"jenkins" poems
My sister, my sister! How I love you so!
A beautiful woman, with a vibrant soul!
Worth a thousand words, and ten thousand more!
My sister, my sister! How I love you so!
You've given me hope and inspired me,
Gave me confidence to come out of my shell,
Show the world the ugly side of me,
Gave me comfort in knowing you didn't judge me.
I get sad when you're sad, and I hug you when I can,
I want what's best for you, for you to be happy.
You're my adoptive big sister, so here's a happy birthday!
From you're adoptive young brother, Jack Jenkins!
<3
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
Looking out at the world before him
Scanning people on the fly
John Jenkins watched as they passed his building
All in a hurry, but why?
He'd sit feeding pigeons when the weather was nice
With seed brought from the local Bodega
For two bucks a week, he'd keep them all fed
With a bag bought from Jose Montega
Each day he would watch, as the people ran by
Never stopping to watch as they passed
This man in the shadows, feeding the birds
And each day, he would watch the same cast
The birds never wavered as the people ran on
Never concerned with their lives, just with John
You could shoot off a gun, and not one would fly
Although, you would expect them all gone
He'd sat here for years, since he retired way back
No one saw him as he sat with the birds
He would say "hi" as the people went by
But, I'm sure no one heard the words
He was passed off as crazy, just a loon on a bench
He's a fixture that no one can see
And except for the birds and the Bodega's Jose
I would sit here and say I agree
One morning, downstairs, as the people passed by
John got up and went up to his place
The birds never left, they just waddled around
And the people went on with their race
The next morning, no John, no one down with the birds
He had died in his sleep in the night
But, the people passed by, never noticed him gone
And the birds, waddled round from their flight
He left nary a mark on the world he had left
He was mad, they said, but that was okay
And the people passed by, and the birds were still fed
By the new man on the bench called Jose.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
This is the story of Old Man Jenkins
Old, yes, but he never felt that way
If being young meant being corrupt, he’d have no part
Stubborn, he wouldn’t change his ways
He would simply avoid this new perverse world
To keep himself in the good ol’ days
The days when neighbors looked out for each other
When you knew your mailman’s name
When men held the door for ladies
And success didn’t have to mean fame
He reminisced of days when a living was honest
When families had a father and a mother
When talking in person was the best was to talk
And one shirt was as good as another
But oh how they teased him,
They’d say “He’s just an old man”
And they’d compare his brain
To a lone grain of sand
They said he wasn’t modern or up with the times
They said he was ignorant and out of his mind
They would try to make him angry
Hounding him over and over again
But Old Man Jenkins was the gentlest of souls
And returned only a wrinkled grin
You see, he wasn’t mad or crazy
And he minded not their scorn
He had been storing up a better treasure
Since the very day he was born
After he left this world, they realized
They saw how bad they were wrong
They longed to tell him they were sorry
But the time for that had come and gone
It may be myth, but one once said
And others have repeated it since then
That the gentle soul of Old Man Jenkins
Smiled on them with a wrinkled grin.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
"If some people like your painting, fine.
If some don't, well, there's the door.
Take your work seriously
But don't take yourself seriously
Paint for yourself
Enjoy yourself"
I was watching a show on PBS today
"The Beauty of Oil Painting" with Gary & Kathwren Jenkins
Gary said this and I marveled at how much this echoed the attitude we should cultivate when writing poetry.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.
Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
in memory of Melvin Jenkins--my Uncle
You're resting in Jesus' arms
From all safety and away from harm,
Beyond the moon and skies.
Sleeping from all labor and pain,
Beyond riches and fortunes gain,
Beyond the moon and skies.
Goodbye is not so,
But it's see you soon that's never getting old,
Beyond the moon and skies.
Until next time
We'll see you then
And talk once again
Until next time---
Goodnite!
19 May 2017
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
(Song title from Michael Jacksons’ catalogue, by Michael Jackson, Rodney Jenkins, Fred Jerkins III and LaShawn Daniels)
I’m feeling threatened,
By my actions and my mind,
It’s a scary thought,
Not knowing what you’ll find.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Walking by the McDonalds
Licking an ice cream cone
It's vanilla
Like his skin
There's a creeper behind him
Wearing some shades
Probably wants the kid
He has ice cream too
But NO, Ryan says
He's holding kid's hand
Wearing some sandals.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
Willoughby is the name. And if I can't express my unique and unconventional way of writing here on Hello Poetry as a shock poet, I'll get angry and leave. And believe me, you don't want me to get angry (I've been known to get so angry I wet myself). Following is an example of my style. (WARNING: If your eyes start to burn, turn away for a few seconds. You'll be fine).
Reuters news service. This just in...
PROJECTILE ***** MAN ARRESTED
Dateline: New York City ---
Charlie Jenkins, the projectile vomiter of New York is behind bars after 24 incidents of vomiting on people who had made him angry. From rude waitresses to aggressive beggars to mean hotdog venders, he didn't discriminate.
He apparently could throw up at will and spew it Like a weapon on his unsuspecting victims. When confronted he would claim that he was just sick with the flu and had no control over it and you can't get mad at someone who is sick can you?
The judge had to search the laws to call it an assault at the courtroom yesterday and then was promptly vomited on by the man with the nickname known as Up-Chuck Charlie.
Charlie was quoted as saying, " It's like a super power and there are a lot of jerks who deserve my kind of vengeance and if I punched them I'd go to jail, this way I leave them humiliated and soiled in ***** and get to walk away". Sorry Charlie, not this time.
Susan Clark from channel 2 news asked but why do such a disgusting thing, why? Charlie replied,"Why do I do it? I do it for the same reason that a dog licks his own balls...because I can.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC
Toward the end of every year, Christmas comes again,
To life the tired spirits for those of us who can
Celebrate with lights and trees and carols that we sing,
And all the warm and happy smiles expensive presents bring.
But December twenty-fifth to some is just another day
To bear alone like all the rest that drain their lives away.
Come take a look at holidays for folks you might have missed
As you hurried by them to buy your family's gifts.
Sara Jenkins limped along the sidewalk on South Main,
Her ancient, failing body was bent with cold and pain.
Her ***** fingers held the bags storing all she owned;
She walked alone and spoke to ghosts of people she had known.
The shoppers on the sidewalk stepped out of her way,
The sight and smell of Sara drove them all away.
No one knew old Sara, no one wanted to;
No one had the time for her with Christmas things to do.
She hobbled down an alleyway behind The Deli Suite,
To find the empty packing crate she crawled inside to sleep.
She turned a corner, dropped her bags and gave an awful howl,
A delivery truck had crushed her crate against the Deli’s wall.
Sara scrambled to the crate, and pulled the boards away
She searched around until she found a photo in a frame.
The glass was cracked, the photo torn, but she could see his face.
And his arm around her shoulders in their younger days.
Then the wind whipped up around her, she pulled her sweater tight.
Sara knew she needed warmth to make it though the night.
She saw a rusty dumpster where she used to look for food,
The only thing the dumpster held were rags and broken wood.
She packed the rags around her, underneath her clothes
And looked about to find a spot to sleep out of the snow.
But the alley didn’t hold a place to lay her tired head,
So Sara walked up to the truck and tried the door instead.
She braced herself and pulled, the truck’s door opened up,
And Sara’s life grew by one night thanks to random luck.
The driver of the truck had quit at noon that day,
And left his lunch behind him in his haste to get away.
A thermos and a lunch box were lying on the floor;
Now Sara had a meal and a place out of the storm.
She gathered up her battered bags and slid onto the seat,
Locked the doors, settled back, and ate the driver’s meal.
Tomorrow he may come back, and then she’d have to leave,
But time for that tomorrow, tonight was Christmas Eve.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
Jinx! You owe me a haggis!
Sheep! Sheep! Sheep boing!
I tried to connect the two.
I am glad that someone loves my discursive stuff.
I feel thrilled that someone validates me.
Tell me why again? Why why why not?
Did you mention socks? Why?
You’re a sock! Your face is a sock!
A pair of socks! I laugh!
You didn’t anticipate that one, did you?
I will nevar stop. Nevar.
Yes. An alternate spelling.
Hehehehehehe.
Be bold. Be bold like Leeroy Jenkins.
Yas. Chicken music. Yas.
He was brave, he led the charge.
On monkeys and elders, what was our conclusion?
Monkeys are silly, elders are catnip.
I am silly. This poem is silly.
Hehe. You know what I’m about to say next.
We must keep it a secret.
Sheep! Sheep boing!
Figure out what that pakis-ectomy is.
Yeah? Yeah? Well, you’re a pakis.
I guess that Wyatt Cenac
said it best:
I have to fool you. I am fooling you.
Aeneas, Cooper, Pedro, and Boo.
They are all amicable with each other.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
He sat there on the porch,
Like clock work he would sit,
The swinging chair connected above
Not the seat that he loved,
All though it was good for a sleep.
The stained rocking chair,
Coloured so many times
Each coating breaking though the last,
His pride of place,
"Good morning mam"
"Evening sir"
It didn't matter who you were
A courtesy
"Hello"
From his porch,
He would rock for hours of the day.
When twilight came,
He would look at the sunset,
Smile,
Then when twilight burnt its last
And the heavens showed off
Rocking, gazing unto the stars
And wished it good night
Old Man Jenkins,
He Seemed to always be there,
But then news came
He had wished his last
Morning,
Evening,
Good night,
He was our friend,
Now and forever, missed by everyone.
But there are days when we pass
His old rocking chair still there
It rocks back and forth
Sun,
Wind,
& rain,
His chair rocking as if to say hello,
We look to it depending the time of day
And answer
"Good evening Mr Jenkins"
And when night falls,
The stars seem to shine that little more bright,
Sitting in heaven on his comfy chair,
He takes in the view rocking for eternity up there.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
Emma Stone must have known she was a dead cert to take home the award for best actress — her gold Givenchy gown was calling out for accessorising with the gold statuette. Stone led the charge for shimmering metallic gowns at a ceremony that was underwhelming from a fashion perspective, bar a handful of stand-out stars.
Those included Nicole Kidman, Jessica Biel, Halle Berry, Charlize Theron and fashion’s latest It girl Janelle Monae, who translated fashion chops from her musical background into acting with spectacular results, courtesy of designer Elie Saab.
Fashion pushes a more casual agenda and elements of this are filtering onto the red carpet. Hair was more undone: loose waves for Kirsten Dunst, a half-up style from Felicity Jones and Alicia Vikander’s messy topknot. Berry’s wild curls deserved their own statuette.
A mini-trend emerged with actresses wearing jewelled headpieces, including Ruth Negga, Salma Hayek and Monae.
While things did get political in speeches at the event, embracing diversity in the arts, stars didn’t give in to the current feminist mood. There was a distinct lack of pantsuits, which had been increasingly common at recent awards. Meryl Streep almost went there, in a “drouser” ensemble of dress over trousers, but that was as close as it got.
The lone political nod was an abundance of blue ribbons, supporting the American Civil Liberties Union’s action against the Trump administration’s immigration policies. Best supporting actress nominee Ruth Negga pinned one to her red Valentino gown, Karlie Kloss to her white Stella McCartney, while Moonlightdirector Barry Jenkins and best original song nominee Lin-Manuel Miranda added them to their tux jackets.
“I think art is inherently political,” said Miranda.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
being the "sum of what the world 'thinks' I am"
is written, smeared in blood across the cave i've come to love
and leave behind but only in an understanding:
selfhood carries with it all we lack.
it carries on its seas the diatomic algae fruiting slowly back
it carries on each ladder-rung the selves that other's see,
the lovers' feelings felt,
the mailman's kindness kept--
a stranger's instant siblinghood in eye-flash recognition wept.
my heart is tattered there, and rebuilt here;
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
the pain and lonely misery, the mind-split cosmic surd of this
that Jenkins must have felt, before her captors left hir dead...
--a bullet in hir back, a simple heart-stop pellet placed--
i could not be the beating love-train joyful as the sorrows,
without your words, your rich, kind thoughts of me
that others do not know they have,
that Kiesha could have known.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Old lame Bridget doesn't hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming's on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson's wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom's parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
"It is just your fancy, child."
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water's edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave's ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
buried on a monday next to old man Jenkins
a hot summers day
stillness
course grass
the rough hands of strangers
the sound of wood hitting dirt
the shuffle of tired feet
the soft patters of rain
the distant voice of the city
the unforgettable silence
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
it was a dark night
when suffer and his baby brother set out
to make a few bucks at some kinda quick
somthin or other
like a thousand times before
down easy on the farm
always been that way
just gotta figure the way to cut
the bean close to the fat
an squeeze the soil for the pound
and its always
owing someone
owing everybody
cause the ends never have met
an never will
but a shotgun brought it close a time or two
so suffer believes he will take it on with tonight
see if he can straighten out what never been right
it was a dark night
slow and easy in the town
like it always has been
everybody knows everybody's name
and everybody's game
so it wasn't much of a surprise
to find suffer and his big baby brother
walk on into the five and dime
pullin out guns and robbing the register
and old man jenkins pulled his six shooter
and put five of em baby brother
one in suffer's leg
he promptly fell to wailing
his baby brother was gone
now hes gonna face the 'lectric chair
all on his lonesome
all on his lonesome
cause he was named to suffer and that's what hes gonna do
gonna burn in that ole time hell
like they got there in the good book
yea gonna ride the lighting
cause suffer been a loose cannon too long
and they don't like that
in this slow down an easy do it town
so he's gotta pay
always been that way
the ends never meet and never will
but no matter you
go to the good lord
with apologies in hand
dressed in your sunday best
like a good boy
finally suffer your gonna be a good boy
pushin daisy's in a summer sun
pushin till the lord calls you on home
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
Devils of saintly virtues?
Or a saint of sin?
Who is evil or good?
Who bestowed such titles?
A boisterous ***** baron?
Ordained by dour dukes?
Spilled blood to pave a road?
Does your honor sunder and erode?
Was it virtuous to shove innocents?
To put them under lock and key?
Saintly, to make them fear?
Courage, to turn a blind eye?
Is it a sin to feed the starving enemy?
A devil to help a dying foreigner breath?
Bereave their suffering?
To feel guilt when malnourished prisoners beg for feed?
What makes you so noble?
Foible flags, and an adorable mantra?
A little training makes it right?
Maybe you know it does not,
Paving roads with bones and blood?
Did you join to fire a gun?
To retrieve bullets from inside of someone?
To stand for your flag and defend?
Does a medal wash away those sins?
All forgiven because you won?
Bombs dropped and humanity undone,
Another chapter in the book of justification,
Titled, ‘War is Hell’
The history of death, peace unsung,
Souls seized, leaders appeased,
From rot, money and disease,
Waiting for battle under south side trees,
What makes you better then them?
Education? A uniform?
Signing your life away to conform?
What if your not as noble as you seem?
Noble intentions in a hellish scene,
In total might, what if neither is right?
A hired killer of a higher power,
Atrocities in the name of swell intentions,
Killing for Lord Benton, or General Jenkins,
Does what you read make you mad?
Or sad?
Will war ravished ruffians take pity?
Is it wrong if they slaughter and **** your life?
Everyone in it?
Will your god founded, blessed flag save you?
Maybe they are right,
After all,
You did it to them first,
Suddenly it’s wrong? No chalking up to war is hell?
Maybe you’re lost,
Maybe notches on your gun makes you proud of past,
Maybe feel lied to, in a cloud,
Or maybe you’re a demonic psychopath,
The history of Saints is usually tattered with sin,
Passing volatile judgements upon men,
Devils usually do what they are asked,
Whether or not it should come to pass,
After all,
It was conflict that caused Edens fall,
Do you care if you’re right or wrong?
You, mercenary of the flag?
When is wrong, right?
Right, wrong?
Call you hero and sing your song,
Will history see it like you?
After all,
Stonewall made innocent civilians fall,
Regarded hero,
Instructed by a drunk,
Who are you?
What makes you so great?
Why are you right?
Why are you wrong?
In the end, I don’t care if you think,
Or ask yourself stated questions,
That’s not my biz,
Simply put...
It is what it is..
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
Say, Elvis, say south.
Say, Little Richard, say south.
Say, Jerry Lee Lewis, say south.
Say, BB King, say south.
Say, David and Jimmy, Ruffin says south.
Heck most of the Classic Five was southern born.
The message is within the history of these southern born artists.
Where all mention above is still highly praised?
Alabama, Georgia, and Kentucky too created a feeling still bringing news.
Wilson Picket aka the Wicked one.
Jame Brown and Jean Terrell heritage are within the southern region.
If you don't know nothing comes from the south without gaining your attention.
Did I mention Dolly Parton"
Conway Twitty aka Harold Jenkins and Porter Waggoner.
Something within the spiritual birth.
Check the history of Chess Records blues artist.
By the way even Berry Gordy.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
Jenkins always did whatever the **** he wanted to do.
He always went about his business
like it was his only purpose on Earth.
He never got bogged down
in gossip or idle talk,
made just to pass the time.
He didn't give a rat's ***
about who was doing what to whom
& vice versa.
Once I saw him spit a ******
on the floor
of a high dollar restaurant.
He blurted out, "Free Oyster!"
& laughed his *** off, what a dork.
Everybody looked shocked,
one patron dropped a fork,
another snickered.
Strange days indeed,
but nobody there asked him to leave,
they seemed pleased to take his money
instead & clean up the nasty mess.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
In angelic voice, enthral, rejoice
Of peace be s-t-i-l-l, for one fine day
A garden of dreams, over the rainbow, a daydream behold
In a graceful realm, of grace to amaze, a dawn of promising rays
Blissful skies, sunlight arise, a peaceful picture
Soul silhouette, lest we forget, royal remembrance
Together we stand, to thee, across the land
A musical language, all-embracing, casted carousel
Performance premier, shining sensational, inspirational
Hail – music of the night, dance with the stars
Tap and glide, a guiding star, something in the way……….
Just as you are
Journeying jewel, revel, jubilee
A walk through autumn leaves, in timeless reverie
Sounding soprano, crowds resonate, of joyfulness elate
Gracefulness of elegance, a time of prime
A gift given, of noble distinction
A symphony of sophistication
Due adulation, due applause, with charitable cause
Exceptional tours, over a great and mighty distance
Of services rendered, a splendour of release
Flowering duet, a radiant bloom, of times unknowing
We’ll meet again – soon
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
This evening, I am alone, and yet I am not;
Within this barren mansion, no raven to spot.
For the price of solace is solitude,
But this payment can never be made.
“Nevermore!” I mumble in quick succession,
In hopes to ease my growing exasperation;
Yet these words have no such power,
They serve only to torment me, stronger by the hour.
I cut my wrists to forget this pain,
To no avail, only the sheets I stain;
So I gathered them, and burned it all,
The curtains, the pictures, all will fall;
For the flames consume all, save for the feelings,
They crawl.
Homeless, cold, famished but not quite dead yet,
Picked up a torch From the conflagration I’ve set.
Headed north, I depart with pen, paper
And a few pieces of silver.
For I’ve bartered my sanity for a brief respite,
As I walk in these bloodied sandals,
Your profile still in sight.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Mama tells me you’ve been at night school
You make your living from 9 to 5
I know you like to burn the midnight oil
You study physics just to feel alive
Daddy says you spend too much time
Trying to prove that you’re above this town
He says education won’t get you nothing
Except a mortarboard and a gown
But I say forget mama and daddy
I love to see you sparkle and shine
How you talk about dystopian literature
When you come home for Scrabble and wine
Miss Carol says you’re wasting your energy
That an education won’t bring you a man
But if you live your life like Miss Carol
Being alone is part of the plan
Pastor Jenkins warns you of temptation
How knowledge often leads men astray
But I know God wouldn’t have made the path
If it meant you couldn’t walk your way
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC
Up on yonder
Eyes see
One vision
Listen to me
....My Father....
My Dad
Pops
A.K.A.
Old man Jenkins
ACTUALLY
his given name
Exactly
The same as
Mine
DELTON
GEORGE
PEELE
THATS
THREE E'S
TOUGHEST
MAN I HAVE EVER SEEN
Never seen
The Man back down from anything
Thee epitomy
Of a ladies man
Smooth talkin sob
I
Miss
***
Im buckled
...
****** Dad
.....
The prankster
HE
In privy
Told his confidant
He didnt want
To be a burden
To me
After loosing
.My Mother.
To cancer
...I..
Heard rumor he suffering
From the same
I went to see
HE
Said no son
Im ok
Not to wory
.....
Damm it Dad
....
****
I cant say
Anything
I miss you
Like a son
Who needs a father
Im
Insane
With the grief
Knowing
My greatest friend
My hero
My true
North
Youre bitter end
Alone
****
I cant do this
The veil
Of my life torn
Forlorn
The shame is too
Much to
carry
My vision
Is
This quest
Has no joy left
And
The path
Before
Me
Rapidly
Becoming
Shorter than
The one
Behind
Guess Ill
Have to man
Up
Take the wheel
Mash the pedal to the medal
Light it up
I dont want
Feel
Feb 12, 2021
Feb 12, 2021 at 2:58 PM UTC