"fifty" poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
94k
I’m a child and not a bride, but
Last month you made me marry you.
You know it wasn’t love that made me say yes
But the fear of what shape my death could take
If I were to turn you down. Of course
I had no voice. I could only muse to myself
In the dark closet and imagine myself
A mother at thirteen: would it be awesome?
Would it be dreadful? Would it…? I died of anxiety.
Last month you made me marry you.
I had no time to discover me for myself:
Who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be;
I had no time to think before I had to say yes.
But it pains my bones to the marrow.
I am an unripe fruit for the eating.
I am a piece for the show-glass.
Last month you made me marry you.
I spent nights upon nights weeping over how you’ve
Broken me; how you’ve set my life ablaze
Like a forest in a wildfire;
And now the once-upon-a-time sweet sounding music
Of my soul is burnt into silence.
I have forgotten the dialect of my soul.
I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush.
You have beaten silence into me,
And now I have to prepare to moan and wail
Beneath your weight, while I watch you helplessly
As you bite into my innocence,
As you suckle the un-ripeness out of me,
As you dig into my childhood and pleasure yourself
In the childhood screams you hear from me.
But it isn’t the fun that makes me scream.
It is the bitter pain of knowing, of remembering
That my life ended at thirteen:
Broken like a fallen calabash
In the hands of a fifty-five year old man.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.
I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.
I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.
I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.
I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.
I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
We met
under a shower
of bird-notes.
Fifty years passed,
love's moment
in a world in
servitude to time.
She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
'Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
partner for
the last dance, And she,
who in life
had done everything
with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
for the shedding
of one sigh no
heavier than a feather.
42.5k
You miss a meal,
Then it turns to two,
A day passes,
And no one notices you.
Craving nutrition,
There goes a week,
Those many hours,
Longing for something to eat.
Using the same excuse,
"I'm not hungry, I just ate,"
The numbers keep dropping,
Was sixty-three, now fifty-eight.
You can't go back,
People are noticing you,
They say you should eat, and you say,
"You have something better to do."
It's harder than you think,
Just leave me alone!
Stop telling me to eat and drink!
If I need you, I can find my phone.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
He stood fifty times his height,
his palms pressed against the glass
separating him from the road in their glamour;
blurred images of car in their splendor –
and there isn’t the
familiar scent of coffee –
I call this pandemonium.
Nothing beats a day in a café
redolent of the finest Arabica,
he’d inhale deeply and recall :
unroasted gives the sweetest scents
of blueberries –
roasted’s entirely different:
fruit, sugar, perfume –
They call this addiction.
Mnemonic – a wind chime
lost in the array of winds.
“You used to be my cup of tea –
I drink coffee now.”
These words slip out of his dry lips,
and a lone tear trickles down a milky cheek;
They all say if they’ve got love,
they don’t need money –
And he’d say if he’s got coffee,
he doesn’t need love –
He calls this heaven.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
she loved thunder storms most of all
the crackle of white hot bolts ripping through the sky
the sheer immensity of power
she always thought it was him
her beloved God
big boy
Thor
with his flowing blond hair
blue aquatic eyes
washboard stomach
and delicately curved *****
finally a man good enough for her
even if he was fly by night
when the heavens thickened gray
like soggy cotton
she could feel atmospheres shift
it made her ******* pert
her mouth would salivate
like a lurid peach
her ***** swelled and dampened
tears of adoration and enchantment
filled her eyes
no longer able to contain her self
she would strip naked
fling off her *******
and run out to the lush verdant meadows
calling at the top of her lungs
yoooooooooo hooooooooooo
as the cool rain descended
she ran thrilled to the mud between her toes
seeing great claws of white lightening echo
through the sky
without hesitation
she fell to the cool earth beneath her
wallowing in the delicious sloshing ooze
positioning her self on all fours
head thrown back
*** up high
calling to the heavens
come on, come on big boy
ive been waiting for you
let me have it good
her clitoral lips
drooled with anticipation
her ******
a pulsating aching
the sky rumbled
with stretching streaks of fire
like a great freight train
spanning infinity
while the earth shook like a
hollow moon
she swayed her hips
rhythmically to and fro
whispering a love song
*oh sir
i need a man like you
wont you love me
adorations true
i kneel before
my sweet Lord Thor
where's that hammer
come on and score
you are so big
and im so little
how about it God
just a tickle
hit it now
give it to me good
kisses baby
like only you could*
tears of desire cascaded
down her pink cheeks
as she recited her love mantra
her mouth naked wet
suddenly
a great bolt of lightening
shot down from heavens throne
entering her ******
splitting her in flames
her head turned dark mahogany
sent careening fifty yards
leaving her mouth
a yawning twisted smudge
of fossilized obsidian
with eyes
blackened flaring hollows
her tender pink ****
a charred flower
smoldering
like a
petite
grilled
calamari
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
My nutritionist told me I need to increase my caloric intake and eat more carbs. I asked my nutritionist, “aren’t carbs bad for you?”
She said, “No. Carbs are not bad for you, carbs are an immediate energy source for your body to use, what’s bad for you is not eating enough and passing out at the end of the day like some ***** ***** Now eat some carbs and get some meat on those bones before I order you a ******* pizza myself.”
I should mention that my nutritionist is also my best friend. I call her Lady Reptar, because she is one. A lady, not a reptar, even though she’s twenty times more awesome than a dinosaur and fifty times nicer. She’s beautiful like a ************* daisy in the woods and she’s sharp and wittier than her cooking knives and she’s warmer than her father’s woodstove.
"So, do poppy seeds count as protein?"
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:53 PM UTC
sunkissed skin and vibrant skies,
warm season has always been the same
but when i met those summer dazed eyes,
i knew that trouble just came
he had lips that kissed wetter than the ocean
he had arms like waves that swallowed me
he filled my summer with sweet temptations
a garden of flowers blooming within me
but just like how summer came to an end,
he left and autumn arrived with tears to shed
like how flowers no one comes to see
they slowly wilted in quiet misery
that summer was more than fifty shades of love
turned into an endless waves of bitter memories
just wishing upon the tangerine sky above
that tides will bring him back to me
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 2:13 AM UTC
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.
Logan Robertson
7/25/2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
Two young boys in corduroys
were playing with a ball.
Two young boys heard one strange noise,
coming from the hall.
The boys stood still, well, still until
the door swung open wide.
And a ghostly chill and a real ghost, Bill,
were heaved the heck inside.
The brave boy stood, as the brave boy would,
and said, "Hey, listen Bill!
We're here to hear you, not to fear you.
Tell us what you will."
The other boy wheezed and sneezed then seized
and vomited on the floor.
He shook his brain. He felt insane.
Nothing was real anymore.
"Ghosts are real?! They're ******* real?!?!?!"
he cried and shook and feared.
For nature's laws were gone because
a ghost had just appeared.
And on that night of fear and fright,
the brave boy had his thrills.
And the other one was ******* done
and swallowed fifty pills.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
No soldiers in the scenery,
No thoughts of people now dead,
As they were fifty years ago,
Young and living in a live air,
Young and walking in the sunshine,
Bending in blue dresses to touch something,
Today the mind is not part of the weather.
Today the air is clear of everything.
It has no knowledge except of nothingness
And it flows over us without meanings,
As if none of us had ever been here before
And are not now: in this shallow spectacle,
This invisible activity, this sense.
18.7k
Look at all these wannabe gangsters
Terrorising our streets
That one's wearing camouflage trousers
Just wait till you hear him speak
'Dems bear skills mate'
'Can you lend me fifty bar?'
He sounds like he's from Los Angeles
Doing time in the yard
But he's not
He still lives at home with his mum
And his pregnant girlfriend
And he's under the thumb
You see them outside Tesco
But they're not shopping for pesto
Let's go
They've seen the old bill
He's known around this town
For selling dodgy pills
Guns, knives and slang
That's what you need
If you wanna be in their gang
No education
Just a stolen Playstation
And don't forget the ****
Even on a school night
They're out doing speed
You'll see 'em in the park
With a bottle of cider
Then they'll start
On a poor old-timer
Tracky bottoms
And a Burberry hat
Chav fashion
Cause they think they're all that
But the funny thing is
They don't have a clue
They don't think like
Me or you
They think that they're rap stars
Dreaming of fast cars
But they're just wankers
More like 'wannabe gangsters'
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
I wish I knew how to
Freeze myself
In a cryochamber
So I could wake up
In fifty years or so
When no one will
Remember me
Or what I've done
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 3:41 PM UTC
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall, Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell
I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within
She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention
The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong
When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow
Let's set a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***
Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for ice-cream"
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 5:46 PM UTC
Fifty years later their love has not blemished
it's only grown stronger it will not deplenish.
They still like to kiss at those midnight hours,
he still buys her chocolates and beautiful flowers.
Their love story continues to write out more pages,
as their love persists throughout the ages.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
i. when I was young, I was never complimented. I never felt good enough and it hurt and somewhere along the line I began complimenting everyone because I was never complimented and I never wanted anyone to hate themselves the way I did. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I want in her pants.
ii. we live in a country where a gay poet spoke at obama's second inauguration, where five openly gay senators serve, where all fifty states have had a gay elected officer in some capacity, so if I were to be gay, what's the problem with a relatively unknown sixteen year old girl from a relatively unknown town in a relatively unknown state being gay?
iii. do you want me to be gay? do you want a better, more socially acceptable reason to make fun of me? is my weight not enough?
iv. I was taught the term fluidity by my best friend Alyssa. she firmly believes that sexuality is a spectrum, like many other things. I have a different view on sexuality because I see it as a spectrum, not something that's set in stone.
v. I like making people happy, I like completing people, I apologize a bit too frequently and I was taught how to accept people.
vi. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I like her. just because I say a dog is cute does not mean I want with the dog. just because I say a painting is pretty does not mean I am going to **** the painting.
vii. aesthetic is a very important word.
viii. there are three kinds of attraction, aesthetic, romantic, and ****** just because you have one does not mean you have all three. just because I like the way something looks doesn't mean I am going to have *** with it.
ix. sexuality is an Identity. not a YOUdentity.
x. I'm not gay, but if I were, trust me, I wouldn't go for such a whiny little *****
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
my sister thought my mother
had died on her lap;
she walked to the bathroom
inside that depthless hospital hotel.
the putrid smell of life and death
all through-out this concrete heaven
and hell.
at the age of fifty-four
my mother's bones would
carry no more weight.
her gentle heart
her forgiving mind
her words so strong
but mine,
they are forced out
by constricted wind-pipes
and angry words
*i glanced down at the cot, where my mother died
as I made contact with my mother's pale-blue eyes
she looked at me with the most helpless,
childish face I've ever seen.
as if to say:
"he isn't here.. where is he...
where could he be?"*
she lived thirty more minutes.
he arrived a few hours later, asking:
"how's she doin'?"
never take for granted,
someone's borrowed time.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight *** When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.
The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.
Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.
We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.
We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.
I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.
Everything has gotten so crowded.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
there are a hundred and fifty pokemon
but only one of you
you are the legendary love that i could never catch
i remember kissing your Meowth and it was beautiful and fierce
do you remember, darling, the way you Jinxed our stars
You Charmandered me, left my cheeks pink and rosy
Gave me an Electabuzz
The heat rose to my face every time we locked eyes
(i always was a bit Oddish)
I want to Pikachu when you don't think I'm looking, as you stroll through the crowds of your own thoughts
But you Rapidashed out of my life.
Is it Farfetch'd to wonder if you ever think of the Eeveening under the stars
When you said there was no Chansey that we could ever be together
Well
I remember
And I say
Ditto
to that.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC
the electricity runs through our veins
and past the street signs we rumble by
in the car you stole, we go fifty above the speed limit,
the roof of the car is the noir sky above
and the midnight rain pelts our upturned faces
the dancing drops of water drip onto our smiling lips
the sound of the sky collapsing
echoes the flashes that streak the sky,
the flickering light casts paved roads with a brief brightness
(as if god were wearing light up sketchers)
the lacy brallette that wears me
gives me the bravery to stand up in the speeding car
the velvet pants that ripple with the wind
drink up the nighttime rain
and the rare headlights race past us,
heading into homes and hearts
the mellow playlist that connects the aux cord to our ears blasts
so loud, we can no longer hear our insecurity
the mascara that once clung to my eyelashes
now streams down my face.
on a two way street,
we drive down the middle
unafraid in the face of direct dangers
so unaware of the towering empty skyscrapers
and instead highly exhilarated
from the street signs we drive by
too fast to read the blocky lettering
the road signs glint, smiling as we wave and reach towards them
the cigarettes you smoked are thrown through the open window,
still smothering slightly.
i can still taste the smoke on your lips
and your hand tucks my hair behind my ear
and as the wind objects and inhales
unreal in the hazy a.m. car trip
the tunnel rushes towards us,
and we both hold our breaths,
as if breathing would contaminate us.
the lights that glint, cast a yellow-white glow
and for once, i see you for who you are
a boy too buzzed to feel
a kid who only felt "sort of"
a person who couldn't heal
and a lover who could never give love
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 3:34 AM UTC
I remember our first kiss
It was an accident & you
wouldn't stop apologizing
because you had one past
too many to drink
You were broken like a
shattered glass bowl filled
with your favorite kind of
cereal & way too much milk
As it fell to the floor, your
heart dropped just as fast,
immediately realizing that
this couldn't be undone
You'd have to clean up all
of the glass & soggy bits of
sugary flakes from the floor
all by yourself with no help
You cursed to yourself through
clenched teeth & a closed jaw,
tears daring to escape your eyes
like the milk pouring & dripping
over the sides of the broken bowl
You swore off cereal all together
because the agony of possibly
breaking another bowl had
your head & heart in a whirl
of confusion & annoyance
Slowly as you began to pick the
broken pieces of glass from the floor,
piece after piece being thrown away,
this task you found a chore
becomes more of a necessity
that you didn't realize until
the big mess was already created
Wiping up the chunks of sugar
& tossing them in the trash,
a small smile curls at the
corners of your mouth
Pain runs through your veins,
but relief washes over your core
as you realize the worst is over
The kiss that I remember
was not of regret, but beauty
I'm on this sugar high &
I'm not sure I can come down
But you don't want cereal anymore
so I'll eat this bowl alone
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
You want me to wear
logos in my hair
and purchase
the matching scarf?
A billboard for sale
at the human scale
Sporting your brand
Oh, what a larf!
Go Team Go!
Print on a throw
For the low price
of fifty-four dollars
I'd rather be happy
not buying your sappy
stuff that you sport
on your collars
you tell me to buy
because i'll look fly
and fill up my closet
with swagger
Believe when I say
not one single day
I'll fall to the dance
of your dagger!
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
To my Daddy on Father's Day
When I was young and small,
I was your little girl.
As I grew and grew,
I stayed your little girl.
Now, 18 years later,
I'm still your little girl.
When I am twenty,
Thirty,
Forty,
Fifty,
I will still be your little girl.
No matter where I go,
Or how old I grow,
I will still be,
Forever and always
Your little girl.
You were my cheerlearder,
Calling and whistling from the stands,
Since I was smaller and tinier
Than all those who played.
You were my coach,
Helping me and teaching me
Giving me confidence
Showing me what it meant to be an athlete.
I took what you taught me
And applied it to my life
Making me,
Forever and always
Your little girl.
You were my personal chef,
Teaching me to love the finer foods
And that cooking is an art.
Healthy and not
Food was to be treated specially
Cooked and baked just right.
Nothing has ever compared to what you have made.
Spoiled and exposed to the best
Making me,
Forever and always
Your little girl
You were my supporter,
When I was upset and had nowhere to turn.
You taught me to be tough
And to be strong.
You said I could do anything,
Be anything I wanted,
That being a girl made no difference.
You taught me to love myself,
To take care of myself
To defend and stand up for myself,
Making me,
Forever and always
Your little girl.
When I was small and tiny,
I was your little girl.
As I grew,
I remained you little girl.
Today
I am you little girl.
Tomorrow and the day after
I will be your little girl.
No matter where I go,
No matter how old I grow,
No matter where you are,
No matter how old you are,
I will
Forever and always
Be your little girl.
Happy Daddy's Day
I love you <3
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC