"expressionism" poems
From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.
At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)
A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.
I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.
However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.
A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.
To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!
Purcy Flaherty.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"
I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.
Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.
Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.
Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 6:21 AM UTC
When the streets are made for nothing but thinking
It's the weight of the water that's caused our sinking
It's a loss of feeling that's made me lighter
It's everything around
That makes me neutrally bound
The only writers block is the writer
It's the kind of thing that makes a man with a pencil and paper a fighter
Like the paper's jumping up at you like a, like a alligator
But it's hard to chalk down all the mistakes, cause when you're trying so hard you're just being fake
You just gotta learn to let it, let it all flow
Show your all and let em all know
Just how you're feeling that blow, even if it means one or two bad lines, that's how you feel though
Cause life ain't a poetry book
It's all the points in between the pages that we missed
It's all the things that make us factories of emotions,
A crook with feelings creeping through the motions
Turning pages, trying to **** it all up like the books eroding
Don't you talk to me about feeling
Naw you ain't know what you be dealing, everyone's got there own **** you can't tell me mines to be concealing
See, I'm a material void of expressionism
Cause I told everyone what I feel, not for the sake of impressionism
They chose to see inside and learn a lesson without all the criticism
Everything I've learned is turning me into a crustaceans fossil
Hard to the shell but brittle to the touch, and I preach my **** like a god **** apostle
You make me feel from the inside and I'll be your crutch, but you're gonna need more than a god **** rock hammer to open me up
My words I mend to make up for what I conceal
But as I sit here thinking about how I feel
It's gonna take more than this to make me heal
Now let me dilute as I talk to the god inside my head and make a deal, something to end the pain and suffering I have concealed at the expense of everything real
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
A person can speak a thousand words
And still fall short of grand or ill works,
Listen well if you will, these may in fact
Be my last statements,
Should I die tomorrow,
Next week,
Next month,
Next year or in decades,
I've written all you can withstand,
Expressed my feelings too soon.
Why should you need to care? I'll write letters of
Apology, sent via telegram from the moon.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!
Sick
Wearied
Weak?
Looking in all the wrong places?
Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?
Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!
Dog nights seem more teething!!!!
Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!
The I loveth thou's
And thou more....
Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,
Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!
Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?
A pity to God
And me!!!!
Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!
Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Do we notice the finer things in life? The husband's and wives, children that's been conceived! Thou and they are all thou needeth when thy roof springs its leak!
Sick
Wearied
Weak?
Looking in all the wrong places?
Itinerant in the stagnative imagination's
For don't even the mammals haveth a place to stay?
Like the son of man
I haveth no chapel
For this head to consecretly layeth!!!
Dog nights seem more teething!!!!
Vestige of all beauty
You've left that still life post,
Wherein thy mantra's I seeketh the most!!!
The I loveth thou's
And thou more....
Deluge of happiness
Covereth me
Bury me
In atmospheric condition,
Oh man didst thou not mention?
The plaques to ***** it's protract sorrow!!!!
Hath society made materialism
And the dollar sign
Their romantic gesture?
A pity to God
And me!!!!
Mobs of fleas
To calleth what they maketh
MANIFESTED TESTIMONIES!!!!
Wherein the frauds
Fakes
And phonies
Art thy t.v magnate stars!!!!!
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
this is very jumpy. i have been up for 24 hours. i don't know
There are miles between us on the queen sized bed and all I know right now is words words words and nothing spilling from chapped lips. Passion and lust and I need you's coming out in the form of long kisses and hands-on-my-chest types of expressionism. This isn't the kind of dizzy your momma warned you about. Deep sea swimming inside your head and I'm trying to figure out a way to mean more than just someone you want in your bed. There's a tug at the bottom of my navel pulling me away from the edge, but I've already dived in. Sparks flew where your careful fingers met my hip bones, but lightning struck where your feelings for me lay and with a thunder clap they were gone as fast as rain slides down a window.
The night I found out I was not important to you, regret was just a knot in my throat. But now, it is a hand choking my heart. How beautiful it would be for you to understand just how much I miss you.
I only wanted someone to hold me like I was the source of every bit of his happiness. This wasn't love but it sure as hell felt like it, or more like it than my hand being guided to the zipper of your jeans.
I can't think much else beyond 'I miss you' and it makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Why can't I write about anything or anyone but you? I still can't shake the notion that this is a feeling best tried to outrun.
Our story is a half-packed suitcase. I will tell myself that this is going to be okay, that I am going to be okay. Even though I really think it won't be.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
Her presence is superfluous and your demeanor is vindictive, and you can’t hold her close enough to pass the hours with any more trivialities. Your allusions to Eos mean nothing to her comfortably deaf ears. Her smile drips with poisonous innocence and she’s reaching for you, and oh no, you’re doubled over again, and she’s rubbing your back, and you’re clutching at your insides and you just want to hurl them at the wall and redefine expressionism. Transgressions displayed in a mason jar atop the fireplace mantel, like the ashes of some dead relative who stopped mattering when the estate paid out and your dad blew it all at the casino again. With a knock and a bump, the skeletons come tumbling out of your closet; their bones crumble into dust on your carpet. You've lost track of how often this happens but you think the carpet looks better grey anyway, and she’s still looking up at you. Those eyes so much like a child, riddled with naivety and wonderment, like you’re the perfect picture of Eden. It’s 5am and you can’t see the room through the smoke, and she can’t hear the cries for help over her utopian illusion of This Is All We Need. You were never one for cathexis and you hope she can’t see the blood on the walls, or the blood(lust) on your hands. She has the uncanny ability to not know, despite your nuances. She’ll never read into your mind the way she reads the words you carve into the trees and the sand and the snow. Every articulation of Truth is just refracted through her pretty little head and sent spinning into the abyss. The sun is rising and you wish she’d leave, but your shift in weight and your sideways glance is subjective to her and she promises to stay. So instead you make bets with yourself over whether your body falling from a 30 story building, or the rising sun, will reach the horizon line first.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
_New York
after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.
In 1991, shortly before he died,
Motherwell
remembered a "conspiracy of silence"
regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism.
Upon return from Mexico, Motherwell
spent time developing his creative principle
based on automatism:
"what I realized was that Americans
potentially could paint like angels, but that there
was no effective creative principle around,
so that everybody
who liked modern art was copying it;
Gorky was copying Picasso;
******* was copying Picasso;
De Kooni
ng was copying Picasso;
I mean, I say this unqualifiedly,
I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:
All we needed was a creative principle,
I mean something that would mobilize this capacity
to paint in a creative way, & that's what Europe
had that we
hadn't had;
we had always followed in their wake
& I thought of all the possibilities
| [ ], [ ]
of free association—because I also had
a psychoanalytic background
& I understood the implications of—let's just say it
might be the best chance
to really make something entirely
new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;"
Thus, in the early 1940s, Robert Motherwell
played a significant role in laying the foundations
for the new movement of
Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):
"Matta wanted to start a revolution, m [a movement w/in
Surrealism].
He asked me to find some other
American artists that would help start a new movement;
it was then that Baziotes
& I went to see ******* & de Kooning
& Hofmann & Kamrowski & Busa & several other people;
& if we could come with something;
Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she
would put on a show of this new business;
... so I went around explaining _the theory of automatism_
to everybody because _the only way_
that you could have a _move - - - ment_
was that it had some _common_
_principle_. It sort of all began that way."
In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit
his work in New York and in 1944
he had his first one-man show at
Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;
that same year, the MoMA
was the first museum
purchase one of his works; From the mid-1940s,
Motherwell [ ], [ ]. ( )
became the leading spokesman
for _avant-garde art in America_;
his circle coming to include
William Baziotes,
David Hare, Barnett Newman, & Mark Rothko,
with whom he eventually started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced
Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros and in 1950 he married Bettie
Little,
with whom he had two daughters
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
Picasso reported a theft
By art thieves who barely had left.
"Did you see them?" cops prodded.
"I think so." He nodded.
"Perhaps you could sketch them
To help us to ketch them."
So he sat down to draw
And they watched him with awe.
After they knew
What Pablo drew,
Arrests swiftly came.
I cite them by name:
Mandolin, guitar, and horse.
But do I jest? Of course.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
There was a time we lived in those museums
mother, do you remember?
seeing everything from Art Nouveau
to German Expressionism or Cubism
There was a time
we walked on Adenauerplatz beneath old Linden trees
There was a time our winters
were full of german gingerbread & mulled wine
& our Spring
spent wandering the Schlosspark
There was a time we spent our summers
watching swallows by the sunny Wannsee lakes
& our autumns in spacious cafes
& international bookshops
we talked the other day again
about the Russian one
how ever since we left home
we'd not seen so many Russian books in one place
it seems the vision of home never leaves you
just waits dormant in your heart
for something to remind you of it
just as now that Lesser Ury print
reminded me of our Berlin
& days of Love Parades & blissful freedom
I will not regret the journey
you made us take
because it meant
we got to live in heaven
there was a time we lived there
there was a time we lived there
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
A poem.
Can be on many theme?
And many topics too.
And can express many into a debate.
Even causing problems upon a date.
A poem.
That creative expressionism of your mind.
Where you just spilling out things deep inside?
Wait!
The uncreated loves to put them down.
Oh, they offer many reasons.
But many times.
It just because they can't create.
A poem.
That has been around for centuries.
And truly apart of Americans history.
Emily Dickinson, James Baldwin and O'henry.
Has left behind plenty.
They make you think.
They make you cry.
And keep you connect to your mind.
Whether it's about romance.
Yes, that includes love.
We need poems around.
To release the frustration inside.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, funny how a book can be translated by everyone's Mercury differently--edited;}
on a beauty so mystical on a plastered smile an essence so beam
yet not everlasting not in a bare nor a second tormenting blurt
such stars she begged them Gods for she tormented in a skeptic hurt
she trails her menaces to **** in a drip
of a bordeaux in a wine in a mindless sip
yearning erased letters from people from faces
a charm of a devil monster selfished her feels down her laces
a bound to the intimate
flushed upon the ultimate
of the hate of the ends
an evermore of upcoming pained centuries
moments the gods abide to hide to conceal
from human memory to blank and come across a past life to steal
then to the unconscious to plant on dreams and make souls heal
speechless left
one on the fictional
two on the cure in the weeks my delusional
believed seven constellated freckles pure by the character been held
mooned self-expressionism in sick mind delves I label mine
forever fallen saint on the line
--------ravenfeels
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 3:49 PM UTC
We are expressionist in our own actions and in our own words
You can speak, act and feel all those joy and misery you have
for there are a thousand ways to express one's self
sometimes we can't find the right words to convey our feelings
Don't be sad if you can't write your emotions in rhymes, a true poet is beyond that
You can be free in your own feelings, then
If you can't write it, why not dance it with the rhythm of your music
If you can't dance it, why not paint it with every stroke of your brush
If you can paint it, why not sing it with every syllable your tongue twisted
If you can't sing it, why not cry it with every tear your heart bleed
If you can't cry it, why not hug someone with all your might
and be with that person until you feel better
Everyone deserves to be free, to be happy and to be sad
And it up to you to be that expressionist of your own emotions
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 8:23 AM UTC
I left the good ones in the bag that I packed
and left with a long time ago
blinded by expressionism and confessionalism
a portrait hung on my wall for so long
I dream in blue and earthy scents
of that little space between hinder and breath
society placed a big burden upon my chest
it whispers so many funny and true things
dire to my belief of originality
and being specific in the things I do
mind like thin lines overlapping in many different hues
I have grown ill in thought of the ordinary people
you see me as flawed hurt and stupid
and I see you as plain boring and mediorce
eyes trail downwards about my sincere actions
and sometimes I must hold my tongue
being that envious eyes would like to eat a lung
my manner gentle and discreet
Im am nothing near the definition of obsolete
and I accept it as I accept that nothing will ever
with misuse be complete
and in a heartbeat I retreat to that creature
who beside me is petite
as I am
feathers of beauty brush against the
slowly moving winds on my shore
and I go back and wonder why everything
so quickly turns into nothing
descending tons of gore
and then fragility comes back to its place
sits on the front of my hands
like a serence masterpeice
reminding me who I am
and leaves me permanently marked
with a gray smile
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:16 PM UTC
I left the good ones in the bag that I packed
and left with a long time ago
blinded by expressionism and confessionalism
a portrait hung on my wall for so long
I dream in blue and earthy scents
of that little space between hinder and breath
society placed a big burden upon my chest
it whispers so many funny and true things
dire to my belief of originality
and being specific in the things I do
mind like thin lines overlapping in many different hues
I have grown ill in thought of the ordinary people
you see me as flawed hurt and stupid
and I see you as plain boring and mediorce
eyes trail downwards about my sincere actions
and sometimes I must hold my tongue
being that envious eyes would like to eat a lung
my manner gentle and discreet
Im am nothing near the definition of obsolete
and I accept it as I accept that nothing will ever
with misuse be complete
and in a heartbeat I retreat to that creature
who beside me is petite
as I am
feathers of beauty brush against the
slowly moving winds on my shore
and I go back and wonder why everything
so quickly turns into nothing
descending tons of gore
and then fragility comes back to its place
sits on the front of my hands
like a serene masterpeice
reminding me who I am
and leaves me permanently marked
smile
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:36 PM UTC
I am lost, and in a way where it seems as if nobody, no not even myself can find me. As if trapped inside of Waldo’s body, I seem to be striped left and right with endless wonder about how exactly I came to such a state. Not knowing how or even when it all started, I happen to be stuck in my own labyrinth of a maze. My mind trailing on endlessly, looking, searching for any and all clues, but like a virus, everything of sanity had been dropped along the way. It all just vanished! If being completely lost was a form of art, I’d be the founder of the movement, which would proceed not to be called expressionism nor surrealism, but more likely known as Davidism. In some way I managed to confuse myself, the ultimate da Vinci Code! Which tunnel to take now is all a matter of eenie-meenie-miney-mo, and to come out the other end with total understanding seems absolutely impossible right now! I am lost, and I don’t trust anyone to find me…
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
You'd think Blake, Bosch
& Emanuel Swedenborg
read Pythagoras in the original
& walked with Christ & Newton;
E. A. Poe, the Horror-Poet;
influencing the Decadence of
Baudelaire, Wilde & Rimbaud;
Pinkham Ryder's influence on
Symbolism & Surrealism led,
oddly, to 20th century pop culture
depictions of Victorian monsters;
Frankenstein was the product
of the English Romantics;
German Romanticism to Sturm
& Drang led to Expressionism.
Beardsley [dead at 25], Gustave
Moreau, Van Gogh, Gauguin,
Egon Schiele [dead at 28]; ||| - -|
Klimt, Freud, Jung: Judaism;
Id, Superego, Ego, Shadow,
Anima & Animus, collective
psyche, Nietzsche's Superman,
eternal recurrence & will to
power; Wagner's Ring Cycle...
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
Her, Rising
"But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."
Isaiah 40:31
My feet still, held
gravity pulls, I'm
still on the ground
Your wings addorsed
I stand,
faithful to the
King of the Skies
You are the messenger
of Highest Gods
you represent all
I wish to be
*courage
power
strength*
My face torn, masks
unearthed
ripped & savaged
I'm The Scream
Munch painting
art
alluded expressionism
Oils, pastels, crayon
sink into my skin
as claws rip flesh
away from my bone
I am the Fallen
you are the Rising
I am your Canvas
you are my Artist.
© Sia Jane
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
On my first Christmas,
I learned that the city of
towering cardboard boxes
and the crunchy ocean
of kaleidoscopic paper were
destined for the trash bag,
but the complicated toys
I could not yet understand
were mine to keep.
Just before my second birthday,
my parents came home
with a pink, wrinkled
bundle of flesh, and said,
This is your new sister.
Though, at first, I found her
beautiful, with those pill-
sized fingernails and the
soft coos she kept pushing
out, I was horrified to
learn that my grandparents
were not taking this baby
with them, that she was
not here for my entertainment.
But the envy soon faded,
and I kept a lifelong friend.
At eight,
I decided not to keep
the magenta cast after
the stoic doctor sawed it
loose. It was caked with
doodles and kind notes, but
it stunk of sour milk, and
the boy with the copper
hair had not signed it.
I could not forget his
taunting laugh as I fell
that day, nor the fiery flush
that shaded my cheeks as he
snatched his hat from my
hand, already numb and
quickly swelling with
humiliation.
By eleven,
I had spent so much of a
childhood tripping over
sentences and paragraphs
and essays that when
my book report bloated
slowly from two pages to
five to eight to ten to thirteen,
I unknowingly conquered my
fear, stumbling over a
voice begging to be kept.
When I reached fourteen,
I had seen two corpses
in one year—one painted
as though in the height of
Expressionism and resting
in a casket so cheap it could
have been cardboard, one fat
and covered in smooth
fur, collapsed onto the cool,
indifferent metal of the
vet’s table—and I learned
that breath is in short supply.
But I also learned that
the destination matters less
than the odyssey, so I
tucked my grandmother
and my beagle into my
front pocket like two crisp
hundred dollar bills, kept them
with me wherever I traveled.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 11:14 PM UTC
Self-portrait 1901 - Paris.
Expressionism Period.
A master stroking away with a paint brush.
The subject: himself.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:38 PM UTC
Elegy, elegy, elegy
The words pop out at me, framed by the strokes of...expressionism was it?
Honestly, I don’t know
The minimal art history I was exposed to
Has gone, been erased leaving me the white board
To scrawl something else hastily before-
I wonder why I read it,
Is it perhaps to affirm to myself
That I’m worth something?
No, that can’t be right
I do of course love myself, I have healthy amount of self love
I suppose then, it’s confidence at stake here
...maybe?
That whether I manage to memorize all the terms
Whether I can keep my hands from straying to another tab
That whether I can kick away the ball that is distractions and addictions and every self created villain in my fairytale
Determines who
I am and how
Much I’m worth
Is false
Because
I
Love me I do
I really do
But,
I still have to get out of this rut
I still have to do better
Then, maybe
One day I’ll
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 11:43 PM UTC