"envisions" poems
The boy inside my head remembers the girl inside yours.
He wants to tell you that he still loves you...that he'll love you forever.
He wants to tell you he's trapped and all alone.
He sits in his cell scratching the days onto the wall.
He draws pictures of your face and imagines holding your hand.
If he ever gets to talk to you again, he pictures what he'd say...
He would do anything for you to give him another chance.
He knows he's a boy and he wishes he didn't have to be.
But that boy inside his head didn't get a say on if he got to be a boy or not.
He wishes that you'd open yourself up to let him care for you again.
He wishes that you'd let yourself be the reason that he lives again.
He wishes a lot.
He wishes too much.
He fears none of them won't come true but he can't stop because it keeps him alive.
He envisions that chance. That he would take it slow and show you his love.
That it would be the deepest display of emotion ever to come from him.
He knows all too well you're not fond of boys- he's almost sorry he is one.
But he loves you. He loves you so much. You're so beautiful to him.
A beautiful person, not a beautiful girl.
He misses you.
He misses you so much.
The world stops when you hug him.
His heart flutters just thinking about it, still.
You're heavenly to him. You took him places he'd never been before.
Places he may never be again.
You see, he wishes he could put into words for you, the feeling...
He never needed anything more than your cuddles and hugs.
Like a living, breathing, soft and loving security blanket, you were...
Nothing in his life ever more peaceful than your arms or the touch of your lips.
He never needed sex...please don't make it about ***
What he really needed was you.
He prays to a God he no longer believes in that maybe he could have a reason to believe again.
He loves you, Elizabeth Raine. He loves you so **** much.
He knows that's not enough.
He will never be enough.
You were once the reason he lived...
You're now the reason he wants to die.
You dumped him like utter trash and he still couldn't get over you.
You said things that ripped out his soul. Acted like he had no soul to begin with...
But ****** he loved you. He loves you. Like he promised, he always will.
Your girly parts play no part. He wishes you'd understand how much deeper this is than that.
How much you mean to him.
How much you'll always mean to him, how you'll always be his sweet girl.
At least, how he wishes you'd be his sweet girl once more.
He wishes he could show you...that he could find a way.
Tears roll down his face like the first rain of May.
He just wants to be enough to experience heaven one more time...
I'm afraid to inform him that heaven's long gone...
Its not even in existence to experience anymore...
But he'd **** himself...I can't push myself to let him know...
He bought a ticket to hell.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:21 AM UTC
He envisions the Machine as a large locomotive
Of a deep, tainted, black metal chugging down and infinite track
The eternally glowing red hot coals pushing the pistons
A giant crimson cowcatcher is fixed at the front
Scraping up followers; forcing them into the vehicle
Manipulating Its passengers to smash their heads into the Machine
Welding their minds into Its mysterious black metal walls
Stained with the blood of many who have tried to resist
Ultimately wounded, maimed, outcaste from society
Forever marked, branded by the scars of their attempt
When the Machine has used you and-or your mind to Its purose
It shoves you into Its furnace—keeping the pistons turning
The Machine cannot be stopped—always picking up followers
Forcing you into It; becoming one with the Machine
As He looks into the engine room, there is no conductor
A runaway locomotive chugging down the track with no end
Its only goal: gathering as many passengers as possible
Society, Washington, the Media built the machine
Their brainchild, but have long since become a part of It
Their minds welded the deepest—becoming the foundation of Its walls
Long ago abandoning their carcasses to fuel their mighty creation
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
Euphoric visions
Frantic envisions
Body collisions
Heavy prescriptions
Enlightened by a muse that I was happily given
Unwarranted treasures on the paper was written
Psychadelic notions
Underminded by twitches
Glares of green lights flashing
In the artists’ painted trenches
Heavy prescriptions
Doses of living
Binded by ink from a tie-dye fitting
Zones flowing in and out
Lying down for the feeling
Eyes looking up
At the neon-colored ceiling
Ah, is this living
A euphoric disposition?
Defying immortality by a psychedelic existence
Back under...
To the trenches
And the heavy prescriptions
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 12:54 AM UTC
~
*Poor deluded brute
he waves his sword
in orchestration
to a ruthless symphony
played for miserable centuries:
the running of the bulls
"sketches of pain"
some monsters come
decked out in hat and cape
inside the arena of his pride
where he hears the chant
within the arts of
cowardice and cruelty
where he envisions
the feathered crown
Gala! Gala!
"how to see the toreador"
lost as San Fermín
pricked by hairpin
pierced by ragged horn
suerte de la muerte (luck of death)
foreshadowing Hemingway
turns into the troubled sun
and underneath his muleta
a deep red
blood alchemy
his fame spilling out
in drips and drabs
as the crowd sings
'Pobre de Mí (Poor Me)'
to the mystic stab of church bells*
~
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 11:46 AM UTC
He doesn't see past the horizon of his life
He doesn't indulge in the myth of the hereafter
He doesn't believe he is worthy of such a notion
He doesn't make it a habit to put pen to paper
But with her...
He envisions the future like he's lived it before
He sings of his plans that span several lifetimes
He romanticises his thoughts as soon as they're conceived
He converses in paintings and writes only in rhymes
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
It is said there is life out of Earth,
Not just moss or some germ livin’ in filth;
There are beasts very smart in Syluthaarme,
A big rock with a vast digital farm,
Where they work not at all or too hard,
Have one ear, but three legs, walk backward,
Got one eye gazing far far away,
And complexions of more shades of gray
Than is seen here on Earth. Among the mass
Live a few who belong to no class,
But pretend that they share illusions
The less smart breeding mass envisions.
An asylum it is for the sane
In the insane’s needed stead feel the chain.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
I was told about this special book. I was told it was a magical book! Amazingly full of bright, light and insight. Allegedly one look and you were hooked and took! This great book of life baited, charted and crafted with will, quill feathers, leather and of weather. The great book of life highly and showily regarded the ******** the rife and strife.
Brilliant parts of art from heart! Boldly guarded by angel’s darts! Holding from different angles. Behold! The pages of this book mangled, spangled and tangled. Through the ages… the corners scorned, torn and worn. In theory the inseams very weary and old. Amazingly and appraisingly with thrill they still fold! Merrily told
and eagerly sold. The great book of life’s pages is of age, cages
and wages, stages and rages! The great book of life each a way to encourage or engage courage. The great book of life was inspired and transpired by a baby in a manger. Some pages spell and tell of a stranger danger! The great book of life is about the beloved also of
the unloved. Chapters in capture, scriptures in measure, rapture-
or torture. The great book of life listen to my envision with precision! The great book of life envisions death’s breath. Missions, those enclosed in prisons and visions! The many, many scenes serene and obscene. The in-betweens, the kings and queens! Dragons, drones
and many, many thrones! The antic, frantic and gigantic! Magic, satanic and tragic! blizzards or wizards! Ancient, distant chants and rants! The great book of life, a chance from a glance. Traces of many faces, places and races! The great book of life claimed to have named those bordered, cornered, loitered and murdered. The great book of
life is it! Amazingly it tells bits of it all! Basically about the small that brawl. The tall, including some that awesomely, eventually fall! The great book of life collects and reflects the surreal or unnatural. The frail and the pale. Actions hailed while eluding a whale! This great book of life will it prevail? Yes prevail! Amen! The great book of life amen, amen.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
As I walk down the street
That looks nothing but normal,
With pedestrians walking on the sides
Mothers calling sons after school,
Teenagers writing their dreams with sweat pants and converse shoes
Trotting down the pathways with their personalities
Compressed in their back packs;
I like to play a game called
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A bomb;
A wired representation of defeat
An open gate to oblivion,
A flower with pedals of fire
Pollen of political tyranny
With ignorant humans for bees
That “spread the word”.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A kid reading a book
Forgetting the world outside
For the worlds in fairy tales
Seem real;
And as soon as his eyes start rolling
He envisions himself a leader of a striking army
A great protector of truth,
Or even a little girl dancing her way into the forest;
Busy being a child
She never thought about the monsters waiting on the other side;
And all those characters are despised,
In a world where innocence is put aside
Where dreams are confiscated
Like phones in elementary schools,
Where minds only follow
And hearts are black;
In a world,
Where reading a book becomes a threat
Only terminated by something louder than life
But nothing is louder than words.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
Afraid tyrants,
Calculating their reign
In seconds
And seconds are all they leave us
Before we leave us,
Before we start making martyrs of our names
And memorials of our pictures,
Before we write elegies
Before we write poems of anger
Before we cry down our thoughts
Screaming the names of those we lost;
Afraid that one day,
No one will remember those names
Afraid,
That one day,
Our name would be among them.
Ow martyrs who left us a world to fix
Our hands are tired of typing,
Our eyes are drowning
For the more we write down your names on our souls
The heavier are our tears;
Our thoughts are crumbling
Into posts and statuses
But who are we posting for, if all of you are dead?
Ow martyrs who left us with more spaces to cover
We cannot cover all this by ourselves.
Our trials are self-destructing,
Our memories are filled with images of you
Hoping that our memories stay memories
As we revolute towards our future.
Our flowers are wilting,
Our candles are too close to burning out
We have read all the prayers that we know
And as the journey prolongs
I ask myself…
“What now?”
Our rage is dormant,
Our eyes are open as we observe
The post traumatic epilepsies the world is coming about,
Our minds,
Once fooled
Are now base lines for our attacks;
Our hearts are filled with images of you
In an open chamber
Easy to access
For one day
All these images will appear on the surface of us
And that is the day we avenge you
Ow martyrs who left us,
You left us with a world to fix and a nation to create.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Look at your torn fingers
Wrapping around transparent love
Grasping at what you perceive as real
Based on fear of losing everything
You could not bare the endless possibilities
That reside in your flawed mind
Speaking foreign languages of false gods
Cupids illusion for perfect hearts
The perfect rendition of serenity
Yet we are all flawed
Radioactive identities in the ***** hands of death himself
Pleading... praying for a drip of pure water to let my demons go
To help me see a vivid love once agian
Travelers of ancient times define pathways as divine temptations
Paths that can lead a flock of lambs to kingdom come or to a deathly sun
Blind eyes could see the words
Etched deep inside stone tablets
Jehovah be of golden truth
He envisions all likes of love
That wills me to make my fingers bleed
And grasp what i can not see
For faith be the only reason why
I know its real
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
Ever since I met her, I felt like I've been living in a fantasy world
where pearls are found on land, diamonds are bound to our hands
and the passing of the sands seems all too quick for me and her.
I have dreamed of a love like this, a love that keeps me up at night
not from fright nor fear of what may come in the darkness
but the way an artist envisions his paintings and drawings walking,
talking behind each hidden smile and each following eye
I felt like I've leapt on the canvas and painted exactly what I wanted.
This girl, she makes me scared, makes me happy, makes me sad,
not the bad kind of sad but sad to ever think about disappointing her,
the blur in memories are filled in with moments where her smile is visible,
like a mythical creature; I can not believe such a beautiful girl exists.
Betwixt the sunrises and sunsets, I've seen my share of happiness,
my life is one happy mess and it's thanks to that one angel.
My starshine, may we be together forever in time,
I love you always and forever; whichever one of those is longer,
and each day I grow stronger with nothing but the thoughts of you.
So because of you, I am happy again...but also scared.
Scared...because I'm scared I may never ever love again,
unless that person was you.
Happy valentines day beautiful.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
Morning voice whispers:
Stillness and silence bring and guide the soul from the darkness into the door of light, bring hopes, bring tears of happiness, and dancing into the new breath of life, rebirth and producing "healthy baby"... And known that I'm loved I'm being blessed.
Poetry replies:
All welcome... As the dews in the morning shimmering the rays of love to the world... All welcome... As the morning air cleanses the past burdens... Purifies the bloodstream of mind and heart to the point (of no return) where freedom exhilarates life; envisions the paths for greater humanity and God's glory... All welcome...
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
The man blanketed in nervousness
Darting across the faded stripes
Wrapped in second hand clothes
Nothing appealing.
The man envisions future events
Pondering on the choices he will make
Soiled from a hard day’s work
Nothing appealing.
The man clenching the wonders
Smiling when he sees her
Presenting the flowers
Everything appealing.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
She's such a visionary,
she pictures art where peasants revel...
had a near death experience, said she even saw hell...
She sees potential in me, despite the times that i fell..
she convinced me to keep throwing pennies in wells..
not because she believes in myths and superstitions...
but because she sees homeless people dig in after all the wishin..
So on a good day, i throw in a few quarters, she sees i care.
But im no hero i just want Ms. Adeline to be aware..
Everything she sees, and envisions she blesses. & Everyone agrees...
So i tell her.
Never take your lovely eyes off the world, please.
She promised me she wouldn't, ever since she saw God.
What makes her see goodness?, what makes her so kind?.....
if only the world knew, Ms. Adeline was born blind.
-afj
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
Mabel is breathing....
no one ever visits.
She has tended flowers and done laundry all
life for others.
No one needs her.
She has a bad knee and
Neuropathy , subsists now on pain medication and sugars.
No one calls her.
She envisions one day getting flowers.
Or hearing again from that gentleman, who
twenty years ago smiled.
Or her children or grand young ens';
but no one writes her one letter.
In the cold she wears all those sweaters she knitted.
So no people remember her, I will!
I visit and bring the flowers I grew specially
for her,
the prettiest yellow roses,
while she lives!
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
There is a place in our Universe
Visited by awestruck beings.
Where thoughts never turned to verse
Can be rejuvenated and seen.
The Universe has to stow
These lost thoughts for a reason.
So somewhere it springs to life
In a place called Lost Poet's Heaven.
When a poet envisions a scene
Or conjures up a line,
Lost Poet's Heaven, wouldn't you know it,
Embalms it into time.
The grieving maiden, too
Succumbed by tears to write,
Expresses her plight, unleashes her heart,
With nothing but her thoughts.
These thoughts she never penned
Can reappear again
When she has died, and her tears have dried,
And beholds Lost Poet's Heaven.
Lost Poet's Heaven, splendid and serene.
Filled with art to the tops
Of the pink clouds gathering.
Down comes the purple raindrops
Entrapped with your script.
You taste it on your thirsty tongue,
Lavishing long lost rhymes with every sip.
The sunshine casts rays of sublime poetry.
Later to be felt on the skin,
Absorbing the memory.
The Universe is kind, but doesn't want
The Hopeless Romantic to know it.
In Lost Poet's Heaven, the girl of his dreams
Is wooed by the clueless poet.
So when you lose your train of thought,
Smile, don't you fret.
In Lost Poet's Heaven, what you forget
Can be free to float about in mystery.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
Rilke is wrong
Life isn't right
There is too much pain
Too much hurt
Not enough light
The darkness consumes
It cannot be beat
One must just stand all alone
Shaking from head down to feet
He has to fight the outside
To improve the within
The bleakness is heavy
His strength is wearing thin
How much longer can he fight
To feel goodness and warmth
When wrong seems so easy
Cold, evil winds blow in from the north
Chilled to the bone
From a murderous gust
He digs deep in his brain
To remember to trust
Memories spring to life
The blackness fades to grey
His face smiles a bit
And suddenly, it is not such a horrible day
His soul begins to warm
He envisions a time
When someone picked him up so high
His spirit continues to climb
All darkness is gone now
The gloomy shadow has passed
Sunshine has replaced it
Out it has been cast
It is not finished forever
This he surely knows
But next time he will be ready
To stand firm until over it blows
Life may not be right
But perhaps it's not wrong
He realizes this now
And right now
He is immeasurably strong
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 2:22 AM UTC
Western star
I set for hours in the darkness spellbound you held my gaze
The trees and night darkness completed the picture
Your mind races ever higher quiet etude the engulfing blaze
Silver light breaks all captivity you to are suspended held amidst glories brow
Within darkness you are the cloaked sojourner destination improbability
Somewhere in the mix of thoughts for a brief time you are free of all concerns
All that exists is the span of distance in all this voluminous emptiness lies compatibility
Measureless void you wash in great waves against my enthralled soul
You give abundant texture to the wall and windows that I view this indispensible wonder
Because I know you seem localized but half of the earth at least can be held in the same awe
The earth when viewed aright by going to the edge and then stepping into space unchained bounder
Do you affix your very being to channels that gird the heavens go beyond be spellbound at long last right living
You’re tenuous diminished life will catch space in the raw your life will begin at long last to thaw
Your views will startle and alarm those not yet up to the throttled speed found at every level life should be lived
Adventures have for millennia shown the way over and beyond the darkest expanses victory without flaw
Table your defeated hand speak with dignified power as you break the common tide thou conquer who envisions stars as friends
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
I've been thinking about our hug you left me with yesterday,
The one that convulsed my shoulder muscles and made my ribs cry just a little,
But a good cry, like the happy tears after holding a new puppy.
You said in that way,
As you have made a habit of
With sarcasm and sincerity,
"You'll always be my sweetheart",
And then you said that you won't call me your sweetheart in public.
That makes me so angry,
And you think I'm joking,
But I'm not.
Because I can't stop thinking about how those hugs and "sweethearts" are dwindling,
How each time you leave for a winter in the southern states
I cringe at the thought that I may never greet you for Easter next year.
And every time we find you asleep,
Open mouthed on the couch
We only panic for a second as to whether you will wake up this time.
You stand like a family monument,
So unique in composition,
With your structured titanium back and chiseled limestone arms that threw me playfully and carried me as your cowgirl,
And transformed our red, wooden house to sophisticated tan siding when I was too young to remember,
With your skin so dark from perma-tan I thought you were black when I was 6,
With your infinite woodworking skills and artistic envisions with architecture
That crafted dollhouses and swing sets for me at 8,
With your callused hands beyond remission and your ever bruising fingernails that paddled us down the Ausable at 13,
With your steel toed boots sewn into your feet that allowed me to dance on them till I was 15,
With your artificial heart valve and five open heart surgeries.
Once I thought it was instrumental, magical, the watch nestled under your ribs.
But now every time I get that gut squeezing hug as a goodbye I can hear that valve faintly tick,
And I pretend it's not your clock,
Trembling with each diastolic and Systolic murmur,
Gears cracking and eroding inside your kindled muscles,
Struggling to keep up with its more natural brothers inside that engulfing muscle,
That which reminds your family of
Your selfless and infinitely giving persona.
But it only reminds me that your days of rock polishing
And dentured smiles are ending rapidly.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
I'm MEGALADON
Megatrons decepticon
On a upper echelon
THE allsparks electrons
Sparks the neurons
In the mind of the shark
The.volts in.his heart
Embark
On a mission
The autobots builds Robocops
With unlimited ammunition
The ambition
Envisions terminators
Exterminators
Germinators
Cause these perpetrators
Try to invade us
Capers of these crusaders
Is devastating cause its thousands of devastators
Awaiting us
Is the.Originator
The creator
The savior already saved us
But brothers an sisters betrayed us
They face us
Ever seen
Wings
On a transformer
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
My flicking lick
Not the trick to get your **** sticky?
Rather a thick **** light brown if you're picky?
When I'm sick the words drip
And I sip, sip
Ahhhh
Then **** it back and spit it
And behold an angry love poem untold
Never bold enough to hold it to you
Just not something I'd do
But these words are true...
Thoughts in my envisions
Nightmares ask permission
To intrude on my hopeless solitude
And they do.
You're my dry Valentine
I could wonder why, or cry.
But I'll just call that old thing back, goodbye.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Opening 6 am eyes
To squealing leaf blower,
time-squinching
******* tightening siren,
a drone for your eyes to
float inside,
A sudden soundtrack
to text Message suicides,
, bitterbombs ,
from New York
The words pop up wobbly,
glossy, bobbling around
to the beat of their sender’s
notions
Distressed as he wakes to the sting in his eyes
And envisions your eyes
opening after,
succeeding,
Not alarmed yet.
still separate from the void
where his thoughts
haven’t occurred yet.
Projected comics
play out in both minds,
saracastic kids,
bouncing around like
blotter acid making
escstatic pangs of
it all.
While the world drives on
A steaming freight train
heading straight through Kansas
To Alberquerque
To beyond
Until were back again going to sleep
In love with our pillows.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Shoegazing. The first time I heard of it, I understood it immediately. Some may be hard-pressed to find the attraction in the stillness of the spotlight, but any modern romantic envisions with ease the dust on the tops of well-worn Converse, scraped from the warped wooden floors of the old warehouse/depot/theater/other artifact of urban decay turned venue. Such mighty inwardness may produce confidence in the "performer," but true faith, as such a focused person must know, comes from truly knowing thyself. From these fragmented origins spring the music, the serene meditation of one lifting higher the soul of the watchers. He does not know that he has watchers. All is as it should be.
Stargazing. It's been many a year since my earnest forays into the night, trying to capture the clean green-dusk scent that also unaccountably exists in the ugly, fragrant shelves of the public library. Who of those that take the time to look does not appreciate the night sky? It is an open mysticism, inviting, to some calling, with less of the hypnotic tricks like incense and smoky air but more compelling draughts of equal parts mystery and light. Light, for our nature; only the sort of dark mystery that alludes to more of the nature of ourselves, more essence. Future. But to open myself to the sky is to become sensitive, seemingly undesirable to the warm, smoky fragrance of an always inward and reflecting (stagnating) heart, which is why recollection caught me unprepared when she referred to the relation of my posture to the drably speckled slabs of ceiling as perfect stargazing. With the recollection of such charged memories, I was more surprised when she leaned awkwardly back against my knees and called it
Stargazing.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
she sits by her window to write,
ever fond of the morning light;
not a day passes when she fails
to pen an epistle to him
she envisions him pulling
the missives from his saddle bags
perusing them a second time, a third,
admiring her chancery cursive
a year now since she saw him:
steady on his steed, his regiment
waiting, eager to join the fray, to ride
north under his proud command
perhaps at eventide, she will
write another letter, in case she
forgot anything she intended to say
this morn, or just to reach out again
before the setting of the sun
a cloud passes as she signs
her name, another as she folds
the paper; soon it seems, a gathering
storm--she places the letter in the
envelope, its traveling home
she turns the candle to pour
the wax, then presses the seal;
another story from her to him
ready for its long journey
the stroll from her room
to the mantel in the parlor
to the pile of paper that grows
higher above the hearth
a cold cavern of late, for
without him, she eschews all
things warm--for she knows
he must be freezing in the
cruel ground where he fell
(Spartanburg, South Carolina, Winter, 1863)
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
The bugle plays it's song
As it does every day over the PA system
The children rise
And face the flag
Out of respect?
Who could know
When their true thoughts
Are locked away inside?
One little girl
Envisions painting a picture
With the hues of the banner
Near her a small boy
Stares into space,
Dreaming about a shiny new toy
Waiting for him at home
Across the room
Stands the teacher
Behind her desk
Facing the object
It is her obligation to face
She is very deep in thought,
Concerning her dinner that evening
In the back corner of the room
Stands a boy
Straight as an arrow
Saluting Old Glory
A single tear running down his cheek
He, like the others
Focuses on faraway things
Something not within his reach
Not now
Never again
Unlike the others,
He breaks his stare from the flag
Bows his head
And whispers
"Thank you, Daddy"
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 5:36 PM UTC
everyone envisions their hope for their future
whether they want to lose weight
or whether they want to fall out of habits
some people envision having a family
having kids and a dog
marrying that one boy that makes them so happy
is it bad that in my future i envision nothing for myself
perhaps in the future i will be gone..
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC