"exhibitionist" poems
he is not heaven. he is not a deep breath of fresh air after being
trapped inside for so long he is suffocation. when his saturated fingers
touch me I am filled with a never ending fire that keeps me
awake until two a.m. and makes me question everything I've
ever believed. he likes to swear up and down on the metal cross
around his neck and pretend he is God when he looks at me.
his kisses are never filled with love they are filled with narcotics
and taste like a bittersweet kind of hatred. he smokes quietly and
slowly inhaling every toxic fume and making clouds
big enough to convince you that they are skies. everything about him
screams shades of cool he is blue he is black his smile is gold
his eyes are grey and he is the color spectrum at its darkest.
he speaks quietly and laughs loudly and cries silently when
he thinks nobody can hear him. I wake up every morning to the
sound of tiny bullets of water scorching his back but he
likes the burn so I do not say a thing. he loves the way I sing
and teases me endlessly and whispers ****** things when
our friends are around because he is an exhibitionist.
I do not know what this is. I do not know who he is.
but at the same time I do not know who I am either,
we are cataclysmic together and wreak havoc wherever we go
but there is something so beautiful about what a disaster
we are together that i do not want to say goodbye.
he is the lover I never have to worry about loving back
and that if nothing else matters
(h.l.)
11.25.15
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
we create worlds
here on the internet
connecting we those
we will never see
chatting over virtual
back fences about
children, cats, recipes
we meet those who
have similar views
and those who don't
discuss things of import
show sympathy with
sad faced emoticons
we wish each others pets
happy birthdays with
cartoon characters
we share our art, music
and photography
then there are us poets
who write our hearts
for others to see
it is a melting ***
of thought and culture
of the full spectrum
of ability.....
it is a place of secrets
or exhibitionist excess
it is in many ways a wonder
and many ways a curse
the internet, really
just like the bottom
of an old ladies purse
full of useless lint and
used tissues, but if you
ferret arond long enough
you will find a dollar
or a hard candy
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 2:22 AM UTC
Addict.
electrifying
steel to skin, metal caress
most intimate touch
intoxicating
pleasure and pain mixing bold
sketching hearts on sleeves
exhibitionist
walking canvas, ****** art
permanent war paint
*******
unhireable
regrettable decisions
just wait till you sag
appropriation
tribal skull, rose indian
meaningless symbols
rebellious act
futureless punk ***** loser
nine to five. conform.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Home surveillance
accessed by cellphone
as the exhibitionist
walks the halls.
Peek-a-boo.
Multi-camera action,
one of the more positive aspects of your Orwellian achievement.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC
i know you think im joking
but a pervert saved my life
she came to me one day
to **** me with a knife
i said oh no no no don't do it
ill do anything you say
then she said im a perv
and i want your love all day
but to love a perv is icky
your a creepy girl
she made me smell her feet
and dance a spinning twirl
wow she said you did that well
why don't you stand on your head
look up my dress and say im hot
or for sure you will be dead
i realized she was very odd
and asked her what was wrong
she said i was married forever
and couldn't have his ****
so i went off my rocker
not getting what i needed
but made believe for years
that i was never ever cheated
then one day i snapped
and cried for lust all day
so they called me purvy *****
and tried to keep me away
the more i went with out
the hornier i got
until one day in torment
i loved the smell of rot
i fell in love with filth
and to this very day
i have no scruples at all
ill do anything for a lay
now pull your pants off
and show me your little ****
dam its so cute
ill lick your lolly pop
she used her tongue like a twizzler
it was really fun
and then i realized i was like her
and my life as a perv begun
so if your starved for love
and craving ***** lust
you might as well join the ranks
of pervy folks r us
99% Switch
96% Degrader
94% Rope bunny
93% Dominant
90% Rigger
89% Degradee
88% Sadist
87% Brat tamer
83% Submissive
83% ******
81% *********
79% Master/Mistress
76% Primal (Prey)
74% Primal (Hunter)
74% Experimentalist
73% Brat
62% Non-monogamist
50% Owner
47% Vanilla
43% Slave
42% Daddy/Mommy
38% Exhibitionist
10% Ageplayer
100% Girl/Boy
7% Pet....meow
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
it's like watching a elegant array
of dancing barbie dolls.
there's some beauty in it,
but it's plastic beauty.
there's no rawness, no guts,
no emotion.
cheer is not an emotion.
cheer is not happiness,
or elation,
or bliss.
cheer is the exhibitionist,
mechanical representation
of real joy.
one girl was really good
at cheering,
but her partner kept
messing up.
I could see she was angry
that her partner was ruining
everything.
but she was grinning bigger
than the rest of them, because
that was part of
the routine.
part of the
cheer.
he messed up because his body
was wrought with tension.
he couldn't relax and live it
because he was too ****
stressed.
too **** worried he might
ruin the cheer for
everyone.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
If he lacked polish and was avaricious without any limit,
he could have taken her by force and justified that she provoked,
knowing from each move she made,
she was teasing him, and taking it to the extreme,
he may have gone over to the top, any moment.
They stayed in two rooms adjacent
in that backwater resort, a breath taking delight,
in the mornings she paraded
in front of his room, skimpily dressed,
as he came out, her beauty seemed to overflow
from bra top and she encouraged him in many ways
by suggesting many possibilities of pleasure.
A waiter comes and knocks at his door
he gets a complimentary drink, his favorite
courtesy to her(obviously she has made meticulous research)
along with shrimps and clams cooked in olive oil.
When he came out for an evening stroll,
at the far end of the compound, in the shallow part of the lake,
she was taking bath, with an exhibitionist flourish
when he smiled at her visibly timid, she amorously pursed her lips,
she was in an adventurous mood, like nature at the time of bloom.
"Seen your paintings, loved those sensual nudes
reminds me more of myself, in front of a mirror,
obviously they are all seekers of pleasure, I am sure.
I am a singer, they say my voice seduces, all
you to me do the same when I see you as the painter,
in flesh and blood" she paused for a breath.
"If I lacked polish, my paintings wouldn't have the magic,
you speak about; it's not deliberately created, that's impossible.
It's pure poetry, that oozes by itself, a blessing I earned.
There is no wanton desire here. Magic of the sensual
is charged in the atmosphere.I feel it all the time,
be it morning, evening or night,
the possibilities of pleasure is limitless.
Express the best way one deems fit, be liberated."
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
Under these hushed, tranquil hours,
I bid sweet dreams to you and the night
pulsing this love through my veins.
Into oceanic dreamscapes,
I take us,
as the stars omnisciently bleed through blue skies heaven.
Your silhouette plays exhibitionist to the moon, its' light dimly casting over our sweet lullaby.
Wrapping you in the solace of nighttime wishes,
You bathe me in a sweet sea of serenity,
our bodies swimming in harmony.
Seeing you so close, I bend ever closer, whispering,
"sweet dreams, baby", as my rains gingerly bleed through pink petals heaven.
Come morning's first sweet ray of sun, we'll serenade a new ****** as I bid you a good day.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 8:08 AM UTC
I've never been an exhibitionist. Fame and money have never been my goals. If I played music it was for myself, softly so no one could hear. If I made art, it was unassuming doodles on scraps of paper that didn't matter. If I wrote, the final pieces were buried away, whether in journal pages or word documents in neatly organized file folders.
Social media changes everything.
Suddenly, everyone has a voice. Suddenly I'm thinking, why not my voice, what's wrong with my writing? Sure, I didn't get an English degree, I hold no MFA, but plenty of people write online, after all, it's just the Internet.
"It's just the Internet." What a catch 22 - in my head, it's either "Don't air your ***** laundry, no one wants to know," or, "Go ahead, air your ***** laundry, you're a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things, who's going to care?"
I've never been an exhibitionist, but social media changes everything. You have a thought? Tweet it. You like a photo? Pin it. You have an opinion? Post it. Facebook, tumblr, ello, Hello Poetry, wordpress, blogspot - there are so many venues, take your pick. The world is your oyster. Express yourself.
Fame and money have never been my goals. And I don't say this in an attempt to be original. I don't say this with the idea that I'm above anyone who'd want either. Because let's be real, would I say no to being paid to write? Of course not.
No, what I'm really after is something else. Connections. If I unleash my thoughts into that strange universe that is the Internet, maybe, just maybe, I'll get something back, a spark, a "message received." Not a "Hi, how are you," but a "Yes, I understand. Let's share stories."
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
Unfortunately, faces are no longer as helpful and empathetic as they once were; they have become distorted, crusted over with the grotesqueries of everyday petty exhibitionist nonsense of Existence. Once again, we are at the point where we are faced with the question of who has how much, and who can chop and mow down how much. Unexpected worms and beetles emerge in connection with each human soul, which is also a bit sociopathic, because we always have to bargain with our drunken, weeping self.
A deep feeling of nausea and disgust, suppressed in the fever of acquaintance, prevails, and because the relationship with every cozy Mediterranean-style family is a bit fragile, mainly because of the afternoon siesta, dolce vita. Unfortunately, the ancestral bird of unhappiness is always a blood-sucking leech, a bat, while in the dreams of the romantic, unattainable, yellow, urine-smelling cuckoo's eggs; because often, inevitably, people stumble upon small, seemingly indestructible cockroaches and beasts in everyday life, whom it would be better to avoid and not keep in mind.
A surprising number of people have been forced to let go of the years of commies that were ordered to be quiet. We now carry within us our intentional carnivorous trap, from which we cannot escape; no one can be nobler or better than anyone else, only a prey animal that can be hunted down, crippled by work, and eviscerated; the blind guides of Existence-fate are no longer the donkey-steps, - but much more manipulative protections, pitiful commodity interests, which are placed in give-and-take positions, packed, and put here and there. It is necessary to beware step by step these days, so that we can still pay the quota fee with dignity and pomp for our eternal childish credulity.
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
I can’t help thinking
that almost every girl I meet
could possibly, potentially be,
yes, a screamer in the sack,
or better, a soul mate in the sack,
or even a confidant in a coffee shop, or anywhere.
And then they could jointly rule my kingdom
imperiously, like the Queen of Babylon,
or maybe Bathsheba, who was having a bath
when David espied her and then jumped her in his boudoir.
I suppose an exhibitionist needs a ******
Gee. But it wasn't kosher for David, the King of Judea,
to then have murdered Bathsheba's husband, Uriah,
so he could afterwards marry her.
What? Yeah, this is all in that whodunnit,
the first tabloid, the Old Testament.
But look, I'm getting away from the path here.
What I'm talking about is girls that I innocently meet
without trying to get them in closer.
I don't spy on girls in the bath or the shower
and I don't have anyone murdered for *** or for power.
Or for anything! I'm a writer, see?
I simply imagine, inside my head,
that we all fall fabulously in love,
and blow our minds instead.
Mike T Minehan
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
My favorite trips are the ones I never took
In Kazakhstan there are trees submerged in Lake Kaindy
who instead of rotting have remained frozen in time, heavy
with icy spruce--and I feel strangely in touch with them.
Sometimes I'm self-sustaining on a single kiss, like any insect
of the Coleoptera order, literally, sheathed wing, the ones that crack
into the summer soil and bury themselves between dry blades of grass
and decomposing springtime--
I am a lot more of myself inside my head, terribly forward and
magnanimous, always curious and split into hundreds of questions
firing like these silvery synapses or a school of minnows refracting in and out, i'm afraid of never letting her go, that my fear of falling through every open door will forever deter me from finding that she is the best and most beautiful part of me.
that I will never change seats and let her continue on in thrilling fantasies of how I almost was--what I almost said and what could have been, building ecosystems around laughs and
hands and that feeling when in the low tangerine glow
two people pull up their shirts and press their skin together
unfolding in soughs as if they are gales rushing through
each other's sails, fluttering between knees and
glowing in barns.
she is there and wants to try everything, the most careful exhibitionist in daisy leaves and doily patterns, barefoot in your room with dandelions between her toes, wisps of cotton quilted into her hair, unwavering in the light and ever more in the dark, and when I am silent she is in the background quoting John Keats and Dylan Thomas, taking your fingers to trace her own lips, effervescent and tireless in the ways that she loves you without regard--
I want to let her go
I want to let her go
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
I wonder
where does your heart lie?
where does the extra go
when it's time to put on a show?
You live as an emotional exhibitionist
but golden lips trump hollow veins
you only show the world
your trophies and save the rest
for your pillow
so I wonder
where does your heart lie?
Who scared you into thinking
emotions are for the weak?
That sadness reaks of vulnerability
and that missing someone is unspeakable,
I wonder,
where does your heart lie?
The soul you expose
for the world to know
is a sliver of the pieces
that make you whole
you show only gold
when copper lies below
and I wonder
where does the rest go?
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
Amber was an atheist,
she thought the world was dumb as hell.
Britney was a botanist,
who had a fertilizer smell.
Candice was a coroner,
a scary passion for the stiffs.
Diana was a drummer chick,
that knew a few guitar riffs.
Evelyn was evil, man,
all leather suits and chains and whips.
Farrah was a therapist,
got in my brain with swinging hips.
Greta was a gunslinger,
she'd give most anything a shot.
Hannah was a homebody-
shy as hell, but twice as hot.
Iris was an Ivy Leaguer,
thought I was a total fool.
Janice was a juggler,
who liked to play with power tools.
Kimmy taught karate,
who dated me just for the kicks.
Louise was a lyricist,
who wrote about how guys were *****
Marilyn was mostly mean,
she liked to fight and then make up.
Nancy was so negative,
I had no choice but to break up.
Opal was an occultist,
who liked to gossip with the dead.
Paula was a **********
that made me pay to come to bed.
Queenie was inquisitive,
the questions were too much to bear.
Rosie was a recluse
who never shaved or brushed her hair.
Sidney was a sinful sort,
with toys and gadgets 'neath the bed.
Tina was a twisted chick,
with thirteen voices in her head.
Ursula was uber-cool,
always on the latest trends.
Vicky was on Vicodin,
and we all know how that one ends.
Wanda was a wanderer,
that left to join a circus troupe.
Xena the exhibitionist
liked to do it on the stoop.
Yolanda was young and fine,
and nearly cost me everything.
Zoey was a Zombie fan,
she got hot when he would sing.
I'd like to say I've settled down,
but since the alphabet is done,
I'm gonna met an Ann or Anita,
and give it all another run.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
i'm 7 1/2 inches old. 8 by you.left. a film on me
like melatonin.leaking outside of it.vocaloid choaking. kawaii grunge in the
waterlogged
meniscus.my genocide- your ears.ihate the way it ran
down the wall then. better.if i crouch inside your cradleface18+ years
ago. like an inflammation. you qualify for
recursion_
like the newer- more appealing nightterrors.we escape certain
allegories. by gutting them. filigree-
whipped outside.to punish the exhibitionist inside: your lanky breathing.i am tired of borrowing your guilt i must be good.you
think.i break my wrist.
we.
anyways,.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
A smug fascination with sub classification has left her alone in a parallel realm right above desolation
She walks alone and mumbles to her self
Trips, stumbles onto a past life she had placed on a shelf
Spending most of life slumbered
Lending her soul to demons, this widowed wife became out numbered
Every day she would watch the orange sun drown in the ocean just off the coast
Used to love all her friends, they would get together after accomplishments, boast, brag, and toast
But, being all alone was when she felt alive the most
Persistence has lent an idea of where she would spend her remaining days
Her existence was spent on the hunt for a precise place
An illiterate hypocrite under the spell of a hypnotist searching for something that doesn't exist
Now an illegitimate exhibitionist only wanting another hit,
Don't ask for truth cause it's something she'll never admit
-J.A.M
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.
Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.
The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.
And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 12:32 AM UTC
I'm a faithful cheater with the ability to lie honestly.
I'm a pacifist with anger management issues.
I only ever hurt the ones I love.
I cry when I'm happy, and I laugh when I'm sad.
I can be an ugly lover, with compassion when I'm mad.
I hold nothing sacred, I wear my heart on my sleeve.
I consider my self agnostic, with a passion to believe.
I have the mind of a demon, and the soul of a saint.
I'm a shy exhibitionist, that can easily frustrate.
I take pleasure in my misery, there's a sadness in my glee.
And all these contradictions, are but a fraction that is me.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
You said, as if that is the only aspect necessary for preserving humanity.
There's a sense of decency in all the things you choose negligence:
Sincerity, honesty, acting with someone else's interest in mind, thinking without malice,
Walking outside and onto the patio at your grand pity party.
What would you do with no attention at all?
You'd shrivel up and die.
Just be nice to people, it's as easy as that,
If your portion of sweet words are honest,
Yet yours are meant with such fake intent,
I look through your Saran Wrap smile, synthetic *** appeal,
To know your ex-bestfriend has great understanding and ****** insight,
It ends up that you were seeking my vulnerable brown eyes and not my cheap wine when you told me to come share with you,
But what I shared were a few too many buzzed secrets.
You, on the keyboard struggling to play songs of romantic tryst in no sense of irony.
Our last communication: road to Huntsville, called to yell at me one final time. I didn't need it.
You drove to play with rockets, the kind you'll never be entrusted to operate,
And the high you can only use to escape your pitiful exhibitionist existence.
This is the portion you're getting of my blood.
Simply a leech...
Don't you know I'm full of poison?
You, the ever-brilliant astrophysics girl, you failed to research me and my contents to know that I am coming down, down from vindictive respite...
I told you at the Bell tower that I once thought I was God. And I am.
I'm the Old Testament God who you never should have ****** with.
I will hang you with your manipulation and feel all the remorse you cared to show everyone,
Plotting for the spotlight.
But, "Just be nice to people".
This one time, I'll pass.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Surfer Grandson Smoker
Manager Traveler Father
Daughter Cook Teacher
Mother Reader Lover
Trainer Son Painter
Volunteer Exhibitionist
Santa Claus
member of a fishermen club
tomorrow
or you name it
if you still have air
we left ourselves outside
alone with these explosive days
blind witnesses
have buried their faces
into the desert of time
the concentration of pain
remains a universal constant
the world is a helpless arena
of master plan illusions
what shall I become
or what shall be consumed of me?
and these rupture faults
body-dynamite against ego-dynamite
culture crushing nature versus
nature crushing culture
the soul famine
in the book
of unknown faces
we were all just enlivened cells once
while we feast in our blood
the discreet continuities
remain hidden
identity encapsulated
in the wave length
of supernovas egos
poetry is left with this
apparent nonsense
camomile turns into laughter
and the pride of butterflies
deserves better
this rhythm consumes us
faster than the speed of dreams
the speed of thought
the speed of forgetting
how our mothers
were never healed
to be or not to be simple
that’s a question
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
As a false humanist, I deliberately denied the luxury of Being! I could not pertut with sin either, I could not make its insidious difference! It is called the Rooted Hermit Solitude and the daily etiquette-morality; I greet hesitantly between exhibitionist superficial superficialities; like an orphaned little commission kid! Unfortunately, I am more conspicuous than in the East, as I still advertise good manners among enduring partisan idiots and hordes of hands-on jerks!
Who carries the burden of a World as free will on his shoulders in his bloodthirsty eyes depends on its Vulnerable Loyalty! "It's rarely a place if you can find it under glorified debris!" I can't be a consonant or a total dance, at most an existing, selfish cocoa and postmodern! In the rumbling noise of tabloid media, the self-promotion of preserved willows was just enough! I intentionally turn off the rumble of wall-nailed speeches; weakens and tires a phrase that has been pressed and pierced many times, that our common issues will surely change! I even go against a hint of tamed anarchy against a wall!
The armor of our skin can hardly be a protection! Because everyone carries their selfish destiny in their throbbing heartbeat! Retaining loneliness can be the only one where emotions don’t get ***** unnecessarily either! Your environment is also alien to your body: snarling, constantly fake! Nowadays, the medium is crowned by an office and chirping songbirds are appointed hosts instead of minded skulls! A charming baby gaze, and all the stupidity is forgiven! - Color blind producers would be complimented by small-style Nobody!
Measured with gratitude money, those who watch the selfish audience data can already be featured! - Nobody distributes Paul's and Pálne's coins until only the crown of hick shines
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 1:57 AM UTC
I'm not particularly wonderful.
I can't enhance one's reality
I'm penned by a bored and wilful writer
I don't have a distinct quality.
I may have rhyme, rhythm, or I may not
I may be emotional, or dreary
I'm a work of language, of random words
I may be soothing, I may be scary.
Some of you say I'm one of a kind,
Some of you aren't sure where I'm from,
Some believe I exist for a reason,
Some reckon I'm remarkably dumb.
You may think I'm an exhibitionist
I'm not aware, I can't care what you say
But I love being read, when your eyes see me-
Insignificant, but it makes my day.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC
I'm waiting for a car that will never come
to take me to a place that doesn't exist.
I'm constantly looking at a world that has nothing to show
but enjoys being watched,
like a ****** - exhibitionist relationship.
Match made in heaven.
Heaven made in Adobe Photoshop CS 6.
I'm eager to create some art that won't change anyone
but will cost a lot of money.
~ I'm willing to settle for no money and will change at least one~
I'm constantly trying to reach out to people
that get higher up the mountain,
each on his own personal journey.
Untouchable. Distant.
Not having the slightest clue that there's someone
on their trail, on the narrow forest path.
I'm looking for ways to make others happy
but, in the process, I'm becoming sadder
every day.
Even though my state of mind is low,
it's not making me deep. I never said I was deep.
I'm not an ocean of wisdom or anything like this.
Come to think about it, I'm not a huge fan of water,
not being a good swimmer and everything..
I don't think I have anything in common with the sea,
even though I was told
I can easily suffocate others
with my worries, sorrows and disbelief.
I'm working on finding a job that doesn't feel like work
and let's you smile,
beyond an annual cocktail event, in a fancy club,
with drunk
employees of the month
that are trying all night to find ways
to bang each other without their significant others ever finding out,
without knowing what guilt means..
Some of them will end up home,
with a clean shirt and a ***** conscience.
For others, it won't ever feel like home.
I'm playing the game of hating the player
and I think they're gonna award me the MVP title
if I continue to not love myself.
I'm trying to end this poem in style,
but I'm afraid I won't be able to,
'cause I think my car has arrived.
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gr96A9XG1rs
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC