"lather" poems
He wants to
lather his tongue
in her saltiness
his lips caressing
her silky smooth crevice
tip of his tongue piercing her surface
parting her lips of tenderness
the haze turns to a mist
her fate sealed with a kiss
picture the moment
picture perfect
destination pleasure
reaching a ******
given like a gift
and served with a twist
of satisfaction
your imagination
you must enlist
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
everyone keeps saying "we made it"
and it's actually a little confusing
because it's almost like they thought we couldn't
five teenagers on lockdown have never caused so much panic but I guess we're just
the deadbeat generation
(knock once for failure, twice for rebirth, three times to see your life in twenty years-
who knows, maybe you'll have a life in twenty years)
we pick locks on bad days turn back the clocks on good days
if we try hard enough maybe we'll go back to the glory days I wanna blast music from the busted up speakers
in the back of my car I wanna live like I used to
we're anthems and parades and kids crying out in the middle of the night when the hole in their stomach opens up
or closes
we're caught up in a whirlwind of scientific facts and figures and sometimes I want to scream at the top of my lungs
as if that'll help me escape the noise in my head
punk isn't about living through the fall of something it's about living through the rise of me
I am real I am here I will scream it from the ******* rooftops if I have to
I will tap my fingertips on tables even when I'm told not to
I will tattoo myself a thousand times over, an endless mantra of existence
i exist i exist i exist
this isn't a happy ending, or at least it isn't the one I was promised
but it's something
it's okay
and that's good enough because okay is ******* wonderful
lace my fingers with yours call me a queen tell me you'll never let me go because I will never let you go
we are the kids who will never stop living
even when they tell us that we are impossible we are heartbeats pounding on cracked pavement,
leather and cheap beer, lather me in love lay me down to sleep
with the promise of tomorrow
promise me that tomorrow will still be there when I wake up
you can have a house but not a home
I was a house but not a home until I met you
deadbeat degenerates make a better family than most.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 8:37 AM UTC
breathing the turquoise like lavender,
and sipping the blue summer.
bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,
floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.
soon, a moment, now
rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.
cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,
pumps the air with springing spirals
pushing and pulling the senses,
reverberating through cells.
heavy mud humming, stomping
echoes through our atoms dizzy;
balancing tuned body to innate electricity
the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.
strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,
dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,
lines of colours overlapping,
colliding, mixing, merging, blending
in with the forest.
washing over souls the life fire sparkles
like a clear water cleansing harmonies,
sound waves crashing against inertia.
phosphorescent glow of re-charged love
for the world, for being, animation
flowing through burnt smoky ashes
of sapphire charcoal skies;
dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.
the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,
trembling lights softening the eyes'
grip on outlines, loosening lies.
watching the cycles of patterns
tumbling colours through a mill rotating,
and the silence of listening
when the music comes to an end.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
The sharp line separating where the sun met your skin
And where it was protected by your shirt is more prominent than ever
Because you forgot to lather on your sunscreen.
The dirt settles into a thin film
Covering every inch of your body
Caking into your hair making it feel
Like you haven't washed your hair for days.
The bugs are constantly buzzing around your face
Leaving bites up and down your arms
Making them itchy and irritated.
But, the sunburns, dirt filled clothes, and bugs
Only strengthens my love for the game.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
Lather my tongue
In the long lasting taste
Of your lavender lace
Quicken your breathing
Pulse Hastened pace
From Licks lightly placed
In a place that invades your space
The feeling will never be forgotten
And can never be replaced
Like a long lasting taste
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
*A parade of fluorescent silhouettes,
Aim against a tranquil lit afternoon sky,
In a collage of interwoven blossoms,
Casually stretching,
Side by side.
Releasing a pleasant aroma,
Interlacing within the calming sea,
As the water creases, upon a bed of shimmery grains,
Below a shade of fluffy clouds,
A place you would never want to leave.
When the tides slowly washes in,
In a rich and mild lather .... lacking impel,
Underneath a ribbon of distinctive seashells,
Leaving a mesmerizing imprint,
And a magical spell.*
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
An absence reversed
Beheld
Belonging
Fuming lush greenery seemingly
Between the frothing
Soup and lather twinkling
Speaking
"Tradition may act dishonestly"
All and sundry
Trails along merrily
For traditionally
All is how it should be
Belonging to one and only.
Binding
A trade between the thin lines
A baking sheet made sprayed messy
Artists in threes
Shakers of mountains for invisible ease
The truth is simply
Things done traditionally
All-in consuming historically.
Flesh
Released
Is fresh
Relief
Hidden in the fabric's sleeve
A gaping passage of air and breeze
Racing electricity
Breathtaking silk from worms
And worms eaten by birds
Tradition
Sewing the dresses of Empress the third.
Halt
Her plea worth salt and sugar
Still
Like the skater's
Minted odour
Hope
Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers
Where a time arrives for eternal celebration.
The embellishments of
Unwavered tradition.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:10 PM UTC
Slightly, brightly
Amarillo heavens, whispered
Lather,
Lavender clouds, and your
Butterfly belly button
Soapy on the car hood. I
Cast my brain's map wide
And narrow.
I can't make time--one thousand
Years feels like one day; one heart--
A desert of sand while wind
Pushes in violet patterns.
those
Spots on your eyes
Never so warm--cinnamon.
And you know how I'd stir
Your coffee.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 8:36 PM UTC
I love the way you eat me,
treat yourself to my tasty *****
The feel of your tongue,
as they lather my lips,
your ***** rubbing,
my gums against your lips
My head; dips.
your eyes; solar eclipse.
my fingers; tingling as I
tighten my grip.
with each slippery lick.
you lips start to stick --
tingle my nips --
both hard as bricks.
Using our thump,
********* my slit,
while ******* my ****
your warm lips,
making me flip --
the suction,
your rhythm,
thick- long tongue,
beating it like a drum.
The finish - a perfect fit.
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
It was a Friday night,
I was on the phone with my grandmother when I looked at the clock suddenly remembered,
it was time for the ritual.
I immediately hung up on my grandmother,
and stripped of my clothing.
The ritual required I be naked.
I then took some goat cheese out of my refrigerator,
and put it in the microwave.
I waited.
The goat cheese seemed like it took forever to melt,
but it only took a few minutes.
In those few minutes,
I just sat there,
and played with my left ******
Finally, the timer went off,
and it was done.
I took the melted goat cheese,
and poured it onto my body.
It burned,
but I suffered through it.
I would do anything for the Goat Gods.
Anything.
Once the melted goat cheese was poured onto my body,
I began to lather myself in it.
Soon, I was covered in melted goat cheese.
The smell,
was horrendous,
but in a way,
I enjoyed it.
Then, I removed the goat blood from my refrigerator,
and poured it into a ***
which had been on the oven all day,
waiting.
I began to boil the goat blood.
I took a sip of it.
"No" I said as a shook my head in disappointment.
I had been ripped off again by my goat blood dealer.
There was no flavoring in it.
It tasted like goat blood.
So I threw in some carrots,
and a dollop of horse radish.
While it was boiling,
I went to my bedroom,
to my closet,
where I found my goat mask.
A real goats head I had carved out and made into a mask.
I put it on.
When I had it on,
I felt like one with the Goat Gods.
When I returned,
the goat blood was done.
I poured it into a Tupperware container,
sealed it,
and put on my shoes.
By now,
the once hot and slimy goat cheese,
was dried,
and stuck to my body.
It was crusty,
like the crusties you get in your eyes,
just all over your body.
I walked out the front door,
across the street,
to my neighbors house.
I tried to open the front door.
Locked.
They knew I was coming this time.
Last week,
they forgot.
So I left the goat blood on their front steps,
and left.
When I got home,
I immediately went to the TV,
sat down,
and turned on "Antique Roadshow".
I looked out my window,
and saw my nervous neighbor grab the goat blood,
and bring it inside.
"Soon they will join the Goat Side" I said as I repeated it to myself, "Soon they will join the Goat Side".
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
Dribble your words all over my body, sprinkle me with your writing. Smother me with your thoughts. Lather me up with scented syllables. Massage your lazy vowels into my skin. Wash me down with your beautiful language. Wrap your sentences around my wrists, hold me down with your paragraphs. Tickle me with with interpunktion. Scrub me with silent speech. When I'm all wet and rosy clean, dry me with the pages of your warm typing
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Soak, wash, repeat.
Sweep, sweep, repeat.
Wipe, wipe, repeat.
Scrub, scrub, repeat.
Dice, dice, repeat.
Wipe, dry, repeat.
The tears that are good.
Pour, stir, repeat.
Open the door.
Serve the food.
Greet, greet the guests.
Smile, talk, repeat.
Say bye-bye, repeat.
Massage, press, repeat.
Yelp in pain.
Grab your abdomen.
Rub, press, repeat.
Let the sari unwrap.
Shake your head no.
Oh oh.
Run, hide, cry, plead.
Rub your stinging cheek.
Sob, sob, repeat.
Dab, dab, repeat.
The tears that are deserved.
Press your straining scalp.
Grab tight the bed sheet.
Groan, hiss , repeat.
Fake, fake, repeat.
Pain, pain.
Again!
Sore, sore, all over.
Go make a drink and then,
Massage, press, repeat.
Pick up the nephew.
Ignore the daughter’s lies.
Pat, pat repeat.
Put him down to sleep.
Sing the lullabies.
See your daughter writhe.
Writhe, writhe, repeat.
Kiss your daughter’s hand.
Feel her skin burning.
Watch your daughter weep,
Cry herself to sleep.
One drop down then two.
The tears that are meaningless.
Lie down as if asleep.
Twist, turn, repeat.
Wake up before dawn.
Now, you put on.
Red, green, black and gold.
Vermillion, bangles, beads.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...
The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.
The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.
Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 10:38 PM UTC
The first pair of shoes you wore were black,
velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies
to make it easier to put them on for the park.
They were meant to be smart, but you laughed
as you wore them against the ground so free
as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child.
Our mum told me I was a creative child:
I didn't like to wear anything black. Red
suited me in how I stood in puddles, free
in indifference to how brown my wellies
became. If I was asked why, I'd shout,
“I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.”
From there we made our way to beaches,
where the wind was crisp and the children
we could see around us acclaimed screams
of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue
and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals
when we went, but being barefoot felt free.
All that time we had at being young and free
soon went with the summer ending in school,
the arrival of my freshly polished black boots
was identical to almost every other child's-
a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows
proved who I was with a mother's groan,
and this wasn't the only time she wailed.
As we grew older and wanted to be free,
my sister started to experiment with pink
highlights in her hair as I visited clubs
with fake ID. We were adults with childish
personalities in how I wore my Docs
like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels
that you could hear in Sunday morning claps.
The arguments broke out: she wanted a child,
mother saying was too young, needed to free
herself from lazy culture and find a workplace.
I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red,
just like the red richness of those wellies
I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say,
“The best freedom is our time as children.”
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
*Made me climb on her hands
Holding me not to fall
Made a swing on her hands
Swinging me not to cry
Made a basket of ripe mangoes
Filling my paunch not to crave
Made the shade of branches
Protecting me not to lather
Made a rapport of harmony
Loving me motherly not to yearn
Never let me down
My sweet Mango tree!*
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
She doesn’t let herself think about it anymore. She has a schedule now, a timetable, something that might look like a life if you don’t scratch the surface too hard.
Wake up, call the hospital. Tend her garden, call the hospital. Get driven to the hospital and sit with Dean for hours, hours, hours, go home, cry. Lather, rinse, repeat. The only thing that changes in her life is the sky and the inversion it brings.
She walks on the sky when it clouds, because it’s more solid and sure under her feet than the traitorous ground that swallowed her children whole.
She bargains when it rains, to God or Big Brother or Allah or the deity of the day, because if the Jehovah’s Witnesses are right and their god is a merciful god, He will give her family back.
Once there was an earthquake and she smiled so wide she thought her face would hurt, stood between two rickety, heavy bookcases, prayed that she would die.
The most tragic part of her life is that she doesn’t. She knows this, knows it runs through the marrow of every bone in her body, which has to be why they all ache when they see the sunrise, as if to say another day, another tragedy .
Today she wakes before the sun and hugs her knees to her chest, sits there for a good three hours after he’s called the hospital and heard the same thing as always - the only thing that changes in her life is the sky - “We’re sorry, Mrs. N----, he’s the same.” Every day it’s the same, the same, the same-
-but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Same dingy cab, same crotchety driver, same stale cigarette smell. She lets herself smoke in here because if she’s lucky that’ll **** her first, but she doesn’t fool herself into believing that. Her luck ran out the moment she heard that shot from the door, heard her husband scream and saw all the blood staining the foyer-
But she’s not thinking about that. She’s smoking and she’s listening to the sound of the tires pummeling the ground mercilessly and she’s thinking maybe I should be that ground and she’s not making much sense at all, because she doesn’t sleep anymore and she thinks she might be halfway to insane by now.
They pull up outside the hospital. She’s always surprised her feet haven’t worn a track in the ground yet that leads straight to Dean’s room. She supposes she doesn’t need one.
She pushes the door open and the spark of hope he can never suppress dies with a silent scream, because Dean is the same, her life is the same, she’s the same and the same and the same and she hates it.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
crimson and magic
to splash without panic
in waves of compliance
for drugs made from science
and sorceress who summon the simple solutions
illusions! illusions!
of grander worth loosing
confusing the process will aid not for coptic
nor catholic
or elsewhere semantics
act frantic in panic
to sob without reason
treason! say treason!
the exit of reason
to wander in wander a fate beyond yonder
set ponder a path set by mind on the map
of solutions and systems
domestic conditions
yet wild apparitions
appear as conditioned - concerns
to a mindset as stern and subtracted
by fractions of actions repulsed by distraction
disgruntled reactions
supposing contractions
created the action
conceived from distractions
The reasons
let change be for seasons
while i stay the rock in the pond
either frozen not gone
as the watcher
still watching
content upon watching
exhaling the notion
that motions for movement
atonement! atonement!
with further consolement
atlas like the breeze of the gavel
let both parties ravel and tug
whether free or debugged
only mind over matter
unscrambles the lather
too see that is free
is like blind sight at sea
with the waves of conforming
to drown is informing
if not then be peace !
for all parties deceased
by a water so deep you could drown in your sleep
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
sat in your lap
jealousy builds
like pressure
once a fissure
it now inches
its way across
my soiled soul
lather it on my body
like blood -
thick and treacly
dark, sticky
ever so sickly
tell me your lies
tell me your truths
trace them into my flesh
mark me
cast the runes
now they have spoken
clatter on the rocks
like my pride has
broken
my rage glowing
all I can see
forever growing
I embody entropy
A rule of disorder
hatred rises
through the flames
let it burn me
to ashes
like your touch
sizzles my skins frame
it's a crime scene
of blood swirling like ink
pills scattered
around me
like a ritual
I wonder what
my mother would think
you're a dream thief
knife in my
heavy heart
you've stripped me bare
and I stand
as you depart
with nothing but
at your mercy
I'm you're experiment V
the looking glass shows me
what's left
a withered mess
existing
for you to thrive
tired pile of crumbly bones and
shrivelling rotting insides
tossed aside
burn me to
oblivion
I want the skin
to stop sticking to my bones
melt it off
let the blood pool onto stone
let the fat droop and distend
mocking me, me mocking
never ever stopping
wretch and stretch
till I break
rip my organs out
serenade my limp body
with the liquid lava that drips
as you extract
my black heart
take a sip of my sublimity
I am all you will never be
because I don't think I ever was
do what you will to my material
never to extinguish my fire
that does
never
cease
limitlessly
increase
the
entropy
KG
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you?
My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know.
There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism.
It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse.
What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors.
Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism.
And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates, my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism.
So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:15 AM UTC
The word slithers from your mouth
Arsenic tone reverberating
Jumping on my eardrums and misting the fleshy insides of my skull
Dearest one, though unbeknownst to such a good intentioned heart
You are killing me
You lather onto her shame like oil
In your eyes she shines; epitome of all that you are not
Elusive seductress, skin tasting of intrigue
Entombment of that which lives in the blackest parts of you
Your brown eyes flashing ivy, becoming venomous,
Teeth sinking slowly with each syllable
****
Dearest deer eyes, open up
She dwells in your recesses but in my repressions as well
She is the 6 year old child emanating innocence
Closing her eyes to the fact that some parts may only be visible in the presence of Mama and Dr. Mallon
Mistaking foul play for dreams
She is the 13 year old not yet skinned of her baby fat
Caressed like the infant she most certainly is not
Lips glued with guilt and naivety
My dear, dear friend, please
You are killing me
The 16 year old girl whimpering no
Pomegranate lips pressed to the underside of Narcissus' hand
The other digging in between quivering thighs
***** you sigh
They're pathetic really
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Freedom is being able to use my razor.
Freedom is being able to use my razor.
To glide it without caution against my skin; with no interruptions from noisy roommates.
To glide it without caution against my skin; with no interruptions from noisy roommates.
In the warmth of these curtains I am safe.
In the warmth of these curtains I am safe.
I let the warmth soak me in the droplets caressing my skin, washing away the dirt.
I let the warmth soak me in the droplets caressing my skin, washing away the dirt.
I lather myself in the memories of the day as I unwind, the tension fades.
I lather myself in the memories of the day as I unwind, the tension fades.
A smile comes to my lips as I step out of my night time ritual; Showering.
I smile comes to my lips as I step out of my night time ritual; Cutting.
Freedom is being able to use my razor.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
*Tra..la...la....la...
Time for sha-sha-shampoo ...in the bath*
1.
When you wash your hair
in the bath
And you lather up suds
froth that foam
BIG bubbles
such big big big.
Ooh, slinky stuff
I'm the shampoo in your hair.
I'll slide across your tresses
And slip between fingers
Caress your scalp
And press in deep.
2.
While I'm there, I'll take a peep inside
And dip into that well-indexed well
Page through tomes of unseen stuff
See how gray pals duel along
Friendly fights.
Can you feel how I run down
The side of your face
Onto your shoulders now...
3.
Later, when you're all warm and dressed
You can relax and read poems in bed
revel in more
But now, there's more in store...
elsewhere to visit....
4.
Ooh!
Just lovin' that shampoo.
Gotta love that shampoo
Just gotta love that sha-sha-shampoo!
S T, 16 May 2013
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
and if you are still the way you have always been, you're the lucky ones because most of us have taken ourselves apart down to the very molecules we are made up of and rearranged them to someone else's liking
and if you are still happy then you're the lucky ones, because most of us are so depressed we are willing to lather our stomachs in alcohol and burn our throats with smoke for fun, or to forget that person who made us feel like we were sitting in a haystack of needles, stabbing and wounding every inch of our skin
and if you still strive for your highest hopes and dreams, then you're the luckiest ones, because most of us settle for less, and only climb the ladder until we think we have reached the top
and if you're in love, you really are the luckiest of all, because we are all mostly bitter over those we have lost, thinking we are unable to find someone that will bring us the same happiness that the other person used to bring
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC