"exquisitely" poems
***
***
~ ♡ ~
A
dark day
has befallen the
Court of Hello Poetry
How it saddens me to see
the good Queens and Kings
to suffer at the hands of jealous
enemies who seek to destroy others
and their Kingdoms. Though she was
exquisitely dressed, she had a humble
heart; many had a good word about her,
though I did not get to meet her, though I
did not see her, I could see the light she
had shine in the hearts of others. She
had a wonderful smile but invaders;
false Kings and Queens spewed
nothing but abuse, and it
made her surrender
her crown
~ ♡ ~
I
could only
watch as she
grabbed the ends of
her silk skirts and run out
of the bustling halls, tears down
her soft face. I could not reach
her but at the dawn, from the
balcony, I saw the ship sail
away, towards the sunset
into the unknown. How
my heart is so
heavy
~ ♡ ~
To
see a
true artist,
a true queen
leave forever. At
seeing her tears, her
crying soul staining the
floral marble floors, and the
invaders feeling satisfied at
her pain and her 'destruction'
Those who dare to denounce
are never Kings or Queens.
To be so jealous, so insecure
and think you led her to
her 'destruction'
~ ♡ ~
I
will say
this - you may
have won the battle
but you will NEVER
win the war. Because the
true Kings and Queens will
band together, we will stand
together to protect our haven for
we see, we know who the true artists
are. I will continue to shed tears of pain
and sorrow for the loss of this artist, but
I will always hope that when the sun rises
she will return to us once more. She will
never leave our minds, she has touched
so many hearts. Her legacy, her reign,
her kingdom will always stand
eternal, will stand immortal
now and always.
~ ♡ ~
***
***
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 9:37 AM UTC
Shadows bless the night
As we huddle tighter
Sharing a sacred journey
Adversity piles upon us at times
But our human nature screams
Survival at all costs
If I reached out my hand
Would you accept
If I humbled myself at your feet
Would you stay
Or would you run
Afraid and confused of your own reflection
Cotton candy
As sweet as spice
Exquisitely the spider weaves her
Majestic web
As we weave our stories with the threads of time illuminated in the heavens for those who have gone before us
Be it a simple question of time
Of misunderstandings
Or lost promises
We will return
In circles we spiral upwards
Holding onto the very thread that bore our bodies from dust and turned them into the stars I see within your eyes
You are my muse
You are all and everything
Without means words don’t flow
Feelings stay intombed
And my body will return to dust before it betrays you
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 11:51 AM UTC
light cursed falling in a singular block
her,rain-warm-naked
exquisitely hashed
(little careful hunks-of-lilac laughter splashed
from the world prettily upward,mock
us….)
and there was a clock. tac-tic. tac-toc.
Time and lilacs….minutes and love….do you?and
Always
(i simply understand
the gnashing petals of *** which lock
me seriously.
Dumb for a while.my
god—a patter of kisses,the chewed stump
of a mouth,huge dropping of a flesh from
hinging thighs
….merci….i want to die
nous sommes heureux
My soul a limp lump
of lymph
she kissed
and i
….chéri….nous sommes
6.3k
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
**Exquisitely flawed in all the right places
Like the keys on the piano that sits abandoned
Your ebony keys complement my ivory so well
But dust collects and you never notice
So I fall away quietly
Retreating like a soldier
Who knows he will not win the inner battle before him**
*Quietly quietly
Silently go
Where no one sees you
Nobody knows
I built up my fortress
A place full of pride
Full of hatred
Your pent up lies
A promise broken
A heart is torn
I'll stay in my castle
Where my poetess is reborn*
***Quietly quietly
Silently go
Where all the others fear to tread
I will lye down this weary head
Exquisitely flawed in all the right places
You are the man with many faces***
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC
She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.
David Foster Wallace wrote:
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve ******** philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”
*"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”*
and so
“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."*
As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.
They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.
And DFW famously said,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
and he's not a lobster either
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
Nestled in his arms, I've discovered a haven,
The refuge for my soul, a home is engraven.
A sanctuary where thoughts find gentle release,
A world of unity, my doubts meet their peace.
When weariness tugs and desolation entwines,
Life's enigmatic encounters, weaving complex designs,
In his gaze serenity blooms and finds its place,
A sanctuary of solace, a loving embrace.
Within his eyes, a realm beyond time,
Where enchantment flows in a fractal rhyme.
Familiar, like an ancient whisper, this truth so pure,
Innocence cascades, beauty's allure.
Through him a passage to celestial expanse,
An orchestra of emotions, our souls entwine and dance.
Each moment evolves, exquisitely hued,
At the threshold of forever, together with you.
Life's intricate threads lead to a destined connection,
Guiding me to him, the most profound intersection.
Gratitude rises, an endless ocean's plea,
For destiny's masterpiece, in him, I see.
Aug 31, 2023
Aug 31, 2023 at 4:52 AM UTC
Two hundred years ago and yesterday
a sailor wrote a letter in longhand,
entrusting it to the road
back to his beloved,
where dawn was breaking
at the closest port of call.
A century ago, a shy and lovely
mail order bride wrote
to the man who would be her husband,
in a land entirely different from her own.
In her delicate, sincere questions, from a
heart wrapped in ornate brocade layers of
kimono silk, she hoped to begin to know him.
Relationships formed gracefully, over time,
an ocean of water and thought intervening.
Water and air may be there
keeping souls apart,
until they are meant to be united.
Now, two beloved young friends have found
in each other a twin flame, first seen shining
in the virtual world of today. With only letters,
or flares or morse code, these two would have
seen, and known, that light within one another.
Souls destined from very early on.
My loving eyes have seen them, decades from now,
leaning into one another, silver hair entwined
as they rest their heads together on one more journey.
I defy anyone who might challenge me,
seeing these two blossoming in love
from a virtual, chance encounter,
to say that life is any less real
in the ways that matter most,
when it is born in abstract space,
in this manifestation of a reality
that is in itself a metaphor for
Reality.
Reality, is living,
deeply living,
the inexplicable,
unfathomable,
exquisitely simple
complexity,
of being fully human.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
---
There's a creature in this cruel world
Who love's to hurt
And make you blue
He's out there lurking for you, child
He'll take everything from you...
... but oh!
How handsom and delightful!
When he speaks the silver rings!
Come to find out he is frightful
Scorpion with angel's wings
Watch out child...
Watch out for liars.
Those who practice to deceive!
He'll take you down
To his own fires
He will sting if you believe!
But! Oh how beautiful and graceful!
And! How exquisitely you sing!
But. My "friend", you are *disgraceful!
Scorpion with Angel's wings*
SoulSurvivor
9/6/201
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
Every once in a while I see you sitting on a branch
The beautiful nightingale in its form
Always singing exquisitely beautiful songs
Why the mind never stop seeking
To which frequency it belongs
With absolute stillness, there is able to find
The music that plays, is made to hide
Verses that cannot put into words
What the galaxies describe
With a universal language
If one listens, can unwind
The wool of what is spun
Structured and wired
In the most delicate way
From the beginning to every gentle laced hum
Now fly away again; with all of the harmony lifting notes you sung
My love, for I will follow the thread
As far as there is no more
Untill I can feel the wind move between the feathers
And the beauty of true love sounds embraces my hearts warmth
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
Exquisite things -to name a few-
All of the wonderful things that you do.
I'm saying it now, If you never knew;
I thank you for being exquisitely you.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC
O lonely heart so timid of approach,
Like the shy tropic flower that shuts its lips
To the faint touch of tender finger tips:
What is your word? What question would you broach?
Your lustrous-warm eyes are too sadly kind
To mask the meaning of your dreamy tale,
Your guarded life too exquisitely frail
Against the daggers of my warring mind.
There is no part of the unyielding earth,
Even bare rocks where the eagles build their nest,
Will give us undisturbed and friendly rest.
No dewfall softens this vast belt of dearth.
But in the socket-chiseled teeth of strife,
That gleam in serried files in all the lands,
We may join hungry, understanding hands,
And drink our share of ardent love and life.
2.5k
The thing is, you can’t ignore that graceful lament-
The teal heaving of your chest-
The wash of questions in your head
That exquisitely hold pinpricks of the future.
There’s a brand of groan you know well
That belongs to feeling unresolved.
That noise you make when you’re a painting without a face,
When you’re two lines of a song that’s lost to the breeze,
When you’re a cup of water dribbling through careless hands,
That noise is the growl of restless dreaming.
There is a struggle to unpin yourself
From the avalanche of time
That has pooled thickly around your legs.
You try to kick, but it moves like molasses.
Slower than a hard thwack to a non-newtonian fluid.
Pointless as collecting antique doorknobs.
There is an urge to catch a destiny by the tail
Like you’re somehow prepared right now,
Like there’s nothing left to learn.
How fortunate you are that perceived linear realities
Can curve the hubris of your linear fantasies.
And yet there’s that gnawing need,
A craving that demands surrender,
That all too graceful lament,
Of being forced to take the smallest of steps
on the greatest of adventures.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
Exquisitely surrounded by the color of peace,
Out of your face jumps the notion of
"how can this be?"
Your eyes look down to move forward
As if
the floor is lighting up taking your steps.
Behind you the sun sets,
your highness?
"where is your crown?"
The golden curl leaf's match your red shades,
in between the weeping cherries are white heels
Only you
can tie your hair up
wear a light green dress
and runway walk in a garden
Sep 27, 2024
Sep 27, 2024 at 11:33 AM UTC
Edgar Lee Masters. 1869–
Silence
I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence for which music alone finds the word,
And the silence of the woods before the winds of spring begin,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would he deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of a deep peace of mind,
And the silence of an embittered friendship,
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
And the silence of the gods who understand each other without speech,
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blesséd Jesus"—
Revealing in two words all sorrow, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
Inana Shlash
How I wish I knew you
I would have melted
And oozed into
Your shoes
lingering many hours
Before you finally
Took a shower
I would have been a blanket
Embracing your back
Nuzzling against the nape
Of your neck
Until you wandered away
To a cool breeze
On the deck
If the gods would have
Smiled on me
I could have been
A billion water droplets
Easing into the hundreds
Of thousands of pores
In your silken skin
Alas
Our missile
Blew you away
And I don't know what to say
Sean Hunt
Windermere, December 6 2015
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
*Fluffy pillows swirling
around a beautiful blue sky,
Free birds
gliding across the heavens,
so gracefully they fly.
Giant tree branches
swaying from side-to-side,
Such beauty my eyes absorb
into my mind;
expanding infinitely wide.
Heavenly Earth,
so exquisitely designed,
Embraced by solitude,
peace of mind
I'm guaranteed to always find.
The smell of fresh open air
and wildflowers
inhaled into my soul;
an essence so divine,
Fragile delicate butterflies
fluttering by,
I love them all
as though they are mine.
I belong to the Earth -
the forests,
the mountains
and the seas,
Deep-down inside
I'm just a born-natural
free-spirit -
a lover of nature;
a born-to-be country girl / hippy.
By Lady R.F. (C) 2017*
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”
so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect
later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)
of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual
and then I add:
“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:
*I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy*
she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling
and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud
she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together
this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is
the ways of the poet!
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 10:39 AM UTC
She has the spirit of a wolf that belongs to every man
Built a pack and conquered all crowns
Hides silently in every closet, worn as dress exquisitely covered with thorns
She gathers all with just a whisper, and rules over with a simple tug of the string
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
dark storms rising
as electricity
crackles up my spine
in ascent of moonspell
as I trip through
my own wires
my inner sense
of flesh
reverberating
in waves of
magnetic fireworks
and suddenly
I am spinning
my fibers
all splayed out
for you to see
a cartographer
of emotion
mapping your veins
and arteries
and we hold citizenship
of a private inner land
a country
that we share
as we into light expand
my inner goddess in tune
with your
molecules and carbon
your cells rushing like
a river
into my estuary
in landscapes of longing
blissfully unaware
but for our souls'
secret language of
pumping blood and fire
from here, it's uncharted
but for the rhythms
of desire
invisible to the naked eye,
we exquisitely penetrate
the surface
descend into the
depths of bones
the most primal core
where lava licks
push spirit's will
straight up to the fore
and I am the spark in
your most opaque rage
ready
to give it up
in dust and magic
as pulmonary exhale
flows the blood
and we dissipate , slowly
into uninhibited flood
Take me apart,
dark love
pulverize my limits
fly with me
to the opposite
of loneliness
where
every
millisecond
breathes
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
How magnificently you were born
Under brilliant Northern lights
Rising above the sea
With Black beaches
Electric blue waters
And Forever cascading waterfalls
Great Danes of long ago
With Ancient wisdom
Mightier than Gods of old
Brought to your shores
Powerless under your mighty volcanoes
Bowed their heads upon your site
How wondrous you are
Surrendering to your beauty
A secret they kept you
exquisitely they named you
Land of Ice
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
YOUR eyes were gem-like in that dim deep chamber
Hushed and sombre with imprisoned fire,
With yellow ghostly globes of intense aether
Potent as the rays of pure desire.
Your voice was startled into vivid wonder,
When the winged wild whining mystic wheel
Took flight and shot the dark with frosty crashings
Like an ice-berg splitting to the keel.
Your flesh was never warmer to my passion
Than when, moving in that lumor green,
We saw with eyes our fragile bones enamoured
Clasping sadly on the pallid screen.
You seemed so virginal and so undreaming
Of the burning hunger in my eyes,
To peer more fever-deeply in your being
Than the very death of passion lies.
The subtle-tuned shy motions of your spirit,
Fashioned through the ages for the sun,
Were dumb in that green lustre-haunted cavern
Where you walked a naked skeleton;
Slim-hipped and fluent and of lovely motion,
Living to the tip of every bone,
And ah, too exquisitely vivid-moving
Ever to lie wanly down alone--
To lie forever down so still and slender,
Tracing on the ancient screen of night
That naked and pale writing of the wonder
Of your beauty breathing in the light.
1.9k
Not many tensions,
nor any excitement
Life has ever been
a placidly flowing river!
Single and free!
Over differences,
never been any disputes
never had to consult,
nor seek consent
Single and free!
but doesn’t his house
with its cold, mildewed air
reflect his heart?
A house so full of things:
a hoard of well stacked books,
exquisitely carved Victorian furniture,
antique collection of curios,
ornate drapery
Yet so full of nothing!
The prim order of the house
never disturbed by naughty hands
nor shuffled by dusty feet
dirtying the Persian carpets
or smudging the glistening floor
The well laid bed covers
never get creased
by the body’s desire
and Love’s tight embrace
and never, they bear
the fragrance of female scent!
Sometimes he would shake
from foot to crown
at a question hurled by
an unknown voice;
“Did you squander away your life?”
Then he recognizes….
he has been a lone traveler
ever walking through
a one way lane
that will wind off
with a few more steps!
If, by chance somewhere
a new track
branches out
he would no more be
a solitary *****
There would be a companion
to hold hands!
Now it is too late!
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
*“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience"
"we do not have direct access"
"to anyone or anything’s pain"
"but our own;"
"and even just the principles"
"by which we can infer"
"that others experience pain"
"and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain"
"involve ******** philosophy—"
"metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”*
- From Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace
David I've considered it and
I think she might laugh if she read
that a version of her
briny and spined
pint sized
now resides in the depths of my mind,
She might laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but it’s because, as you say,
one can neither comprehend the pain
of an exquisitely tactile lobster in a *** of boiling water,
nor walk a mile in it's eight lilliputian shoes
So I am left to wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
in her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to have quit school and
be back to her fathers house
on Prince Edward Island.
and what I'd want to tell her is:
They might try to butter you up,
bridle your anger with blue rubber bands,
Use their wooden spoons
to nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***
but as we know,
lobsters can live to be over one hundred years old
and grow to be over twenty pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae,
characterized by five pairs of jointed legs,
the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws
I know she knows how to use them.
Which reminds me of something else you said:
"Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it."
A feeling I can understand
Though I'm no more lobster
than she
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC