"hirsute" poems
*This poem is dedicated to the memory of Admiral Albert ***** Potter who displayed amazing bravery by wearing full drag through several major sea battles. He was cashiered for insisting the Admiralty rename his ship HMS Butch instead of HMS Fearless. In fact the vessel was eventually renamed HMS Damp **** because it was full of ******
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When England's ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
The Captain stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
The bosun went to the main gunroom,
**** Deadeye at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For little midshipman Freddy.
"Strap him o'er that cannon, lads!"
Roared the hirsute fellow,
"Gag his mouth securely, lads,
In case he tries to bellow!"
The sailors did as he had bid -
Refused and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
After the bosun had finished.
The bosun went up the poor young lad
And soon was going strong;
Midshipman Fred looked rather pained -
The Bosun was THICK and LONG.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they set to with a will;
Little Fred could not say no
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our sailors had then,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And cabin boys wore silk *******
A life on the ocean wave, **
With the rolling sea and the spray.
Sinking the Frogs and murdering Wogs
Kept England's sailors so gay.
OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ! OLÉ!
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
Oh, but it is *****
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a *****
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly *****
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a ***** dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color-
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
3.8k
An amorphous cave hides behind a cascading flow of crystalline blue, sparkling and shining like radiant glass.
Inside the incandescent cave, an effervescent and ephemeral scent of dulcet cinnamon coalesces into the air of the inside of this seemingly halcyon cave.
The feelings, the emotions, the sights, all too inexorable in it's ineffable reality. It calls out, with it's mellifluous and beautiful, languid and sirenic voice, incandescent with epiphany,
"Come child of man, meet me, greet me, welcome me, me as the idyllic felicity some dare to even dream of, and then let me embrace you and enrapture you and encompass you in my incorporeal and frozen, evanescent tranquility."
This ephemeral and serene cave now even murmurs and sings a tranquil symphony suffused with rhapsodic zeniths.
It... It truly was ephemeral...
A horrible shriek, a shrill and a repulsive and repugnant and rancid smell. A decrepit cacophony of hollow, anguished wailing and screaming. Pain at my soul, and a harsh, hoarse and coarse voice filled with slaughter and cataclysm. A grotesque, hirsute maladroit leech, visceral and shunned from everything and everyone, even the Earth itself...
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Buzzing emerald jungle swoons—
hip kitty soul eyes embrace the red wanderer.
It’s a tactical chess game,
both aware of the other’s presence.
Nebulous black perched in shadows,
desert red fool skips like a rock.
when eyes eclipse each other
an electric hummmmmmm buzzes
as their hearts start glowing like a peridot ember
the wind whizzes and twists
through their perfect curly hirsute
rushing luscious aurora energy pulsing
to and fro like giddy hearts exchanging notes in class…
Their blurry bodies bound forward
fox scorching ground while panther burns branches
lightning leg movements paws calls thunder
sun red hot fuzz lunges up
midnight cool moon goddess panther slams down
colors collide and crash and cling and clap
spines ignited in tye-dye holographic rainbows
their claws singe each other’s skin
their eyes swirl black holes
holy howls and breath coalesce
as one love
as one sight,
all encompassing
mythical tail told to all
through campfire gypsies and artists canvas
panting the dancing fox and panther
the bhavacakka.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
dead crow, beak pointing west
maggot **** and the wind at my back
I break a promise and repair the past
I've lost time instead of soul; false control
breath another lung, be another son
say the things you wanted, be part of everyone
dark wisdom wrapped in hirsute puns
blanket truths and a wicked sense
I'll break a heart and save the future
I may have made a mistake; tough break
wink another eye, be the next to die
say the things you wanted, be the first to try
shallow brook flowing through a glen
littered with little animal skulls and leaves
I broke determination with good
I won't undo the clouds, Ma...and Pa
snap another trick, don't get lost or sick
say the things you wanted, let go of the brick
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
Oh Joy, Oh Great Heavens Above,
How I like to lingeringly slaver o'er
The fartleberries hanging humunguously
Out of your **** cleft like bunches of mouldering grapes,
And to gaze upon the lusciously stale shitstains
Decorating your hirsute **********
You so rarely wash and your dumps are omnipotent
And you are too mean to buy any **** wipes.
You moan quite loudly in colonic ecstacy
As I plumb the Stygian depths of your sit-upon place,
My nose diving daintily like a woodpecker's beak
Smeared with poo-bits, seeking Nirvana
In your ****** paradise, brown love-tunnel
Serenaded by the poets since Time began!
Nowhere in all the Hershey Universe can there be
A pongier rimmee than you, O unshaven beauty of mine!
My probing tongue is covered with nutty brown paste,
Your sweet excremental delight makes me drool
In joy, as I personhandle myself "down there";
Ignoring the most elemental rules of hygiene.
But sadly there is a fly in the ointment
Indeed a whole ******* barrelful of them:
Not only will I get a very nasty E-coli infection
But I'll have bad breath tomorrow at chapel.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
They do
have a lot to be sorrowful about
their dark mindset understandable
those that grow and wrinkle
in the blink of an eye
hirsute till even the females spot moustaches and beards
and most males are gifted with little sausages
and no great stamina in use
education is optional and ignorance rules ok
the painted hues are catching up
while hometown losers are busking begging money
its all going south for them
so its blame game all the way
so they make it up as they crawl along
hiding their shame in foreign tags
and their cowardice in numbers
too dumb and weak to excel they seek refuge in bullying
as if we haven't got their measures
and know they bathe only once a week at most
my, my! they do have a shedload to lament
their miseries plain to see
so please excuse their puerile defensive scrabbling's
they are poor in heads in pockets and in their minds
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 10:28 AM UTC
O peaceful moon, shining gently o'er the fields,
In your soft light I see a tree, a hedge, a glistening pond;
And the soft night sounds of rustling reeds and swaying boughs
Intermingle with the nightly warfare of a million creatures.
But hark! From the new housing estate across the park
There comes a rather different sound. Through an open window
Comes the healthy thwack of flesh on flesh and muffled shrieks of joy
As Isaac and Wendy Bumsenfotze indulge themselves un peu.
Isaac's got his gasmask on, and his rubber flippers too
And (speaking candidly) looks an unattractive proposition
Especially now his skinny chest towers o'er his massive ********
All four mighty manly inches of it from tip to curlies.
Lying trussed up on their bed, atop its needed rubber sheeting,
Lies Sam, their well-trained patient pedigree crossbred donkey,
Upon whose good-natured, hirsute, unsuspecting person
Nameless atrocities have often been performed in Eros' name.
What are they going to do tonight? I bet you'll never guess.
Well, Wendy's strapped her ***** on and intends to use it first
On Ikey's waiting well-lubricated back end
And then it's Sam's turn and ***** the R.S.P.C.A.
And while Sam is getting poked by loving Wendy,
Old Ike will not be idle: camera-phone in one hand
And mail-order sjambok in the other, he'll record
Their motions and lacerate them both simultaneously.
Underneath his gasmask, Isaac gets a bit sweaty and excited,
And once their party's over all three will doze off:
A truly lovely scene. But they will be soon by woken by
The morning sun glittering on Wendy's cast-off legirons.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
due to me reaching
that post menopausal age
there's a hirsute carpet
growing on my chin's stage
a goatee beard adorns
in such distinguishing tone
it's envy of my neighbour
Russell John Stone
over the years he's tried
to cultivate an abundant hair tress
but alas his bare cranium
has borne less and less
since my whiskers
are so prolific in sprouting
I could shave them off
for his wig's touting
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
I called her once, then I called again
And I called throughout the night,
There wasn’t a message from Olwen’s pen
Nor the answering ‘ching’ of delight,
I’d begged forever her not to go
But she must have gone and went,
Down to the Fair at Cinders Flo
And into the strongman’s tent.
We’d been together to see the Fair
When the sun was riding high,
And all the rides and the Ferris Wheel
Were reeling up in the sky,
We rolled a ball at the grinning clowns
And we won a Teddy Bear,
The hairy woman and legless man,
All of the freaks were there.
But then we got to the Strongman’s tent
And I saw her eyes go wide,
He picked her up with a single hand
And I’ll swear that Olwen sighed,
I found I couldn’t drag her away,
She paid for a second show,
And after stroking his biceps once
She waved for me to go.
I had to drag her away from there
Or she would have stayed all day,
‘What do you find so interesting?’
I finally had to say.
‘Isn’t he such a mighty man
And his muscles ripple so,
He makes me feel like I want to squeal
Like a Tarzan’s Jane, you know.’
I finally went to Cinders Flo
In the middle of the night,
Thinking the end of me and Olwen
Seemed to be in sight,
I got to his tent, and there she was,
A-stare, a look aghast,
For what she had woken up was slim,
She saw the truth at last.
For there hanging up within the tent
Was the Strongman’s muscle suit,
With every ripple and every bulge
And a chest that was hirsute,
But he sat up in his lonely bed
And was pale and thin and white,
With a certain wiry toughness, though
He could never cause delight.
I think that it cured my Olwen though
She’s never been so still,
She spends her mornings and afternoons
Hung over the window-sill,
I try to get her to walk with me
But she can’t, she says, she hates,
She’s staring down at the guy next door
As he’s working out, with weights.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 3:18 AM UTC
A life on the ocean wave, **
In the olden days of sail
When pirate ships were proud and brave
And their crews were very male.
Captain **** stood upon his bridge
Looking smart and flash;
But below the decks, the orders were
*** and *** and the lash.
First Mate **** went to the **** deck,
His willie at the ready;
Initiation time had come
For trainee pirate Freddy.
"Thtwap him o'er that cannon, ladth!"
Roared the hirsute lisper,
"Gag hith mouth thecurely, ladth,
Thilenth hith evewy whithper."
The pirates did as he had bid -
Refuse and they'd be punished -
And they knew their turn would come
Once First Mate **** had finished.
The lisping brute went up the poor young lad
And soon was pumping away;
Poor little Fred looked rather pained -
As he wasn't really gay.
Then came the turn of the other men
And they joined in with a will;
Little Freddy could not say "no"
Until they'd had their fill.
What a life our pirates had,
Always singing shanties;
When men were men and big and butch
And the skipper wore silk *******
The pirates' frigates ruled the waves -
Good sailors feared them coming;
If captured, they'd be condemned
To a life of seaborne bumming.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.
For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!
Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.
Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.
So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.
Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
I knew an old man
Who tried to act young
He popped a blue
pill on the tip of his
Tongue.
He slicked back his hair
and put on a White suit
He tried to style like Travolta,
one more grey and hirsute
(It wasn't much as illusion
but it sure was a hoot)
He danced till his hip ached
then had to recline.
The lifts in his loafers
had betrayed him this time.
He tried to impress
with a big *** of cash
But the young ladies knew
his best days were long past
He loved them, they left him
He wined and they dined
He tried to romance them
but was always declined.
At the end of the evening
and the last of the wine
He conceded to age
and resumed his decline.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:31 PM UTC
On this cold November night
Salman Rushdie shook my hand.
An irate Ayatollah had
pronounced a fatwa on the
man
He seemed at peace, this hirsute fellow.
in his bespoke suit from Savile Row.
He signed some copies of his book
then his security man said he must go..
The lecture hall had been half full.
Perhaps some had been scared away.
I had come to hear him speak.
Freedom of speech must rule the day.
Outside Colden in the dark
an amphitheater is tucked away
A stage sunk in a bowl of grass
where Greek tragedies might be played.
Which tradition shall prevail?
I wondered to myself that day.
Will acolytes of a murderous cult
Sweep Euripides away?
A Moslem horde poured through the gates
when Rome fell for the second time.
The Divine Wisdom was defiled
and Constantine Palaeologus died.
I turn my collar against the damp
illumined by sodium vapor light
I think on Arnold's loss of faith
and ignorant armies that struggle in the
night
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
I.
They say,
Those who won't learn
the spirally past
are doomed to walk
its re-coiling paths
again, and I can't
argue with precedent.
I can point out,
my present and future
doubts, kneeling
down with guttersnipe
gifts and a candle
lit up to appease
history's stalking ghost.
What I really want
is to ***** it.
II.
They say,
This world's gotta date
marked expiry
and it's all set to go
sour with a big bang
or a small bust
out from the fridge
of twenty-twelve's
wintry chilling.
Lately, there have been
jumbo packs of weirdness
spilling onto
every last shelf,
but things got strange
long before the Mayans
began tying knots.
III.
They say,
you can take the brutish
and dress them up
natty, extolling
their hirsute
vices in basso
profundo voices
till we all queue
back to ****** them.
I've heard the jingle,
but I'm drawn instead
to wisdoms spoken
by officials
not officially
allowed to speak.
Their off-the-record's nice
and scratchy.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
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Jane of the Jungle (she’s all good)
charmed our world as Darwin’s daughter.
Anglican primates notwithstood,
her leaky theories held some water.
Streams of ngombe, sacred cows
were celebrated. What were these
to which the simian cosmos bows?
Irrelevant hypotheses.
Selecting great apes (naturally)
Miss Misanthrope researched, with love;
her theories, stated factually,
were hailed as truth from God above.
Hoping for reason, shadowing Man
the graybeards came for tempting fruit
unaware of their part in the plan:
to be used, like tools (but more hirsute).
Termites on a slender stalk
delighted hungry primate souls.
Her ripe bananas were the talk
of primatological controls.
peeling off; mzungu starkness
starred the Tanzanian night.
Chimping out, she lit the darkness
claiming scientific right.
Sweating out the Tarzan fever,
naming names while hugging apes
let us, laughing, love and leave her
to her anthropoid escapes.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
Beautiful downtown Atlanta
Sunny, blue, cloudless sky
Tall, wide, massive buildings
Window glass glistening in the sun
Beautiful, well-dressed people
Gainfully employed people
Taking care of business people
Running essential errands
Contributing to the community
Pursuing positive, purposeful lives.
I take in the sights, sounds, smells
Sounds of people walking, talking
Engines revving and car horns
Smells of restaurants and fast food vendors
Engine exhaust and overheated brakes
The feel of the sidewalk
Under my expensive dress shoes
The heat of the sun on my face and neck
The exciting hustle and bustle
Of a thriving metropolis.
A faint “Please, sir. . .” reaches my ears
And a homeless man appears
***** disheveled, hirsute
“Please, sir. Could you. . .”
His weak speech trails off
As I divert my eyes, quicken my pace
Ignoring his petty pleas
As he disappears in my wake
Bothersome soul, good riddance
Why doesn’t the city do something?
Days later the encounter haunts me
I was so proud of the way I handled myself
How easy it was to dismiss a soul in need
Months later the encounter haunts me
Instead of the clever human
I had become cruel, inhuman
Unfeeling, unkind, uncaring
Years later the encounter still haunts me
Never will it ever happen again
Never. . . ever.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 9:46 PM UTC
love blooms each morn...
[how am i supposed to write the quintessential love poem when the short, dumpy, plain girl at
the next table
desperately, too loudly interjects her
placating ‘wows!’, ‘awesomes!’ and ‘that’s amazings!’
into every stunted breath-pause in the stun gun voiced,
spine stabbing soliloquy
spewing
from the hirsute parody she followed in.
as if volume and volume somehow trump tepid, vapid content
tho it might have been interesting that
“this one time, ginsberg ****** in your mouth” if you had had the ***** to swallow it
but you spit it out you coward
and so, bored and ******
i remembered
ginsberg wasn't into hairy
or three year olds
or hairy three year olds] where was i
... like a glory
awakens to the sunlight in your smile
and the gentle breeze
of your sleeping eyes
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 8:39 AM UTC
castaway i foster my horizon
in shaded bows of silenced colours
castaway i foster my horizon
a shattered moon dilutes its glow
stills the humming river, its restless flow
in shaded bows of silenced colours
suspended willows wave a melancholy
in a lullaby for the unborn me
stills the humming river, its restless flow
dark hills and far echoes of loss and shall
faded memories in paused negative
in a lullaby for the unborn me
hirsute halt of uneasiness in being
almshouse but serving you not your wish
faded memories in paused negative
shattered humming of drifting glow
castaway i foster my horizon,
almshouse but serving you not your wish
castaway i foster my horizon
16.11.14
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Regardless of the portrayals by The "old masters" in their oil paintings, or Hollywood depictions; I don't think that when Adam and Eve were created, they resembled "Mr. Universe" or any of the"Victoria's Secret" models. A rather hirsute individual, carrying a club fashioned from a tree limb, toenails in need of clipping, knuckles dragging the ground. I'd hate to see what Adam looked like.
copyright: Richard Riddle-March 09. 2015
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
just moments ago, i went online and tapped Google
if some miraculous spell
could be drawn out of thin air
cause (this house husband
feels a bit embarrassed to divulge),
but at present,
the will to live aye cannot bear
cuz after an ample lather of soap and shampoo,
ah pronounced heady effect became immediately clear
where times gone by
(even as late as early January
tooth how sand and eighteen),
the strands clumped, glommed, and matted together
as sieve ma noggin got sat upon by a deer
no matter after shaking head banging fashion
(imagine rock stars of yore
whipping their wild locks) from ear to e'er
butta noah such dizzy inducing antics
resulted in absolutely no fluffiness,
hence my worse fear
(irrational?) yes, an obsession i.e.
thy hirsute outgrowth fixation dated back
tummy boyhood when cranky gear
and defective cogs somehow impacted
preoccupation concerning
every singular follicle fostering hair
strand, but during prepubescence,
this now grown man took a fancy
to this, that, or the other lad,
who sported a style envied yours truly,
hie wished said thatch tubby upon mine
ma lil oblate spheroid,
and pleaded (weathered and in vane)
with fate to make magically ap pear
this, tis minuscule wiggle room
to muster support from rear
guard, hook offer me wiggle room
asthma body electric goes on a manic tear
precious seconds ticking closer
to the final count down where
this mwm might remain bed ridden
for an entire year.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
early this year
gentle as calm ocean waters
lapping along a weir
thumb and fore finger
of right hand would peal back,
(via diagonally flippant motion
asper calendar
representing progression of time)
gets flipped over to veer
in one direction (linear)
revealing the next month at lightspeed
vis a vis tempus fugit galloping tear
thy head immediately lost hirsute thickness,
i starkly share
male or female pattern baldness
extant along
Harris genealogical trunk line rare
yet divulging distress
about limp decreasing strands
sends shivers along spine,
gloomy feeling linkedin
with old fashioned meaning of queer
and perchance tis foolhardy
reeding this Samson night issue must ap pear
tis unstoppable inching closer toward
as mortality gets near
youthful robustness fades
replaced by senescence mere
really ambling along tragicomic stream,
one evinces gargoyles mockingly leer
loosing sleep and kept raggedly awake
in conjunction dreams fraught
with frightful haunting monsters jeer
ring sound reverberating hair
splitting decibel jamming primary cranial gear
aye tell mice elf nothing to fear...
yet maximizing this plight with poem 'ere
Yukon also temporarily part
blond, brown, gold, et cetera locks mud dear.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:48 PM UTC
she pens a thank you note, for my stealing inspiration from her observation,
to create a “beautiful bundle of words”
my vocabulary acquired by just hanging around this planet of aged years,
(hirsute, multifarious, repacked packets of globbed and gloated pins and notions),
is minimally useful in the arced architecture of reassembling a new combination
that pretends to be a beautiful bundle of words, a nouveau riches,
a poem rearrangement is only addition but that a new poem, does not make
to make a creation, one requires
a beautiful bungle of words,
each tripping upon the next, somehow discordantly harmonious,
a humorous pin ***** sordid that moves the lips into an O shape light emitting,
“why in the hell did not I think of that”
if it makes sensible than it’s likely just recombinant, i.e. a used car
if it makes sensitive as if it’s a new cry, unheralded unheard and
the first newborn among its peerage
bungle your pictionary mistakable notions from fumes of intoxication
stumble into a new theorem predicting the relativity of the impossible,
combine cross pollinations, fish and fowl, meat and milk, stench and best,
faucet drips of hurricane magnitude, draw insights from inside a child’s vision,
and say to yourself repeatedly,
this is how I bungle breathing into new poems,
this is how I birth beautiful
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
Regardless of the portrayals by The "old masters" in their oil paintings, or Hollywood depictions:
I don't believe that when Adam and Eve were created, they resembled "Mr. Universe" or any of the "Victoria's Secret" models. Rather hirsute individuals, carrying a club fashioned from a tree limb, toenails in need of clipping, arms dragging the ground; and that's Eve. I can't begin to perceive what Adam may have looked like.
copyright: Richard riddle-March 09, 2015
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
I get up in the morning, sometimes still high from the night before, sometimes sober, sometimes wake and bake. I head into the bathroom, stand there to *** and force myself to look down at the ***** between my legs. Years and years have built up to an acceptance of my genitals from a foundation of hate.
I force myself to look myself in the face in the mirror, run my hands from ear to chin along my jaw, along the hair that represents to others a definitive flaw in my character, to myself, well, represents a certain type of shame. You see, everyone's convinced that women don't or should not grow hair in certain places.
Regardless of my status as a transgender individual, can't you see the stress this lays, the autonomy it takes from other women, too? It's like no one's ever heard of Punjabi peoples, it's like no one's ever heard the word hirsute, so the odds are higher some are inclined to shave their bodies in preparation for dresses or water fun, but I digress.
I run the water hot, it burns, I run the water on the array of razor blades and drag it gentle across the skin of the neck and down the cheeks, bottom lip and upper lip, then over both my brows. I wish I didn't have to do this, but I feel it deepest down that it will benefit me the most if I can push to survive more close calls so I may appreciate myself.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC