"hungarian" poems
a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
and run inside to the pavilion
the women giggling, the men pretending calm,
wet cigarettes being thrown away,
Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the
pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees
and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian
Rhapsody #2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look,
one man sits alone in the rain
listening. the audience notices him. they turn
and look. the orchestra goes about its
business. the man sits in the night in the rain,
listening. there is something wrong with him,
isn't there?
he came to hear the
music.
36.5k
--------------
Just bought a new back wheel
For my tall and sturdy bike
And riding back from a party
I got hit by a big white truck
I was cycling by the curb
A truck came zooming up
I had the space of a meter or more
But quickly the space diminished
Suddenly I felt it
A crunching of the wheel
I shouted in anglo-saxon
Wehey! As I leapt from the speeding frame
I fell into a running roll
And stood straight up and turned around
My bike was laying flat
The back wheel sadly spinning.
I wrung my hands and giggled
And looked about in awe.
The people that saw this happen
Came up and shook their heads
Are you alright? I cant believe what happened.
I didn’t catch his number plate
What a ******* crazy driver
Are you sure you are alright?
A gay irish man was there
You uttured a cry he said
And then flew from your bike
Like a… like a… a ballerina
I forced the wheel back into place
So it was was sort of fit to roll
The chain and gears were gnarled
So I couldn’t exactly ride
On the way two foreign drunks
Looked and spoke about my bike
Autobus smash, I said
Ohhhhhh they said
Finally arriving near finsbury
A man who was cycling past
Said do you need some help?
I said yes please I got run over by a truck
What I can do, said thomas from hungary
Or what we can do
Is take a length of chain out
So at least you can get home
Ok yes please I said
And he bent down and used his little tools
And got his hands all oily black
And made me a fixed gear bike
Now your bike is a fixie bike
So im afraid you cant change the gears
Like my fixie bike, he said
Thanks hungarian dude
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
What would I do for you? There's lots of things, actually
I would spontaneously start speaking Hungarian for you...but it probably would sound like nonsense
and some Hungarian dude
Would be all like "Haver, nem beszél magyarul"
I would shrug, because
I don't know Hungarian...
But I'd still do it for you, if you wanted me to.
I would fly us to ancient Mayan burial grounds, where we could
Learn all about a lost culture
We would run into a cursed
Mayan Chief, but he'd actually be pretty cool
He would teach us how to do a rain dance,
Every once in awhile he'd look at you and say "kíichpan"
and I'd be like..."Dude, back off..."
He's like 2000 years old...
He's way too old for you.
I would carve you an Ice Sculpture in your likeness
Taking care to make sure that every detail was perfect and reflected
Your beauty
In every possible way.
I'm not too good at Ice Sculpting, though, so it might just end up looking
Like an oddly-shaped block of ice.
Sorry...
I hope you would like it anyway
For you, I would count to infinity
Which might not sound like a feat, at first
But then I would count back to zero
I'm pretty sure no one's done that before....
I won't be able to do it all in one day
So it might take awhile...
Hope you don't mind waiting for me
I would write poetry every day for you
Because I know that I would never run out of things
To write about
....Well, maybe every 'other' day.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
Somewhere beneath that piano's superb sleek black
Must hide my mother's piano, little and brown with the back
That stood close to the wall, and the front's faded silk, both torn
And the keys with little hollows, that my mother's fingers had worn.
Softly, in the shadows, a woman is singing to me
Quietly, through the years I have crept back to see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the shaking strings
Pressing the little poised feet of the mother who smiles as she sings
The full throated woman has chosen a winning, living song
And surely the heart that is in me must belong
To the old Sunday evenings, when darkness wandered outside
And hymns gleamed on our warm lips, as we watched mother's fingers glide
Or this is my sister at home in the old front room
Singing love's first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom.
She will start when she sees me, and blushing, spread out her hands
To cover my mouth's raillery, till I'm bound in her shame's heart-spun bands
A woman is singing me a wild Hungarian air
And her arms, and her ***** and the whole of her soul is bare
And the great black piano is clamouring as my mother's never could clamour
And the tunes of the past are devoured of this music's ravaging glamour.
6.8k
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.
I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.
There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.
There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"
And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.
6.3k
a peace sign
painted in sugar
tulip tattooed circle
swan like movements
lifted into blueskies
rose tinted sunglasses
hungarian green eyes
forests silver lining
magic easily broken
oh little girls
why bruised eyes
baby set free
winged haute couture.
© Sia Jane
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
At a Parisean restaurant
In a quarter undisclosed
Unaware of everything
The diners sat exposed
As Clara and the Prince sat down
And prepared to eat their meal
Backstage the musician equipped himself
The theft who had yet to steal
As menus and music case opened
The scene was set for all
And as Rigo Jancsi took the stage
The crowd fell quiet, enthralled
The gyspy was a showman
His weapon a violin
A tune danced out across the room
As the strings began to sing
Playing notes of tales untold
His melody charmed her soul
The music pulled her heart to his
Over her husband's buttered roll
Captivated, entranced and mesmerised
Seduced by another life
And when the gypsy left that night
He took the Prince's wife
They ran away and married
A scandalous affair
Society was most surprised
But our story does not end there...
Hungarian tales tell of the man
Whose music stole a heart
Remembered in a chocolate cake
And puppets, songs and art
One hundred long years later
The guitar boy from the band
Strummed his notes and stole the girl
Heartstrings were played by hand
Two stories a century apart
What makes these stories the same?
Because the boy's band of musicians
Used the Hungarian gypsy's name
Dec 9, 2009
Dec 9, 2009 at 6:23 AM UTC
1. Go a whole day talking in a western accent
2. write a 5 hour song
3. learn the rapping in "Empire State of Mind" and "Run this Town"
4. Go on a 3 month road trip on a Harley Davidson with only me, my guitar, what I'm wearing, the Harley, and the road
5. learn how to speak Hungarian, Greek, Latin, Hawaiian, Italian, Finnish, and Spanish, maybe some others
6. write a book
7. learn about Native American mythology and rituals
8. Learn how to survive on my own by making my clothing, food, supplies, tools, fire, and shelter
9. Build a yurt up in the mountains to live with wolves
10. Do a hang 10 on a surf board
11. ride a horse with wild horses
12. Paint a scenic picture
13. Protest for anything the government is against
14. Go to Europe and study art
15. Go on a train trip in Europe
16. Go to the Middle East and talk to woman about their rights
17. Go to Israel and West Bank and spray paint on both sides of the wall
18. go paragliding
19. Get or get close to winning a Nobel Peace prize
20. Help out at an orphanage
21. Learn sign language
22. go to help kids with cancer
23. Learn to play roque
24. live one year outside without spending 1 night inside
25. make a cook book
26. teach a African kid to read in English
27. Become a better poet
28. grant 28 people's biggest dreams
(This will be ongoing)
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
#
Along the priarielands--
rolling hills previously
roamed
by wild buffalo.
Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge
and now you--
You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass
and not a blade is broken.
Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves
out on the sea.
Me.. watching you
move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural..
and moving with understanding;
flowing--
ever-growing
knowing.. sweetly knowing
that there's a glowing
from what you are showing-- me;
Not a blade of grass or crop is
ever harmed by your movements
instead.. like me, they thrive--
leaning into you
whenever you are near.
. . .
I am the grass
the blade
the crop-- ready for harvest
the bison
and the upland bird
the forever wave hello
of the tall grass of the prairie.
And you are as much a
part of it all
as you are of me.
Like the native grass
and the native Lakota
that have both
always known its ways..
you were always meant to be here.
#
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 2:11 PM UTC
Constant understanding that
holds my mouth ajar.
reminiscent stars tangle with words like
"How" and "are"
tangled, mangled, strangled with that
Transylvanian tongue.
Straightened teeth bore with smile.
Oh, how the world has waited for such.
Lovely questions of impaling rulers
drinking blood
and vernacular across Carpathian
Hungarian
store owners.
Polski #1 says beautiful,
Polski #2 asks for no answer,
Orthodox Orthodontia
and Ignorance taint this experience
however lovely it may seem.
Cold is the only embrace
shaking hands struggle to write
every letter of every word presents one
good fight.
Tooth and Nail.
Glances glance eyes,
golden demise of any sort of
inside.
A perfect scowl.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
Not a phrase you will ever know
A phrase from a language too unknown to show
I speak many languages
From Chinese to French
Not one fluently but more than the last
I could tell you in many languages
From Chinese to Hungarian
Not one fluently would help more than the last
I could answer in many languges
From Chinese to Spanish
Not one could help answer your question more that the last
I could lie in many languages
From Chinese to Filipino Tagalog
Not one should mean anything more than the last
Not a phrase you will ever know
A phrase from a language too unknown to show
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
she was a peregrine
& appeared to me
shimmering in the
primordial morning
between purgatory & hell
talons like a crucial valve-handle
carrying me outside the gaudy dream
my heart's vagrancy
the latent tendency i had
of putting chemicals into my body
despite the ugly consequences
one man's poison
another man's high
now sunlight fractures into spectra
wind blows thru century-old oaks
becomes tangled in my
nipple-length blond hair
as we march hand-in-hand thru
these narrow streets
the pinched labyrinth
the last dusk light
this swamp
she was a peregrine
the hungarian turul
genteel brown eyes watching me
howl at the midnight moon
& yip like a fox at the first dawn light
now she shares her own
breathy yelps with the pillow
like fumes of lavender
sprayed in a strand of oaks
i know for a fact she has claws
she swore she'd never use them to hurt me
but sometimes i let her anyway
i need to feel those
dead fingernails buried
in my living shoulder-blades
propelling me into a new kind of manhood
redeeming my weaknesses
weaseling into my shorts
pains & insecurities
melting like cloud's spit down the windowpane
lazy & safe on a warm sunday
morning wrapped together in the skin
of this gyrating palace
this is no longer casual desire:
joni mitchell sound-tracked
our first makeout sesh
as stars bloomed fat
behind a surly multitude of clouds
over a tar-colored lake
so if you think i'm ever letting her go
you're a *******
pants-on-fire
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Basil, paprika, cold Hungarian goulash,
bleu cheese and stale cinnamon
coffee cake dominate
the taste of your
mouth and skin;
it’s not because you are
slovenly that pulls me
into you, I am alone.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."
And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."
Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"
I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"
I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.
My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."
I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."
And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
*Budapest Utca; Rainy Evening
...were Caillebotte a Hungarian
notes of ginger and honey
savory **** of cabernet
improvisational watercolors
harmonious star ascending
if only time knew when to stop
when enough was perfect
heartbreak would be extinct
intimacy...infinite*
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
today I drank my coffee alone
they sky was grey
it was neither hot nor cold
the cafe was noisy
and my latte was strong
today I briefly felt alive
a stranger talked to me
he was Hungarian,
but nice
we had a laugh
and I looked over his CV
today I was in town
and the barista smiled at me
my hair was messy
my brain was foggy
but we had a good time
I, my coffee and me.
Aug 27, 2024
Aug 27, 2024 at 10:17 AM UTC
I remember when I surveyed your bare shoulder blades
and the directions they tilted
as you raised your arms to light and
puff and flick,
puff and flick,
and how I measured the distance between
right and left bones that peak and plateau separately,
but are linked by my favorite unapproachable spine.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
As I listen to her last breaths, I lay curled on a hard recliner, sick to stomach and head, staring with her with the same blank blue eyes.
As I listen to her last breaths, I think what a cruel, painful and ugly world this kind, joyful, beautiful world can be. I think how broken and sad is her spirit, my spirit.
As I listen to her last breaths, I think of puppet shows and Mother Goose, of paintings and the blue bike she never rode. Of art classes and musicals, piano songs, of cheezits and coke. I think how sweet she is, even at the end and how lovely they all say she is. She is. Always.
As I listen to her last breaths, I think of high school yearbook pictures, of Hungarian Goulash, of sneaking to sleep at the end of her bed, of her notes to herself. I think of fear and worry, pain and disease. Of love and joy, of wit and family.
As I listen to her last breaths, I think I didn't appreciate enough, share enough, talk enough do enough, show how very much I loved enough.
I think I should tell her how incredibly strong - incredibly strong- she is.
As I listen for her last breath.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
Nem élhetek, se nem pusztulnak tovább
(I CANNOT LIVE NOR DIE ANY LONGER)
For Miklós Radnóti
I build this
bridge of words
so that I can
walk back over time
and take
your hand
you to me
this man
made only of words
talking out of a book
and I only able
to touch you
with these
used words
of mine
I clasp your hand
in mine
call you friend
***
Miklós Radnóti, the Hungarian poet, was shot by guards after a forced march from a Serbian labour camp in 1944 and thrown into a mass grave. When his body was later exhumed, a notebook of poems was found sewn into his clothing so even from beyond this lonely grave his words insisted on living.
"Don't walk past me, friend. Yell, and I'll stand up again!"
I reach out my hand made of words and touch your words that still make you a man.
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 6:29 AM UTC
The enchantment of a chase through the damp forests of Celtic mysticism is a treacherous yet beautiful feature of uncertain anticipation.
Just like the bustle of the contemporary metropolis, with her predictable and hypnotic flow of trans-national capitalism, we are caught within the web of paradoxical liberty.
Thank you for igniting my torch, as I travel across spiritual plateaus where the elements reveal the spirits of the dance.
My torch has brought comfort to those stallions who lead me beyond Hungarian kingdoms where Vlad Dracul continues to reign.
Hastening into the Societas Draconistarum, the wheels of my carriage have lodged themselves into the stoney and tragic tracks of seductive ******
Please do not forget me.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
Sensory awareness;
fold of translucent light through thin blue sheets.
Faint scent of tobacco smoke -
morning reveals the desolation of yesterday.
Coping mechanisms galore!
Scene of poetry without a purpose,
scene of black holes in red carpet,
scene of high moons by the windowsill
and always feeling low, half-stoned on Zopiclone,
how I once slept full, breathed from the diaphragm,
dreamed with ease - but that was so long ago.
Slept-in sheets, weeks of cold sweats
and takeaway pizza eaten in bed.
12 hour days on minimum wage,
I feel like a gardener on his last legs-
a garden to be tended to,
a garden that grows all around me.
The incense tray is full, synthetic Jasmine,
putrid Lemon-grass bought from the Pound Saver
solely to talk to the attractive Hungarian woman
behind the counter.
It's a working day and my mind is in disarray;
the sheets are too heavy, I'm a little hungover
and I've been going insane.
Half-an-hour to be showered, bowels emptied;
eyeballs removed - or whatever it is people do
to get themselves ready for the day.
It's a scene of kicking out in dead-water,
it's a scene of black holes and being human,
it's a scene of fear for the present day,
so much so you cannot build for a future.
Half-an-hour to be showered and out of the door,
half-an-hour to be someone I'm not-
well... I've had to fake it all before.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
"Having turned the machinery of the Gov't into
a corrupt process of getting bad press made on
his political opponents, the Bidens, by buying
false investigations on them by multiple Gov'ts,
must be impeached, now", say Dems, the people.
The impeachment investigation has received much
evidence to support it, yet, Rumputin/vlad-
the-impaler, who were illegally installed into
the Blackhouse after the 2016 election, are
stonewalling numerous other subpeonas, requests.
People have seen evidence of Donald's demanding
false investigations of the Bidens be started by
the Ukrainian President in exchange for already
allocated by Congress 1/2 a bill in anti-tank
'javelins', but not the unreturned voicemails
detailing his desires for the same 'quid pro quo'
by him to other nations, here's some. The Donald,
'Hi President of Ghana, I've heard you have some
hellified kool-aid, if you investigate the Bidens
we'll buy 100's of tons, awaiting your call.'
'Yo, yo, yo, President of Liechtenstein, just
calling to let you know if you liechten the Bidens
and find some dirt on them, we'll buy a hundred gross
of your steins, this is time sensitive, top secret,
so get back to us a.s.a.p., pppppllllleeeeeaaassse?'
''Sup, President of Guyana, must be hot in Africa,
too bad for you, all kidding aside, I hear you guys
have the best kool-aid to die for, if you investigate
the Bidens and find dirt on them we'll buy 1/4 of a
bill worth. Limited time offer, bro, sooooo holla.'
'President of Hungary, I've heard you guys are always
Hungary, so, if you want a 1000 tons of food 'b' alls you
have to do is investigate the Bidens, find dirt on them
and provide it to the Steve Bannon set-up Hungarian fox
news who'll broadcast it globally over the next year.'
The atrocities of it all is all the people can say. Does
this feel like a Greek comedy/tragedy to anyone else? A
quickie impeachment to cover-up the bigger Russiagate one
that indicts the whole of the republican conspiracy, just in
time for vlad, etc., to hack our next presidential election?
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 5:16 PM UTC
This
Is
Ragnarok
The violent end of worlds you’re pagan ancestors feared
Watch as the strikes from Thor steal your comrades from you
No Valkyries to guide you
No Valhalla to welcome you
Ankle deep in mud and rats and **** you load your rifle begging the God you believe in that you won’t have to **** another man
How did you find yourself here?
An Englishman fighting Germans in France
Because a Serbian killed an Austrian in Bosnia
Or an Italian, 43 years after your country was unified
Or a Serbian, longing to free your countrymen from Austro-Hungarian oppression
Or maybe your a Russian, a Frenchman, a Turk
Hear the whistle blow
Now is your time to storm from the trenches into razor wire and the the hail of bullets
You will likely be slaughtered
Like the 40,000 French soldier during one week of the war
This is a tragedy
But this is also a holy experience
Like for T E Lawrence
Fighting for a cause he never thought he would believe in
Or Ernst Jünger
Surviving bullet after bullet
Endless bombardments
This is the heroes journey
Do not let your children’s children take away from your sacrifice
When they say you died for nothing
You believed in your nation and you believed in yourself
Do not let them take that away from you
You who returned home and were ignored if not simply forgotten
Who returned home missing limbs, missing homes, missing loved ones
You who were traumatized shell shocked
Who could not return home
Who returned to what was supposed to be home
But life went on without you
So you found those who fought with you
From your bonds you formed brotherhoods
Formed paramilitaries
But that all comes later
Right now you look death in the eyes and can’t help but laugh
Laugh to keep yourself from crying
Laugh because you have never felt more alive than in this moment and never will again
And in this moment you can’t help but cry out
AVANTI
ARDITI
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC
In a last emotional csardas,
A hurry dashed in hectic trip,
From the sidewalk as she slipped,
Icy kerb afronts her eyes,
Slipped in front of cargo truck,
After a darkened dawn,
Of much deliberation,
Had enough insanity's pain,
Stage one, a drowse in melancholy,
In dream state,
She knew she had to go,
Made last retreat in sorrow's march.
Life became a chore,
Wanted it no more,
From melancholy stroll she rushed,
Stage two in dance's wild entrance,
Under the truck in disregard,
Felt the fender hit her hard,
Nothing else remained,
Except her disregard,
For driver,
The fear he felt trying to drop his speed,
Scarred for life by her own selfish deed,
Take this as a cautionary tale,
For this is write of fantasy,
May be feeling life is an evil curse,
Give help a chance,
May take a while,
Every cloud shrouded in darkness,
Conceals a new bright light,
Not always so forthcoming,
But, things will turn out right!
A Csardas is a Hungarian dance in two stages
I wrote this as a result of many train journeys to work being disrupted by desperate people throwing themselves in front of the train! It affects the driver, the passengers, and lots of others...no I'm not being harsh...trying to remind sad people that things do improve.
I'm afraid I don't do religion, but my regards to those who do **
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC