, post-Christmas stress;
the street scramble bustle,
embrace a pint of
black magic
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
You need to pay a sin tax
for the way you talk smack,
calling me your property
your syntax is making me
over. the. hill.
I’m heels over head with
you
making me crazy
the way that you speak
your diction’s too weak.
“you’re so nice”
how boring, I choose more
elegant words
to describe your glory
I could write
a five-page double-spaced
essay about you
and get accepted to your ivy league
I could wrap my
arms around you
like ivy on stone
hang you up to dry
on the
clothesline
til you answer the
telephone
I could cling to
you
like static
on your sweater
you better
not
flick.me.off.
Hell, my poetry ain’t free
it’s about as free as
slaves
I have confines, rules
bats in caves
It costs me thoughts
and time
and frustration
costs me more than just greenbacks
and a vacaction.
you need to pay up
talk isn’t cheap
your words cost you
attention
even if
my love don’t cost a thing
I train you like a golden
retriever
you retrieve my orders
like a wide receiver
my language is figurative
but your actions are derivative
you’re confusing me
like
trigonometry
love triangles are not my thing.
our
l θve i ∫ a sin(x)
cos we go off on
tangents and don’t know where to
begin
first we’re infatuated
then we’re done
next we’re inebriated
then we have some fun
happens so fast
then we come together at last
This rollercoaster of emotion
has me puking again
I’m trying to calculate this algorithm
in my head.
its so complicated
I’ll need something else instead.
in this kaleidoscope
I see
many sides
of you and me
I spin it round to try to understand
all I see is a blur of colors
even when I hold your hand.
I wish I could see
the thoughts you hide
from me
I want to understand
you’re radioactive
your face is glowing
even in pitch black
your smile is showing
but, I never get to see
your eyes
make me crazy
hazy
they trip me up
and pull me down
periodically, you’re in your element
and everything clicks
then we stick and the chemistry’s quick
but then you open your mouth
garbage spurts out
I think it’s about time
I take you out
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
So primitive that it should be criminal
like a limited pyramid of minimal
innocent citizen, inhabitant, or denizen
infinite vision and mission subliminal
principled, committed and disciplined
addicted to the privileged derivative
affirmative velocity, motive inquisitive
inhabiting, uninhibited, where prohibited
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
Wanderlust warlock blaspheme rapacity
Obsequious diligence pier pair appearance
Obstreperously vituperative vociferous tenacity
Consortium eclectic synectics concurrence
In extremis extremity cantilever capacity
Citadel clairvoyance pilaster conveyance
Inductive integration interpolative audacity
Derivative factor derivational appliance
Futurity fatidic’s laconic sagacity
Aseity veracity cacophony compliance
Accidence ambience aesthetics opacity
Acoustical articulation intonational occurrence
Apomixes anabolics histophysiological mendacity
Epistemological somatalogy syntactics refulgence
Refractive reflective semantics complicity
Hephestian dialectics Hegelian effulgence
Linguistic syntax synaptic intensity
totally tangential
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
My whole life is about ( dy\dx) now .
that reached me out to think what if we were one function and you was my own derivative , a part of me that can't handle for a second derivative . and all these chapters are discussing the problems between us .
the question is : are we both good at calculus enough to figure this out yet or am I to late to ask this question ?
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
Love is a Waldorf.
A Graham or an Ackermann? Nope,
won’t suffice.
Fortuitous interactions led me here.
The crest of Eebs, the sphere.
A polynomial function is infinitely
differentiable.
It carries many names, and many tools.
analyze it and again and again
Each derivative kills information.
Eventually we all go to zero.
Enjoy it while you can,
speaks the radio man man man STOP RHYMING
The rhyme scheme will further
our demise
destruction
is
imminent
at least I had waldorf
reduction
to
nothing.
at least I got chicken.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
He knows not how the toner trails,
I know how my conduits drain themselves.
Forming a queue while spitting blood
They’re an anemic residue.
He knows not how to freshen my palate,
With warmth, I see no remedy
My so-fatigued heart,
I was a monochrome in plastic wares.
I wasn’t a prototype, but a derivative.
Seclusion I abhor, indeed my life too
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
Give it all you got
Only option left to choose
Tip your cap
Turn your back
Throw up that deuce
But, who woulda knew
That clarity of concentration
Comes from unexpected deviations
From our anticipations
Suddenly
Shipwrecked
Lost at sea
Starin at that deep blue green
Like, it's just you,
And me
And we are the masters behind these sails
When our stories told
It'll be the stuff of fairy tales
The true master misses miserably alot
What matters most is
We take all our shots
So this is my position
Listen up
I don't give a ****
About you *****
Who don't give a ****
You on the sidelines of the game
What's it gonna take for you to lace em
And step it up?
I see you suckers pacin'
Over self-made situations
Like destiny isn't something we participate in
But what if we switch stations
Movin' makin'
Anxious Amplification
Got that body breakin'
Beats to shuffle strutin' feet and
Our music's the motivation
Our life, our part
Art over every evocation
Trumpets triumphantly proclaim the pontification
Sifting, shifting the breeze
The time, they are a' changin'
The rhythms's exquisite equations
Derivative of internal escavated wisdoms
Whimsical inquisitive exploration
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 6:58 AM UTC
the isle meets us gruffly,
ferry over rough seas, meaner winds,
bay size puddling lakes
a/k/a local flooding,
roads littered with tree debris,
all saying an uncoded message:
"see humans, you come to stay only with my forbearance"
But I know that familiar voice, disguised as nature,
a first derivative of the alpha of that god who comes,
torturing me with requests for forgiveness
I am nature too, I am human nature,
and I too,
am not in a forgiving mood, and one-word reply:
Barcelona
ashamed,
the ugly skies ease off and
next morn,
an August beauty provided
but I am neither assuaged, bought off, forgetting,
address the hiding-in-disguise master of the universe:
"*you trifle with us as if we could not count, keep tabs,
and weary be at the newest sabbath carnage never ending
give me storms, keep your glories,
fell trees, drown us, if it pleases,
we are neither perfect nor innocent
but take impotent responsibility
set us not one against the other,
there, here, Charlottesville,
keep your false free choice that
always comes with a wink and nod,
a little nudge, and exclaims of humans doing your work*"
I light a candle
not to you,
but for you
and be terrified
when I no longer do
<•>
Aug. 19, 2017
12:14 pm
Aug 19, 2017
Aug 19, 2017 at 1:14 PM UTC
'Don't you ever worry,' she asked,
'about being written off as
a poor man's Bukowski?'
I answer, quite honestly
for a pretentious, wannabe poet:
'I'd be happy being
anyone's
Bukowski.'
Which was a cute line, I thought,
but she still
didn't **** me.
Maybe I was
someone's
Bukowski, but I
definitely wasn't
hers.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC
We salute you,
Gentlemen,
And Ladies,
God bless you,
(He clearly has)
We bless you,
We support you,
At par,
So far,
Lest you bring us all down,
(That was the threat,
Was it not?)
You are so
Wicked smart,
Except those few,
Who couldn't hold on,
For our gravy train,
To respond,
For those few,
We hope last year's bonus,
Will help you survive,
Your trip down the tubes,
(Sigh)
And for all,
We are led to believe,
That you're back on your feet,
And doing quite well,
We were glad to help out,
Your derivative pleasure,
Just makes our hearts soar,
And to help you to help
The economy heal,
We're taxing your janitors
More than your managers
'Cause we know you're the source
Of all job creation,
Within this great nation,
How do we know this?
Well,
We've been told this
Been told by some very fine folk,
Some folk whom you... own?
For sure there are doubters,
But we question their wisdom,
We don't even think that
They're being good citizens,
But there are some suspicions,
My well heeled good friends,
That what's good for you folk,
Might be just a bit toxic,
To those of us few,
Who compose,
That diminishing remnant,
Of what once we could call,
The vast middle class,
Today,
We ain't even,
Half vast.
Sad to say,
Now a few of us wonder,
If you're not quite our friends,
If you don't have our best int'rests
In your schemes and your ends,
All of those yachts,
They're critical – right?
We believe in you now,
To make every thing bright,
To bring our economy
Back from the dead,
To create all those jobs,
With that barely taxed bread,
So,
While we're eatin' those grits,
In this world that you've made,
With the pols that you've bought,
Just Remember my friends,
Rot infects not just wood,
But your hearts and your souls,
And the Fire Next Time
Might be more than a book
It might be unhappy folk,
With your ***** in their sights.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 9:40 PM UTC
Stake claim, enslave
Falling behind
A wake so odd
Cosmic, wretched truth
Will all compose
With repetition
Til all devolves
Equally wrong choices, with dire stakes
Options weighed, time again
Derived presets, and presupposition
Derivative motion, placed on this clean slate
And left for a lifetime
Of horrid substitutions
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
..
….
…...
….....
…...........
…..................
…............
….....................
…............
….........................
….................
….....
barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
….....
….................
….........................
…............
….....................
…............
…..................
…...........
….....
…...
….
..
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
(Authors note: I realize this is more short story than poem. I hope you find it poetic as well. Apologies in advance if this is not an appropriate forum.)
Have You Seen This Girl ?
I sat sleepy eyed one morning enduring yet another cardboard and treebark bran flavored bowl of breakfast with milk, 2 percent of course, and I stared at the carton.
First I reviewed the measures of various fat content, and nutritional values listed as a matter of law. And as usual, I thought of you. This time by way of pondering the plight of the American Dairy Farmer and remembering it was the “corporatizing” of the independent dairy farms which led your family to other uses for the land they had raised dairy cows on for over a century. And I missed you terribly.
To quickly shake the associated feelings of loneliness, and your face from my mind, I was drawn to the deep dark eyes of the child who was missing and apparently exploited on the other side of the carton. She had innocent, kind eyes that indicated she wouldn't even harm an insect. Curious eyes that would watch an insect for hours as it munched on grasses and leaves she fed it.
She would be two years grown and two years older since last seen in blue jeans and a t-shirt in Amarillo, Texas, in the company of her biological father who was possibly armed, dangerous, and driving a pickup truck towards Mexico. Or Canada.
And it struck me. You needed to be on the side of a milk carton. 2 percent of course. At some point in our life together, you had been kidnapped. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to replace you, to carefully drop you right back into my life. It was a great attempt but finally my belief that the real you would never do the things you did to me were validated. You had the misfortune of actually having an “evil twin” and corporatized or not, it seemed only the Dairy Council could help, since there is no Center For Missing and Exploited Adults.
Big red letters screaming “Have You Seen This Girl ? ” were what we needed now. God knows I had recent photos, and could describe all of your features-distinguishing or not.
I think tomorrow, I'll have French Toast.
Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Based on my work at www.emotionalorphan.net.
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 9:13 PM UTC