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"inebriating" poems
*Minds infested with lies There is no reason to start a conversation Every word a figment of sinister plan Heady cocktail inebriating the sane mind Muddled heart and mind in a state of stupor Reasons not enough to not believe the unreasonable*
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Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
Lies
I cut one swiftly, the acidic elixir dripping through my fingers unto my inebriating, rustic drink.
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Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
Tequila
Your beauty is so malty, It drives my love crazy, Lest I commit a divine sin. The night is intoxicating, Cool is this ambience, The whole world is drunk, Oh the inebriating air, It drives me mad for you. Your beauty is so great, It makes me go barmy, I want to commit a divine sin.
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Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
Malty Beauty, Crazy Love
Power pulsating between my legs Irrational intrigue  between my ears Alacrity asunder between my ribs -Heretical human blender- Serving up cleverly crafted cocktails I am Spouting sureness from between my lips I am Stirring in sweet sultriness Soliciting sour sabotage Submerging you in salty squeamishness -Colloquial courtesan, curtly castrating consumers- Inebriating you equally with inevitable irrationality Welcome to my "Reader’s Digest" Prepared especially for you with my psychologically indigestible
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Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 10:35 AM UTC
Reader's Digest
There in the air, it hung, muted yet palpable, like the  inebriating scent of new rain on earth with this signal morning alluded something, as if challenging anyone there to swiftly respond. Gazing at the far away mountains, waking up, pulling away slowly the blanket of darkness a purple sun above making a symphony of colors she is caught in the waves of the mood, it's cadence captures the spirit in a poem; it blooms on it's own. Zestfully she reads it in her resounding voice,as if to the chickens clucking around in the cluttered barn there wasn't any audience other than the birds and the cattle; a sudden change the chickens,strange, till the moment before they were looking for a worm or two in the black earth. As if forgotten all other things the chicken stood their head held high, beaks open as if to peck in an attentive posture, they stood listening to her, the moment they got the tune right,started reciting it. The cows in the shed  turned to the direction of her voice, as if it's a song, and it's for them she was singing .
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Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
Morning mystery, weaving poetry
It springs voluntarily, ...it's like a small voice An invisible separator, and An unseen magnet... Amidst overwhelming crowds in your life You step back.....you analyze..... Pleasantries...short or long, are flowery Nonstop gratitude is inebriating What could be better, ...than, all at once, From out of the blue ...a rainbow will appear A kind of force is born ...for both giver and receiver An energy that draws eyes, attention ...it's like waking up from a long sleep, Pulls like a magnet...an irresistible force, That invites, with open arms ...it's like hearing a voice, saying: "You belong here, with me, baby, ........stay! Sally Copyright October 22, 2016 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
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Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
A FEELING OF BELONGING
Considering belief, dispositions dutifully mixed Two fingers of skepticism, with ample deviation Followed by a pony of existentialism riding in Mad man's drink is bitter but, At this point all he can accept Chin deep in the highball glass Sinking amongst the buoyant Gulping down helplessness Yearning for the forgotten island Where belief was once believed
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Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
An inebriating mix, hold the belief
Your lips whispered a curse and brushed against mine. Soft, like sparrows' wings, inebriating as wine. I know I am lost now, wandering so many city streets wondering if you'd find me here and take me off bare feet. I am calloused, I've become raw. How can you, so far away remember me at all? The street lights are turning on now it will soon be dark. Tell me how to live without a heart.
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Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 12:12 AM UTC
Do you think of me, like I think of You?
his voice beguiles me, weakening me in whispered warmth of breath, fingers trace trembled want of hungry lips tasting me... Closing my eyes; I arch into need of his touch, his voice of seduction breathes against skin, teasing me licking my tremors... I moan in ache, my ripple upon his tongue, my essence rises lingering within his mouth; roughly kissing me and I kneel before him, taking him in slowly suckling; tasting him tip to pearls licking his veined pendulum swirling in warmth, vigorously in out loving his shudder... he whispers as his fingers tenderly tweak ****** softly, inebriating my senses; aroused horniness, entering my paradise, firmness weaves flesh in breathless swells, igniting our twine; like tongue licking heat of mouth pulsing in wetness... searing between open thighs, I ache for his plunge engraving me, knotted within his arch; deluged in fluidities flush as lips brush, tongue trails taut nips, I blush beneath his fiery breath, still teasing rocked to my foundation... unraveling me in utter passion, our bodies aching; assuaging yearn, calming quivers in wet want; shuddering each abraded ****** loving its aftertaste in trembled release enlivening; our lust still entwined within wet ecstasy...
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Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Wet Ecstasy
lips upon swell of breast, caresses like a dance in bated breath; a cry of hunger unclothed to nakedness; mouth travels south, seeking to quench libidinous drought; tongue glides, nibbling kisses; silently I sigh, each taste he gets thicker as I become wickedly ***** scents of honeysuckle permeates the air as tongue teases hardened strobe; I glow within his nature and he whispers in elated breaths; I arch against masculinity in sultry poses, smiling in blushed tints, fore, he knows me and tells of his wants to satiate my needs like a rose opens its petals to a bee's need; to suckle its sepal of sweet nectar's honey, sipped in little nips inebriating his wanton longing, he breaches my honeycomb in gentle easements...flushed he whispers against nape of neck as hands control movement of hip, tongue glides against silken thigh; in foolery baiting to entrap me within his desirous taunts of beggary...I sigh
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Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
Beggary
*He found a boundless sea inside  a diamond, she keeps close to her soul, love pulsates in that ruby precious. She wears an all -knowing smile, so ravishing, when he gazes in to it, through her clear blue eyes. He has seen memories that  quietly rest in her hive, come searching for him, honeybees seeking the drops, sweetness of the past inebriating at any time later. We are wishes perennial of the people of yore, who never ceased to love us even after leaving the earth, for realms higher echoes we are, from labyrinths of time relayed from the timeless realm, that appears after counting every universe existing there.*
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Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
He found a boundless sea, inside a diamond
**An alien fruit on a low hanging branch, she swings invitingly flaunting her color, that pulled me near what an adornment you would be to my meager fruit basket, inebriating scent emanating overpowers my senses. Your design, I certainly smell I hear the whisper, the disclaimer to entice me to your side, "I don't like him, the keeper of my orchard, he pretends he owns it but does he know the truth? it's different, fruits aren't his passion, just a hoarder he doesn't enjoy  the ripe fruits, and I am a **** fruit, I see yearnings play hide and seek in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy, I've been waiting to come this way, take me, soon I'll forget him, throw away your qualms like fruit peels to the dumps" I can't now discern, what I now think, no, I am no purist who detests tartness, I like the taste of vinegar, this fruit offers so much, this is a taste I relish, but I am not game for this, like to chase and hunt, fruits from higher branches, "wouldn't touch a carcass, even if it promises much"**
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Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 6:00 AM UTC
An alien fruit
A clothes hanger                    clutches a line                    of paper lanterns                                      lighting my next step                                      on streets my shoes stick to                                                from wheat beer I hear the ‘Pit'                      coursing through cracks                       &                        inebriating aged clay bricks                     ‘Pat”                      of rain on rooftops                                    & falsely take it                                        for Charlie Parker's                                                      'Hot House' but it’s 2am near Tulane   & they’ve graduated to                   tracks from Tremé;                   Brass jazz & barflies;                   Mad Hatters & Mademoiselles                                      dancing barefoot                                      in the French Quarters                                             under red fluorescent lights                                                under cloud-covered stars; She gets them drunk off dance & song; Guaranteed to make locals                       late to last call;                       shows them back-country gems,                         the beautiful ruins known only                                                       by bayou gals                                                             & city folk outside,                                              in search of sirens where the ceiling's missing, dancing 'till their bodies taste like rain They 'crash'                     &                        'splash'                                        .....breaking through worn wooden floors                                                                      & cracks in plaster walls lead by the ‘Pit’                                                     back to the street,                         &                       ‘Pat’                               as other strange drops join the dance,                               descending from skies to rooftops;                                                      Finding lower highs                                                      in search of Bourbon Street                                                                     lost & looking &                                                                 near Tulane at 2am my blue suede shoes are dying of thirst,                                  stuck upon each step;                                           lacking direction &                                         looking for jazz waiting to drown       in the 'Pit'                  & 'Pat'                      & splash                          of this daily rain dance;                          Lose myself in this listening                          as dreamers do                              on the streets near Tulane                              At 2am;
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Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
2am near Tulane
A clothes hanger                    clutches a line                    of paper lanterns                                      lighting my next step                                      on streets my shoes stick to                                                from wheat beer I hear the ‘Pit'                      coursing through cracks                       &                        inebriating aged clay bricks                     ‘Pat”                      of rain on rooftops                                    & falsely take it                                        for Charlie Parker's                                                      'Hot House' but it’s 2am near Tulane   & they’ve graduated to                   tracks from Tremé;                   Brass jazz & barflies;                   Mad Hatters & Mademoiselles                                      dancing barefoot                                      in the French Quarters                                             under red fluorescent lights                                                under cloud-covered stars; She gets them drunk off dance & song; Guaranteed to make locals                       late to last call;                       shows them back-country gems,                         the beautiful ruins known only                                                       by bayou gals                                                             & city folk outside,                                              in search of sirens where the ceiling's missing, dancing 'till their bodies taste like rain They 'crash'                     &                        'splash'                                        .....breaking through worn wooden floors                                                                      & cracks in plaster walls lead by the ‘Pit’                                                     back to the street,                         &                       ‘Pat’                               as other strange drops join the dance,                               descending from skies to rooftops;                                                      Finding lower highs                                                      in search of Bourbon Street                                                                     lost & looking &                                                                 near Tulane at 2am my blue suede shoes are dying of thirst,                                  stuck upon each step;                                           lacking direction &                                         looking for jazz waiting to drown       in the 'Pit'                  & 'Pat'                      & splash                          of this daily rain dance;                          Lose myself in this listening                          as dreamers do                              on the streets near Tulane                              At 2am;
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SOFT, TENDER AND SENSUAL IS A WOMAN’S TOUCH TO ALL OF US. COMFORTING AND SECURE TO A CHILD, LOVING AND REASSURING TO A FRIEND THUS WE ALL CRAVE THAT WOMAN’S TOUCH NO MATTER WHO SHE IS TO US, A MOTHER, A FRIEND OR LOVER. TO HER MAN HER TOUCH IS ****** AND EXCITING, ADDICTIVE AND INEBRIATING. THE GREEK CALL TOUCH" HEPTOMAI" DEFINED AS TRANSMISSION OF ENERGY. AND TO ANOTHER WOMAN A WOMAN’S TOUCH IS ALL OF THE ABOVE COMBINED AND MORE… IT LIGHTS UP AN INNER FIRE, A PASSIONATE DESIRE, UNENDING ECSTASY AND PLEASURE TO THE CORE.
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Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
A WOMAN'S TOUCH
Almost like it was etched into my soul My mind refuses to forget. ***I see you. I see your smile. And **** It consumes me again.*** Dripping with that sickeningly sweet nectar Reviving that lingering taste of honey on my tongue Sparking that chaos that breeds like wildfire For that foolish love that I once clung Intoxicated by that familiar scent Inebriating my mind of incoherent thought Indulging in this irresistible poison All sense of caution came to nought ***That smile. That ******* smile is what does me in*** Blooming like honeysuckles on a vine Vibrant in colour, alluring to the eyes these blossoms aren't all new, just dormant for a time lying in wait for the worst timing to arise Entwining itself into the crevices of my heart Spreading across my body it twirls and intertwines Desperately trying to pull away as I might But its futile against the ever tightening vines You smile at me Halting my breath but for a moment As if encapsulating us in time It feels almost as if the world is composed completely of just you and I I'm unable to resist -
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Apr 22, 2024
Apr 22, 2024 at 11:57 AM UTC
That Smile Drenched in Honey pt 2
Leeching light, vampire-like, her eyes burn, Stolen attention lingers, cloyingly sweet, Pearly laughs cling, bedeviling, Shaking hips, like a disapproving finger, Rising tides hold secrets close, unveiling, A smirking smile, sweet as the taste of death, Oh, angel lips, fallen to hell's debauchery, Legs like an ignored muse, passion banked, Hair's flick-kiss, black-heart dark, Spicy scent, alcohol-like, inebriating, Breathing deep the essence of the bonfire rose, Ghost dance footprints fade and fulfill, Everest's peak, an unscalable life-long goal, Her free, stained-glass heart, my hopeless hope.
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Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Oh, Woman.
The leaking beauty such as rebirthed life And of the muddy earth slowly reclaimed Persephone’s return, a dance of strife Returning vividness, again, unmaimed Escaping the monochromatic cell By return of green, such luscious pigment By Flora’s grace and by the Shepherd's bell Revive events long free of merriment The songbirds relearn their forgotten tunes The bees prepare to collect flowered boons Hibernation ending, returns routine With warmth radiating, freely flowing Crawling from thy shallow cave, sunlight seen Flecked through dewdrops caught in Spider’s sewing A land of new dawns, forgiving thieves The fruit yet unblossomed, life is still ripe The tree naked, still missing its leaves Coverings absent before the first gripe The animals hunger to end their fast Humans hunger to remember the past Come, serenity destroying pigment Rend the ebony earth delicately Spread your lovely, inebriating scent And thus, set every fashion of life free Free from that immaculate white prison Free to frolic in fresh fields, unrestrained The sun, in more wakefulness, risen To maintain, nature’s mischievous work reined In preparation for the coming time The time of heat, growth, and color sublime
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Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
To Spring
This bottle bleeds like heartbeats inebriating grass contesting dew drops      heartstopping plot lines meanwhile fireflight christens the night that listens to our intoxicated forgetfulness a cheap libation liberation young-morning dream sleep waking walking, weaving half-heard whispers of stubborn solemnity, we wrought havoc; we were not in love it was just the cold night air      and the field that smelled of chardonnay
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Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:44 AM UTC
Libation
an armadillo falling in love with an ant; evidently a tragedy in the making.                       A nightingale                       getting enamored                       by a crow;                       certainly is                       a comedy                       in perfect proportions. an elephant trampling the tropical jungles, falling head over heels for a blue whale, even if for a while is an adventure perilous                          he and she                            falling in love                          without rhyme or reason                          propelled by a heavy dose of passion                          is love at first sight, the height                          it is thought, of a romantic liaison! but tragedy and comedy with all probabilities of incompatibility lurk in human minds till it strikes with out any signal of warning, if the two, supposedly madly in love are not certain, of the reasons, of the love that struck them, and swept off the feet, in the inebriating love season
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Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
see the reason , don't be swayed by the season
Tonight, like every night, and every day, she is there on my mind all the time. Her smile and her eyes looking at me, and I am the luckiest man and I know that its true, because my dreams of you are inebriating, lucid, stirring, perfection.
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Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 10:09 PM UTC
On My Mind
There were Valentine Days when these lovers would clink crystal glasses to toast inebriating love now she can't live with him for one more day no longer can she suffer the progression of his disease the ***** just dropped him through yet another trap door in a long succession of trap doors descending rapidly in a desperate plunge to a hard bottom one morning she awoke refusing to be held hostage by his raging disease not one single day more the excruciating insanity, the lurking danger, the lingering threat the parade of pain needed to end she was sick and tired of being sick and tired she wisely kicked his *** out and returned his engagement ring he went back to Service Merchandise on Valentines Day to get a refund his plan was to hock it for ***** the merchant only offered to credit his expired charge card he would have to wait to see the charge reversed on a future months statement no dough for ***** that day as the automatic doors swung open he realized he should have pawned the ring we like to remember the days of wine of roses we forget about the lousy days of shots and beers the world of spirits bedevils us do you still believe in love? vaya con dios mi amigo Frank Sinatra The Days of Wine and Roses Oakland 11/7/09
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Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
Days of Wine and Roses
Colored clouds furnished the sky Pink, yellow, orange and white Imparting mystic images Stimulating the view The messages my heart decoded To be from fire eroded The gods and goddesses of yore Rejuvenating my calor The caress of passing breeze Seemed no longer mundane Flock of birds wafting above Deity formation in disguise The rays of Sun a rapid river Flowing into ocean of air In high plains i heard a whisper Soothing my wounded crown, Inebriating my spirit Such calmness i had never felt Such state far beyond pain As the moments began to last Intensifying my soul's goal Time admonished the Earth to roll And diminish the light fast Where day endured becoming past.
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Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 4:51 PM UTC
One Magical Day
Enticing transparency of glass, crafted sand shaping figure, wide cavity craving to be filled allowing, oxidation melding to capture oxygen emanate aromas, inebriating flavours held by opaque long stems impeding my consideration, I want I do not, an automated old recurring gesture creeping slowly from within, whispering no harm will come from flowing, burgundy liquid gold in the abyssal hole where stormy tides hide ghostly presence, of memories left behind. Fooling mind in thinking I am only slightly, braking the rule being responsible by starting, lightly. It is only eleven after all and with a drop it’s twelve before I know. A more appropriate time to indulge, caressing bottles faithful lovers pouring to please me, while viciously they hurt me slithering inside. I select the self-inflicted idea, that I can deal I do not, have a problem if I cut, down that’s just because I want to, not because I have to. And I am more fun, I can relate Or at least pretend I do without, feeling like a fish out of water I can laugh disregarding, the harm that has been done, to me of which I am weary. Believe me it is scary. And as my lips turn purple despite a soothing taste I don’t like, myself in this state I rather, run to my refuge where I do. Love humanity yet know so well, no one will ever care, more for me than myself. Miss that little girl, always smiling counting stories, now shading behind glasses to keep every other being at a distance. Unable to flout the Universe’s tendency unlike humans, to prefer me when I am sober. They don’t know, how could they, believing they are worried when they claim I need it, a social life yet they ignore, how overly populated is my soul, encompassing them all. Last drops and I linger regretting lost hours drowned in wine.
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Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
Drowning hours
Enticing transparency of glass, crafted sand shaping figure, wide cavity craving to be filled allowing, oxidation melding to capture oxygen emanate aromas, inebriating flavours held by opaque long stems impeding my consideration, I want I do not, an automated old recurring gesture creeping slowly from within, whispering no harm will come from flowing, burgundy liquid gold in the abyssal hole where stormy tides hide ghostly presence, of memories left behind. Fooling mind in thinking I am only slightly, braking the rule being responsible by starting, lightly. It is only eleven after all and with a drop it’s twelve before I know. A more appropriate time to indulge, caressing bottles faithful lovers pouring to please me, while viciously they hurt me slithering inside. I select the self-inflicted idea, that I can deal I do not, have a problem if I cut, down that’s just because I want to, not because I have to. And I am more fun, I can relate Or at least pretend I do without, feeling like a fish out of water I can laugh disregarding, the harm that has been done, to me of which I am weary. Believe me it is scary. And as my lips turn purple despite a soothing taste I don’t like, myself in this state I rather, run to my refuge where I do. Love humanity yet know so well, no one will ever care, more for me than myself. Miss that little girl, always smiling counting stories, now shading behind glasses to keep every other being at a distance. Unable to flout the Universe’s tendency unlike humans, to prefer me when I am sober. They don’t know, how could they, believing they are worried when they claim I need it, a social life yet they ignore, how overly populated is my soul, encompassing them all. Last drops and I linger regretting lost hours drowned in wine.
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You are to be found far and wide within Me and out, flowing through veins, inundating Entirety. Ancient drops of you concealed In stars released through showering debris, Rendering existence possible, your absence Intolerable, instincts in eternal search of you. Intimacy in little opaque cabins made of glass, Ceramic tubs, algae basins, riverbeds, by shores Where feet don’t touch, blanketing granular materials, Silicon dioxide in the form of insoluble quartz, calcium Carbonate from shells and skeletons of organisms, Corals and molluscs losing you forever, stranded in deserts. I allow you all for you know how, to gently Lick and lap thirsty skins, totality of my body Hankering after vital substance as you take control Of me, manipulating vibrations with mastery, unaware Of your nature, crucial lymph, my only lover, Forcefully penetrating cavities and pores. I shut my eyes to your caress, yearning For profundity, melting desiring fusion as I unseal my lips to drink of you, inebriating The perfect system longing to redefine Itself through absorption, recognising Its consistency, you within and out. Your power soothes my consciousness, heals My ills, paces my movement as your sound Orchestrates, my heartbeat and breath to The rhythm of universal quantum. You are old. Billions of years constantly mutate your state From ice to vapours, though I crave for you most In liquid form.
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Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 1:56 AM UTC
Liquid Memory
I am drunk on the poetry of a new found love, it's a flow not a bond and it's well dreamt of. Whilst the waters are sweet and crisp and clear, a little further on a fork slides near. The inebriating liquor pours under my skin, so despite the cascade my face creeps to a grin. Awash in the eddies of this close-found dream, I giddy at the thought of rejoining downstream.
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Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC
Hard to go