"gaseous" poems
One of my favorite quotes is;
"For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse.
So collapse.
Crumble.
This is not your destruction.
This is your birth." - n.i.
I used to think that my mental illnesses were all there was to me. I was just made of panic attacks, and anxiety, and terrible flashbacks.
They trampled my mind, consuming me until I couldn't breathe. The anxiety was the person who was going to break into my house while I'm sleeping if I'm not facing the window. The panic attacks are the cars that will crash into my mom while she's out if "I love you" isn't the last thing I say to her before she leaves. The flashbacks are the tears that stream down my face at night when my thoughts cannot be controlled.
Most of the time I can't get a handle on my moods, but I still manage on with the day. Sometimes I'm too afraid to step out of my house, but I still do because I have school. At times I think that I have until the end of the day, and that's when it's all over. I will take every last pill that's supposed to help me. But I don't. I walk past the cabinet. I take four pills in the morning and five at night.
I'm terrified that everyone will leave me- almost everyone has. But that is something that is still with me. I'm not over that yet, I'm not sure I ever will be, but I'm fighting. I try to push those thoughts out if my head.
Right now, I'm still that nebula who's in the middle of collapsing. But one day, I know I'll be that star. I will be reborn into the girl I'm supposed to be. The girl I will be. Because one day, I will light up the sky.
Yes, somedays the sun will shine brighter than I do, but I will continue to be a sparkle in the sky.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
The rusted belt is tight
in our hometown city.
Black smoke masks the lights
In one gaseous setting;
the permenant fitting
Of our hometown city
Trees exchange steel
In our hometown city.
You’ve never seen the wheels
churn and the deals burnt
In the factories that take pity
On the nitty-gritty of our
Own hometown city.
The last laughs with us
In our hometown city
We don’t’ ride the Cali bus,
But yea, I'd say we are witty,
cause al'the prettiest girls
Live in our hometown city.
The river’s been burnt
In our hometown city.
Yea we’ve learned a lot
From our own ad(e)missions;
And now, clinics fill prescriptions
in ourown hometown city
In my own hometown city
We’re slicker than you,
Even though our York’s isn’t new…
Why? Watch my city revive in
Front of your eyes- then ask me;
Why is this your hometown city?
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated
i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers
barriers create madness
walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back
i can’t breathe
there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration
i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
And like incense our scent takes to the air.
Ascending before we fall.
Her and I.
We burst into fire.
Our eyes a gaseous mixture.
Ignited by the touch of skin.
Kindling the many thoughts we keep of each other.
A crackle blown out.
Accented in desire,
Our yearning ignites.
We hold ourselves unselfish,
Keeping warm.
Separate stems bonded as one.
Our inner voice visible.
Bypassing worry, our doubt.
A piece of us both, dissipating in a slow burning.
To give more than we've taken in unspoken communication.
We fell in ash.
Our scent a prayer sent to heaven.
To always remain this way.
Even after our extinguishing.
May we linger.
Forever more.
Falling fast asleep in each other's arms.
Leading each other to a place we call love.
Until the last ash drops
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
People, they just ain't all golden, not at all.
Not even silver, magnesium or copper.
Maybe zinc, because it tastes like ink and it does your body good,
but you never get enough, even though you know you should.
But had I the means, and the ends were understood,
would I be zinc? Would I carry the common good?
Would I feign precious metal? Or am I nothing but wood?
I met today aluminum, he said, "I'm bad luck."
"I know it," I said, "You're out of your element."
"My melting point is 660.2°C!"
I told him my name was Kristian Huselius,
but that turned into a testament.
"You're just lucky you aren't a duck," he said.
"Maybe, but I find I've got too much will."
"You can't spread will on bread, my friend,"
he said, much to my Brazil,
"but lucky for you they make contraceptives in pills."
I didn't want children anyway, but when Boron arrived,
I was feeling less than sublime.
Boron said, "My name rhymes with 'moron'!"
"No kidding, Boron," I replied.
"I can come in both the dark crystal and brown powder variety!"
"That may or may not be true," said Aluminum,
"but at least I benefit society."
Oh, yeah, he said it, he went there.
"I value correctness and propriety!" Boron shrieked.
"And you can be flimsy, squishy, and weak!"
I wanted no part in this, so I meandered.
Not too long after, I met Helium.
I told him my name was Carlton Deandre.
"I don't believe you, mealworm," he bombasted.
"You're gaseous," I said, "I wouldn't put it past ya."
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining—I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets, comets, asteroids,
All the substances of the same, and all that is spiritual upon the same,
All distances of place, however wide,
All distances of time—all inanimate forms,
All Souls—all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes—the fishes, the brutes,
All men and women—me also;
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages;
All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe;
All lives and deaths—all of the past, present, future;
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d, and shall forever span them, and compactly hold them, and enclose them.
4.8k
Friend Rockstar,
Listen, yield to a robust think-tank,
earlobes skidding against wheat and grain.
Terrible story, yes, what happened to that little girl.
Sterile teddy nightgowns weeping in the squad car windows.
Teacher – Teacher, do you harken my yodels for grace?
I’ve never been maternal.
Put the game on. Abortion.
That’s what I’m about.
Grab a bra. Sling some weight.
That’s what I’m about.
Some housefly wings on a weathered corn cob.
Some downhome, homegrown twang for those fancy, fussy britches.
Muddy workboots. Sweat-soaked collars.
That’s what I’m about.
Him done made me read, sir.
What sacraments did we write today?
I can still remember my first broken bone.
I can still remember my first broken *****
That could be what this is all about.
Mary, Mary, you can be contrite,
so knife – so critter – so laze – so stalked.
Who fertilized your seeds? Who reared your sprouts?
Cockle shells and silver bells, honey,
can’t grow up
to be pretty little maids all in a row.
Sterile teddy nightgowns – green bells in gaseous gardens.
Friend Rockstar, you may have to sleep.
This restless harbor is a shivering anecdote spilled from a belly,
a vast, deep cavern with love notes written in milk.
Your fried, stern smile was a flaking fingernail adjacent to the crack in the flowerpot.
Some garden, I say.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
Brazen rusted iron-scent of blood–
there, before him, a river of crimson and failed dreams.
No boat, no oars.
Just plain chivalry and bravery and yesteryears’ scars
that manifest all throughout and within him.
He dips his feet.
There were scattered skeletons
and crunched broken bones
basking under the dunes of the night.
There were ghosts clinging
unto his own ghosts;
creatures against creatures.
The tip of their swords
sinking down to his own tired flesh
in attempt to find refuge
in the treacherous wings of the forests.
He swims along.
And his shoulders were battered
and his mare was tainted–
with dirt and dust and ashes of the enemies;
with memories and silhouettes buried
sent flying along the caresses
of the north winds.
He gasps for air, and stills himself under the ebbs.
Under many moons and scarcity of life–
Scarcity of Life–
the recurring sight of the gaseous light
and the inconsistency of the breath-intervals,
he remains still and proud.
His soles burnt with pain and interminable suffering
as it crossed the stretches of the savanna.
This is his life,
dwelling on the dawn borealis
and stained with apparitions of the past
and demons and absurdity.
He has crossed the river.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
I walk alone, out in the vastness
of space, heavens vaults, darkness
leavened by the brilliance of
unknown galaxies, and the far off
light of distant stars.
I am alone. lost in this eternal
field, of dark and light, black
and white, and all between,
shining, eternal light, to shine
forever, and bathe heaven, radiant,
in its undying light.
I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
infinity?
But why, if I am here, are not others?
Where are they? Is space so vast, am
I to wander endlessly, lost in the void of
eternity, to be at last at peace, but to have
none others to share it with, none to join me
in my wanderings, none to acompany me
in my eternal journey, none to make it "our"
instead?
And what of Katerina? What of her? Is she here
wandering also, lost and alone even as I am,
enduring the silence of space, alone unto eternity
and beyond?
Or is she some other place, doomed to
eternal pain, locked away, to scream
unheard, save by her tormentor, some
thing of darkness, created from
the blackness of infinity, immortal,
set to guard the way to heavens bliss
the angels dying, falling?
Or is this all, this vast infinity, souls
doomed to wander forever, never
meeting, never crossing, alone
in solitude, forever and for all
the infinite centuries of eternity,
alone?
I wander here, lost for countless
years, stars vanish in heat and
light, whilst I wander, spirit
cast off, set adrift to wander,
centuries come and go,
while I stop to listen for
some imagined sound,
some human voice,
heard but unheard,
the darkness eats my mind,
while light replaces it,
with thoughts of
eternity, solitude and
bliss, together forever,
I and eternity, set to tread
alone through space, from now
until the end of Time.
I am alone, and I wonder,
perhaps, I am not
alone, perhaps I do not wander,
but instead set my feet to the path
appointed me. For perhaps those
stars were not always stars,
those nebulae not always so,
gaseous and vast, but instead were
souls like me, journeying only
to meet their ends as light and
gas and rocky spheres?
Perhaps, I shall know,
perhaps I shall see,
later amidst eternity.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
The night
is a torn tapestry
where celestial bodies
burn beautifully
incinerating
the cosmic stitching
that bind us,
quantum energy
unraveling
all of reality,
as I stare
stupidly enthralled
by the awesome
complexity.
Silvers spheres
of gaseous spirals
spew atomic fury.
Other poets
and painters
have presented it better,
such a sweet
starry starry night
made to delight
all of us,
but this time
I return
my reflections
with the love
and devotion
born of
a dreamer’s
dark predilection
to romanticize
every aspect
of our lives.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
Through the astral plains
upon which my consciousness
rides, the vicissitudes of fate
brought about insurmountable awe.
Nebulas of thoughts gathered
distant and fleeting memories
to assess and sort the debris out.
Close to the event horizon, yet
its gravity doesn't pull.
Away from black holes and worm holes,
through thick and thin gaseous satellites,
this voyage goes.
A radiant constellation
from a billion light years away,
can be seen. Unfaltering, ubiquitous,
and seemingly sempiternal;
it's light glistens across galaxies.
The search is now done and,
as ephimeral as might be,
no stardust or meteorite owned
could amass the value
of a mere glimpse of this constellation
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
There is more free space than matter
My zenith is far from touching land
A wing tipped by the ring of Saturn
The orb that many thought unmanned
My zenith is far from touching land
With a silken era of neon speed
The orb that many thought unmanned
The Guardians acknowledged their time of need
With a silken era of neon speed
A gaseous clash of friend and foe
The Guardians acknowledged their time of need
And songs of victory may never know
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
She was a fiery seashell,
lost 'neath convoluted oceans
amongst opuses of pure poetry,
artistically outspoken
'tween invertebrate reality
secretly devouring mankind,
beware Herr Lucifer,
she rose from the gaseous chamber
to live amidst ashes of immortality
& renowned marital infamy,
the eternal burning spirit of Lady Lazarus
**Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.**
- Sylvia Plath
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
there is paint
it peels from my eyes
in long gaseous ribbons
it is punctuated by
a bright blindness
where methodologies
reach no conclusions
paint peels from my ears
in uncontested echoes
projecting a self
generated audible universe
paint peels from my mouth
in black storms
of expanded consciousness
leaving behind a particulated
paralized partition
that leaves me disconnected
in a correspondence of color
A field of snow
turning blue under moonlight
in accord with the peeling of paint
like a light emitted by relative thought
paint peels, paint peels, paint peels
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Silence
At first a void
Then sudden burst of energy
Forces collide
Atoms split and divide
From nothing comes forth something
Radiance breaking free of abyss
Hot gaseous ball coalesces then cools
To form a planetary sphere
Which orbits a citrus giant
Giving off golden light
And warming touch
To embrace a world
And allow the basis for life
All this by chance and happenstance?
All complexity born from
Random motion and chaos?
How vast and unnumbered
The twinkle in the heavens
Yet all alone?
Oh I gaze up at yonder skies
And marvel at wonders
My eyes have never known
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
She breaths octane
gas polluting my heart,
and paralyzes my emotions,
love straining to restart.
Blue blistering toes,
pneumonia-driven prose,
she aches the bone inside of me
delivering a cold.
Moving towards
my aching soul,
she finds my
emptiness, tenfold.
Gaseous toxic dust
confides within my lungs,
her selfish evil breath fills me,
permanent distrust.
She drinks blood through
my straw-thin veins,
detracts my serenity;
swallows it all the same.
Disfigured masterpiece discharged
and broken on a hospital cart,
you're jealousy tears me apart,
I wait for the autopsy chart...
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 8:53 PM UTC
You have no pear to share with him, standing so far away, eyes never meeting, in the harsh light of a barren field, not one of the many hills has a view, near, near the beginning.
A chaste experience you were for him, shut off by your mouth that blinks like a dying fish I wouldn't take your pear ever, again, it isn't his turn immediately as she isn't fast enough to give me her pear, ever again, never to feel the gaseous caress, the distant beastly past has been erased.
Amber wheat is still devoid of desire of the dull and cold earth, quickly, distance is a joy, the best sobriety Sell yes sell civilizations splendour, you are no longer part of my bloodstream.
He will shy away, knowing your crowded mass of discontent, quickly donning his pants secondly, two by two, the work, running away from you while dressing, ugliness personified.
You are logically, logical earth, laying in the fire: him, you used to bury his flames, cooling his geysers
He has no desire for your pear, you long to taste his; with its lies and sweetness, you shall not indulge, his gifts are no longer yours. Now you kiss dogs. Your lies.
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
The night reveals more than just the stars
And moons and worlds and Milky Way bars
For the dark matter as a backdrop to the cosmos
Will one day rip its space-time fleece
But when and where, you’ll never know
Stars are like flowers and warrant no rebirth
From the gaseous remnants light years from Earth
For accretion pulls me in like your nebula cries
At the event horizon of a black hole *****
That gladly consumes my coy little lies
Watch them all burn and fail, once fiery *****
And consummate a lifespan for no reason at all
Churning in a chaotic standstill of time
Those supernova dreams and aspirations
Ultimately useless, but in all ways, sublime
Why do they exist and makes them die?
From the quantum quarks to the red giant eyes
I am searching for answers in an ignorant space
On a planet revolving on separate realities
Revolving on a path with a polluted trace
We sit in circles round an astral plane
Without questioning logic and something to gain
But like a star’s supernova, I’m ready to burst
Return from space and find our sun mid-stellar explosion
Eager to stand up and feel it first
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
Secret Agent Orange!
Secret Agent Orange!
oh a gaseous concoction
designed for mental blockin!
the voices of those men beside me
that died are bothering me constantly
they keep on screaming why didn't I save them
they'll keep haunting ME until I'm in my grave but
Secret Agent Orange!
Secret Agent Orange!
oh a gaseous concoction
designed for mental blockin!
I keep hearing this odd ticking noise
but no one else seems to hear it
it's not a child playing with a toy
I can't put my finger near it
Secret Agent Orange!
Secret Agent Orange!
oh a gaseous concoction
designed for mental blockin!
I keep downing pills to end the pain
I keep dodging bullets disguised as rain
I think I've finally snapped of course
thanks to secret agent Orange
Secret Agent Orange!
Secret Agent Orange!
oh a gaseous concoction
designed for mental blockin!
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
I asked my math professor if he knew what the equation was when two entities meet at a specific moment in life.
Is there a letter to substitute in for her name?
Or a number for the amount of time I spend with her.
Did the great elucid create any form of geometrical sequences that would
allow me to intersect the way life intertwined,
the way our hands intertwined.
I was clueless when it came to her,
being unable to justify what traveled faster
her voice against my skin
or light across the open space.
If I could write out a formula for the way our bodies melt, the periodic table would find a new element within.
What would our acronym be, what would our lives become if we solidify or become a gaseous state
Our atoms bouncing against each other’s hearts like the core of a star, matter weighing millions of tons that we orbit around each other like two galaxies connecting.
Yet illuminating the dead space like a Fourth of July only this is a firework burning for billions of years.
Two bodies,
hearts beating,
melting into one.
What will they write down in books about us.
What will they think when they start to study about our nebula's.
Were their hearts to empty,
or were they full of life?
Were they human?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
(Commemoration of Earth-Day, 22nd-04-09)
Earth hath
Been Weeping!
Nature lacerated & pleading?
Extinct species beseeching;
Antarctica mercilessly melting,
Noxious gaseous emissions heating.
Have you ever wondered?
“Of the Greek mythology!”
women warriors of Scythia astray burned off the
Right ***** to try
to habituate the bow and arrow in sly,
arsenals of terror abound harsh shear ploy!
Hitherto, the atrocious force upon Nature ne'er stops.
Wherefore-now the lost leaf of the conifers?
Searching for the nearest route to the Savannah Plains,
Waiting pro the long anticipated cascades of the tropical rains. Babylon wrests & clinches intimately thy adored hanging gardens that black slaves tend no more hasten. Euphrates in the Persian Gulf wanders uncertain; Everest looks down in pitiful scorn…
As it wobbly looses its molecular activity in pain.
Humanity squirms in an enamored Trance
to heave a foundation Of conscious Purpose
That Earth day waits Upon us
To elucidate a divine Hypothesis.
~~/|\~~
Namaste'
~~\|/~~
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 4:49 AM UTC
If this vast azure emptiness can prove
An aghast endless vacuum measure
Take it for granted, research process sure
It will fuel your thought resources, true.
Mining specks and dots in deep space treasures
Boundless designs shine assigning pleasures
Unfurl within mind in gaseous beams
Overflowing the banks of conscious streams
Filling the utmost sanctum with soft skills
Milling vacuum with colorful quills
Calming the pulses with embracing lulls
Warming all lives with fundamental pulls
Creating a sense of duo, I and you
Love and dislikes and points of view.
Feeling satiety in charity
Finding synergy in activity.
Minting amity in society
keeps you young aged muddling in daring dreams
Deeply engage you cuddling realms supreme.
So what? if this vast thought mine be blanked out
Will the ghost mute vacuum follow suit?
If sense aides guide a slow downward exit
And mind bids the fairy lids to close it
Will the sun bewail, bemoan and eclipse?
Or will the same smile prevail on red-lips?
If souls sunset in seamless sea of mind
Will lights spill out; team up to stay behind?
To form anew a fresh long microwave
To indent a start with a soul suave
A new spectrum to perceive the forces
For the soul that constantly resources
That differently formats transceiver courses
The energy that cannot be destroyed
But that which can be candidly portrayed
On a vast emptiness fluidly stolid
On a continuum vividly solid
On a clean canvas without dimensions
In a brave new world that cannot mention
A name which is beyond comprehension
A frame that doesn't fall on known convention.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
puffing out smoke like the entangling of long hair
with my portable hookah of acid apple palette experienced;
then eyelid the softest skin the warm puff puff experienced
when unable to see the gaseous
entangle of thus compared:
cut off the eyelids and become
serpents, rather than circumcising
exchanging loss of masculine
additives with excess of feminine
pin points of skin like the bloating
of the throat: larynx region with a thyroid
cancer bubbling and blubbering:
circumcise and make men eagerly warring...
and women prone to consecrate approval
as if dreaming... a naked sword without a sheath...
but instead of circumcision, the cutting off ********
cut the eyelids! what then? i'd begin revision
of man by cutting off the eyelids rather than the ********
**** me, why not both?! cut the eyelids
and cut the ******** then narrate what excesses of
womankind are worth disregarding:
feminine ******** and perverted religion,
hey, excess skin of man was the culprit once,
now the woman's chance to equate kippah with
a monk's hairstyle, with her own slit of
niqab and postbox of forcing through a hole
as narrow / as tight so that an object capably sat on
can be delivered.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC