"exhausts" poems
Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little ****** skirts!
There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep! -
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colorless. Colorless.
15.5k
i am so tired
but
everything that
exhausts me
keeps me
awake
at night
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
Dear life, what is it that makes you take on a journey which always leads towards an unavoidable, devestating yet resenting death ?
Since I cannot understand it fully I wander upon this world without finding any clear answers to satisfy the curiousity my heart bears.
In the realm of dreams I find rest, as my mind engages into this illusion and frees me from this reality for as long as my body pleases.
Awakened by loitering darkness, these questions are repeating themselves on a path of recurrance, without decreasing in strengh.
As my breath dies while feeling the agony, flames of hatred are seeping through my fragile, delicate existence, giving energy.
Rumbling, boiling in sadness I tell myself that anyone's forgiveness is not neccesary, losing control over this riot of pure fury without heart.
Looking back a thousand times, it remains as my very best choice.
Letting these emotions race, rage and rampage uncontrollably
Whilst losing ones self within a lunatic laughter to release pressure
I cannot stop these tears, pitying the past long gone rolling down my cheeks, moistening the very soil I am growing on, as a pure lily
Until the moment comes in which my body exhausts itself and allows me to enter the world of dreams, where despair fades into happiness.
Until the sun rises once again
~ Umi
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
Dont you ever get tired
Tired of this day and last night
Tired of drinking coffee made from the gravy of a cows ****
Or tired from the vile armpits plastered in your face on the tube
I get tired
Tired of drivers that try and cut me in two like their scissors or something
Tired of so called men in cars with big exhausts and white vests parking in A disabled bay or parent and child when they are by themselves
I get tired too
Tired of all the fake news on the tv about a failed pop star loosening their Clothes whilst kids around the world starve
Tired of politicians telling me how much better off I am than i was 5 years Ago ....really !!!
Tiring aint it
Tired of people always moaning yet seeing them never take a step to Change their life's
Tired of the world in debt to itself from this so called money that doesn't Even exist
I'm tired of all this
Why cant we live together
Why do we do such harm
I want to live in heavens eyes
I want to live the land
Why do we fight for dusty tracks
Such evils are not born
It's time for us to change our rights
I'm tired of all this harm
So tired
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
There is a pear above me
hovering reluctantly.
It's skin firm,
the colour of meadows in the midst
of spring.
Tightly it clung
to that little stem on the branch
which exerted much effort
to keep it away from the ground.
It looked down on me
wanting badly to be picked.
To be kept inside my pocket
safe - and could be taken out
in dark moments for company.
It could also be tossed roughly in the sack
to migle with other pears.
Scratched pears.
Battered pears.
Broken pears.
Happy pears.
Wounded pears.
Rotten pears.
Abandoned pears.
Neglected pears.
Hate pears.
Love pears.
But it clings, above me
completely out of reach.
It sways in the wind,
impossible to be climbed.
And all I can do
is wait here,
down here, down below
until time exhausts the branch
until it decides to push my pear away
in moments when I am most unprepared.
It will fall on the ground
and I won't be there to catch it - like people execute to people.
Its flesh will cover the pavement
the soil will sap its juice.
It will kiss the soles of my shoes when I passed by
Its remnants will knock, then eventually pound.
And I will see that my untouchable pear
has been reassembled to be a ruin
that shelters history
that homes the history people
with historical names
and historical nails
and historical breath.
That house will contain the smell of oil lamps
lost letters, burnt maps and scarred love
and my pear will accompany the parchment
that human thoughts choose to abandon.
Until then,
I will not be writing for a while.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
The hardest part is letting you walk out the door
Back to your life
That I know hurts you
That I know exhausts you
That consumes you
I want to be there for you
To take away the hurt
I want you to be yourself again
To be happy
To be free
To say and do what makes you content
Without regret
I adore touching you
Kissing you
Loving you
The taste of your lips on mine
The touch of your tongue on mine
Every caress carves with such intensity
Sometimes too unbearable
Because I want this so much
With you
Your touches
Your closeness
Your warmth
Makes me whole again
I will wait for you
My door remains open
I will let you in
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 6:15 AM UTC
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth—
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.
4.4k
i bought a pack of cigarettes tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i sat on the stairs in the yard of the old house with its walls crumbling,
with its facade turned to dust.
the air was so cold it stung my fingers, frost licking my face,
turning my cheeks blood-red but nothing hurt
as much as you do.
i smoked a cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the smoke filled me up and i feared
it would leak out of all the holes you punched in me.
it didn't. i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like drowning.
like your mouth on my mouth, like your teeth on my neck.
i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like you
so i liked it.
who cares i almost died.
i smoked a second cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
nicotine ran in my veins,
blue rivers along my pale skin and it felt, it really felt
a lot like love. a lot like you. a lot like us.
galaxies scattered across my skin, poison running in my blood,
yes, it felt a lot like us.
i didn't choke this time, but i think you would have laughed
at the way i ******
on the cigarette ****
i smoked a third cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i swallowed cancer like a drug and it stung
at the back of my throat, and it burned and it burned and it burned
as ash gathered at the burning end
and fell to the ground like snowflakes,
little flakes of ash on my sneakers
and it reminded me of your kisses a little, i didn't choke this time.
i laughed. a bitter laugh.
you hurt at the back of my mind as i put
the cigarette out and i thought about the way
you'd look at me, boldness in your eyes, hair a little all over
the place and your mouth
shaped in a little "o"
as you blew circles of smoke out.
i smoked a fourth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the cold stung but not as much as my lungs burnt and my brain burned
and you hurt.
i blew smoke out but never quite like you did,
and i thought it looked and was a little
ridiculous maybe
to burn the leaves of a plant wrapped in paper
and fill our fragile bodies with the exhausts
we breathe out smoke like broken steam engines,
ain't it funny, haha.
you'd laugh, harshly, you'd bite me, you were always
a little rough.
i smoked a fifth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
it's not half as venomous as you were, i decided.
i put it out.
cigarettes are so not worth the hype.
you were.
you are.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
we share this space
we share this union
but i cannot be further away from you.
your faults make me cringe
your dependancy on praise exhausts me.
the narcissist is in you
feeds the bitterness in me.
i had hoped that you would come to take me away
and now i am sailing this boat alone.
i hate it when people ask
how i am.
cause i cant tell them,
the infinity of depair
you bring upon me.
they all bask in your glorious smile,
and your casual demeanor.
but they never see
the insecurity
the neediness
the demands
the dissapointments
the sulking
the depression
the anger
the violence
the fear i feel around you.
so i fight against a ghost,
lash out at the wind.
and i grow ever more lonely.
cause you are too stuck in your own pain,
to see me slipping away.
Jan 26, 2010
Jan 26, 2010 at 11:05 PM UTC
In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast Savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.
Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.
Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.
If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs —
Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?
Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.
3.6k
I am tired.
I am tired of not sleeping. Tired of trying to stay awake, because each time I try to sleep every bad thought and guilty feeling consumes my mind’s fatigue and internalises the stress into energy. My anxiety can keep my mind running all night long. I am tired of running without crossing any distance. Running without moving is an exercise my mind is too out of shape to survive. I’m tired of running away. Each step pounds the point home that I am a coward. Each pound pushes the earth down until it reaches the other-side, causing another step along the way. The eternal footrace soldiers on thanks to the anxiety engine.
I’m tired of fear. Repetitive worry exhausts every other thought from existing, so fear becomes the constant state. I’m so fluent in fear that I twitch at every sound and grip at every surface. My mouth is so prepared to scream that simple phrases of love and compassion, or even pleasantries and common courtesy involve intense concentration to untie my tongue.
I am tired of the silence. Silence from those who don’t have the seconds to spare to consider these issues, silence from the loved ones who refuse to understand, silence from the health professionals who seem to know more about pushing drugs then pushing information. I am tried of the silence I am shackled to by a condition that hides in thousands of names and symptoms.
I am tired of crying. I am tired of being unable to control a torrent of pointless salt and shame every time I need to ask a question in a train station or a bank. Countless scenarios with incalculable varying outcomes drain me, I cannot prepare for technology to fail, for accidents, for unhinged passers by or the end of the world. I cannot prepare for anything. I cannot control anything. Not even tears.
I am tired of not sleeping, I am tired of not waking, I am tired of running and running away, I am tired of crying, I am tired of caring, I am tired of dreaming, I am tired of trying… I am tired of being tired.
So ******* tired.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Hot boys express emotion
in the resonance and width of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and bitch-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.
Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.
Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist.
Wait for what she will tell us.
True, our breath echoes the sea’s
sweeping tide. The inky bleeding
of saltwater that calms and soaks.
Drenched, this collective exhale.
I’ve always preferred silk over velvet;
that’s what the sea is. Silk over velvet.
The moon has seen every unholy rite,
her glare is cast cold. Over the Mysteries,
over me. Every pulse of her is lapped
up by the sea beneath. This shared breath
is echoed in the sea is echoed in the moon;
the universe folds itself. Lives inside a gasp.
Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
by her own rules.
Our stars are fading like so many discarded
loves. The world is tired, she crumbles
our castles. Crumbles our convent,
exhausts our goddesses. Daughter of life,
who slipped through Death’s doorway;
she sinks below. A seasonal existence.
Sunset spills red on the horizon, dedicates
her evenings to us. We exist by her signal
and her permission. She stretches her skin
for the moon. Lays herself as a blanket
on which night may sleep, cradled and safe;
a nest of stars. We all seek Dawn’s relief.
Wait with me. Wait for the world to exist
in anger, in yellow, in rain.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
Caaaarpe
…
caaarpe
...
Caarpe Diem
Keating whispered
He whispered.
in Delay there lies no plenty
Shakespeare warned,
gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Herrick advised.
We don’t
whisper, warn or advise
Generation Y
PROCLAIMS!
We shout, strong, sure and proud
YOLO
We chant, graffiti, hastag
YOLO
We get
*one shot one opportunity
to seize everything in we ever wanted in one moment*
**** the romantics,.
The critics, the experts, the analyzers too.
YOLO
Who says we can’t be prophetic,
Philosophical,
Beautiful?
This is us,
Our time
our chance,
so
let’s make the most of the night like we’re gunna die young.
It is our excuse.
The reason I hit the gas
rev the engine and slam it to the floor.
With squealing tires,
loud exhausts and smoky exits
You can hear me
we are young so lets set the world on fire we can burn brighter than the sun.
We need to do this now,
before the light in our eyes,
light of our lives,
go out.
YOLO
The reason we face mountains
of debt with a smile.
The face we put on
brave, ready, awake
when the bill collectors call,
the healthcare goes into reform
and the government shuts down.
YOLO
This moment, we own it
this second in a catalogue
of years.
The months we spend crashing cars, bars and acting like stars.
YOLO
The reason we apply for jobs,
we’ll never get.
Taking rejection with a grin
we will always try again.
YOLO
it is the reason I joined the race.
After all,
You.
Only.
Live.
Once.
-Kayla Morrison
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
I'm gonna motivate my love tractor
From the east coast to the west
Feel it's horsepower beneath my ***
The scorching heat from the exhausts
Blistering my legs
Throwing back rock and gravel
Scattering anything in my way
I want to see the ocean before I die
I want to stop at the Grand Canyon on the way
And a dozen greasy spoons
And a dozen more biker bars
It all leads my ***** *** to the beach
Might as well be the Ganges
Baptise me in that great body of water
I love huge bodies of water
Lakes, rivers, seas...but never seen the ocean
I could make it on a Harley
Overcome my fear
Do it by myself
Biker clubs are insane
They're where I need to be
I've been listening to Steppenwolf
All my life
Get that hog out on the road
The highway and the hog is all that exists
It's another of those "becoming One" situations
I can handle it
Stay on the state highways
Avoid interstates
Maybe I should start getting high again every day
Smoking **** at least 3 times a day
Why don't I think that would still make me happy?
But it's cut into my short term memory
It's been cruel and even driven me to my knees
I have a healthy fear of what it's capable of
But if I could ride a Harley cross country
Surely I could handle doing it high as a kite
Biker girls, sorry to break your hearts
I got a respectable old lady who won't sit on the seat of a Harley
We have discussed parameters
But the sum total is you won't be getting what you want
That doesn't mean you might not get something and something valuable and life-changing at that
It's all at my discretion
Because biker girls sweep me off my feet
And the "look but you better not touch" rule is a little too strict
Especially when we make it to the ocean
Our naked bodies like a school of shark in shallow Pacific liquid
Just a **** or two before jumping in the water
Feel in good, like singing with John Kaye
******* the pusher man
My Harley-Davidson's caked with mud and sea salt, dripping gooey red dirt
Watch over 'em for me
Cuz we gonna be here for awhile
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC
Before the Dawn Of Agriculture men like ME where slapped into the shadow of ****** shame but now who needs muscles or chiseled chins, great size or strength, a lover’s passion or a manly countenance ‘cause for ten thousandyears now I can persecute any female for infidelity towards ME and hold paternity privilege over MY biological children because we exceptional farmers invented marriage to destroy human sexuality by enslaving women with MY property for *** so I no longer need to share or compete or settle for an alpha males’ sloppy seconds within foraging groups that are forced to share what they carry with them instead of our enforced legal couplings that takes the innocent, primal pleasure and mystery out of *** by connectingshtooping to birth thanks to dirt MY dirt MY very own thousand acres of seeded soil littered with pens full of MY trapped sheep, cattle, goats and pigs which means I can pork any female I fancy and destroy any man who thwarts MY desire as simply as the bulls I castrate into submission to easily herd into MY slaughterhouses that feed all the inferior people no longerdependent on their hunting and gathering skills but on ME to stay alive so not only am I not considered a sociopath by hoarding food but am praised at harvest time like a ********* Babe Ruth hero because I have legally claimed and legally ***** those precious few life giving inches of topsoil with rotating crops and extended grasslands that exhausts and shrinks the earth, MY earth MY reign of forcing agricultural workers to bend over in the fields, stupidly exposing hairless backs to sun poisoning instead of their protective hunters’ heads of hair harvesting MY food that shrinks the testicles of everyone who is forced to feed on the cheap calories of MY industrialized plants and animals that lowers fertility, but who needs big ***** anymore when you don’t have to **** larger animals in order to survive or attract females with your superior physical attributes proving I am the social parasite Sultan of Swat who grows fat on the food I’ve seized by stealingPaleo land in the name of government protected ownership.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
Your smug
exhausts me.
Wasted,
under desert skies by
stagnant waters reflected
in your shades, and--
I had to shake you.
And whence the dust had loosened
from cracks
like earth
beneath your skin,
I was afraid
and fled from mine.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
Do not leave me
not even for a day.
For a day is long,
difficult to understand
and one without you
exhausts me.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
We hobble along with outrage fatigue
And watch as nothing ever exhausts
Our Machiavellian leaders' use
Of the media to win at all costs.
False story lines prevail.
To hell with accuracy and precision.
Sowing distrust of higher learning
Solidifies their paranoid vision.
Watch how their destructive disdain
For expertise gains vitality
As people's opinions and feelings stomp
On any form of objective reality.
Watch as they rewrite history;
Notice how data can be erased
As they become suspicious of much
Information that's science-based.
Language becomes weaponized:
Hyperbole, salacious lies,
And slippery superlatives
Celebrate truth's demise.
Party loyalty: that is key.
All that matters is the sale.
Hijacking democracy
Becomes the goal: the holy grail.
Mobilized by grievance, they
Inflame fear and anger. They hope
That we will find scapegoats to blame
When we are at the end of our rope.
A general illiteracy
On issues that affect our lives
Keeps us all in doubt while they
Create fake news and sharpen their knives.
Ah, how they want you to fear
Government, which is ironic,
For they themselves are government.
Look at their smiles, cold and sardonic.
Give equal weight to both
Sides of arguments, they say.
That's how they can justify
Bigotry and lead us astray.
While extremist views go mainstream,
Blurred lines make life hazy.
Keep watering narcissism,
And you will see it grow like crazy.
Their careful manipulation of language
Proves how much their rhetoric's swollen.
The people find it hard to accept
That basic freedoms are being stolen.
As we lament the death of truth
And wonder how it came to pass,
Before we cast blame we must
Peer into the looking glass.
-by Bob B (9-28-18)
°Inspired by "The Death of Truth" by Michiko Kakutani
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
Through a wet night,
And beside an ancient moon,
Came the wolfs howling croon,
Sacred trees breath,
And fire exhausts the soft air,
True Leopards lair.
Lying with eyes of beauty,
And the quiet stillness of perfection,
Silent and soothing,
The velvet wind,
As she licks and teases,
Flicks and breezes under my skin,
And again I'm within her secret layer,
Easing, breathing,
United duelation,
The birth of a nation swims silently in the dark,
Probing sublimation,
Soft and smooth,
To the end of the groove,
And still no more to move,
For sweat speaks exhausted talk,
And pleasure retires to reincarnate,
We've breached the gate,
Coupled warmth smothers,
The light fades,
Woven bodies beneath the moon,
Sleep now for we will awake soon.
....................................................
Oct 8, 2009
Oct 8, 2009 at 8:59 AM UTC
I recall the rustic leaves,
and the sound they made when crushed
under skateboard wheels,
as they settled around the half-pipe
and the worn rails of Peter Pan Park.
Youngsters,
with their colorful helmets and their
better-safe-than-sorry knee pads,
kicked and pushed their way across the pavement
and pumped their fists in the air
as their boards reached the other side.
In this Neverland, the kids wanted adventure first -
the tea could wait at home for a little longer.
But, as dusk settles,
the pirates emerge upon the asphalt shores
in fleets of tinted windows and loud exhausts.
These pirates, still adolescent in their own age,
bicker and fight until a hook pierces skin,
blood spills upon the crisp leaves,
and a boy - with naiveness still glistening in his eyes -
becomes another boy who would not grow up
in the Never Never of Peter Pan Park.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
“Democracy… while it lasts is more ****** than either aristocracy or monarchy. Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There is never a democracy that did not commit suicide.”
– John Adams
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
No use to fight the bloodshot eyes
Stained from the tears I cry
And Your love that is seeming to die
I sit
Light?
I need none, just wanna feel a buzz
Yet nobody kills the high of your lust better than you
That pedestal I put you on has sky scraped my heart raw
Yet the pain keeps me wanting fix
Fistfuls of tears and hate we ****** at each other
Burning our trust
Til the smoke exhausts us
Time stops and forgiveness is brought
I love you’s and fantasies are from silent thoughts to passionate exchanges
We seal our soon to be broken promises with a kiss
A pattern so sweet my tongue can’t seem to keep itself off of you
The rain could never drown me, for I stand beneath you
My umbrella
Beholding patches
Exposing the brisk to my lips
Cheeks would be stained red if I was a shade of pale
Embarrassed,
To be seen trapped within this thing of sorts which you call love
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
I barely know your name,
I have seen your face,
A sorrowful divinity,
Delicate like the pain in your eyes,
Small, sweet, yet somehow broken,
The tranquil pain says so much.
Your hair drinks in the light,
And your hands hold a smooth
Grief that grows deep and kills,
Eventually you will see a poem
And wonder if you are like that,
If your beauty is calamitous,
If your rose petal smile
Cries with humble tears
When you look at distant stars,
Wether you see white doves
Of dark Ravens ,
Or even both in your sleepy heart,
You who hold the adoration
Of the blind man,
In love with shells,
You- beauty of the sorrows-
Have a sweet hole in your heart,
Love complete, body and soul,
I confess your picture is a spectre,
It exhausts my soul
And I open my arms,
Would you run to me?
Would you just half smile
And cry a tear for what will never be?
You have a divine thirst,
And your eyes carry a myriad
Of fluttering whispers,
Words that float to me,
The wrath of your being,
One day to find one another.....
The bitter heaviness of your name,
Angela....Angela...... Angela,
I whisper to broken air,
Your picture is a feast of beauty,
Yet I cannot hope for more
Than a haunted glare.
I sink myself into mortal grief,
The paralysis of you,
Angela....Angela....
You leap to life
When nothing is possible.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC