"massacred" poems
He is rougher then being dumped
from the saddle of a bay mare,
but perhaps she shouldn’t be riding
******** past vineyards of red rusted vines.
And if she is on fire then she should probably roll
or climb into a hot tub on ***** Thursday
and put out the flame ignited by the thought
of hoping to God his parents can’t hear her.
She had always wanted to know what it felt like
to slaughter someone. So when he placed his palms
on the arch of her back and massacred her lips,
I imagined her smashing his skull against a brick wall.
And when she is in the bathroom washing him off
her hands, with a published poet in the next stall
she shouldn’t yell **** you, I’m not a flower
and start listing off the ten rules to **** ***
Because no matter how many times she uses him
as her own personal merry go round or slams
back beer after beer, he will never die in a coffin
so that she can say he is already dead and
buried.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
As Valentine Day is upon us now
Sending a message to our loves
Like chocolate and flowers
With pictures of white doves
Think back to 1929
And of The North Side Gang...men who
Got a different type of message
And it wasn't I Love You
It was on the North Side
Al Capone's gang took down nine
They massacred these gangsters
They crossed the prohibition line
Five years before they also
Killed the gangs leader in his shop
His front was selling flowers
Hey, it's Chicago....where's a cop?
Now eighty five years later
The gangsters aren't as bold
But, on Valentines they're still there
Running Chicago in the cold
With prices for fresh roses
Through the roof....you know the powers
Are run like gangsters years before
By the people selling FLOWERS.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
Battle scars, of where I've been.
How do you fix a childhood, this frightening?
A first lust that gave you breath, a reason to sing,
So you found another, a first true lover, and you picked up the pen.
An emotionally abusive mother, who has terrified all of your friends.
One that's massacred all your brothers heads.
And many screws are loose in my head.
How can I tighten them?
Batten down the hatches?
Open up to the wind and the masses?
Hoping someone could understand,
Maybe they'll have a proper screwdriver on hand.
But such is rare.
With not many hands on hand
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 2:04 AM UTC
I wish I could love my life and love myself
a little bit more,
fall on my hands and knees at every chance
and praise the life I lead.
I wish I didn't hate myself quite as much
and I wish I didn't recoil at the idea of my life,
the Grimm's fairy tale where Hansel and Gretel got eaten,
Rapunzel never threw down her hair
and Snow White was never kissed by Prince Charming.
The hatred burns hotter when I think of myself,
poor little rich girl,
sat in luxury in front of a warm fire,
belly full,
as thousands of kids in Africa bloat to death with paper thin limbs,
families in the Middle East are massacred and scattered across their countries barren landscapes,
innocent, too soon nearly corpses whither away in hospital beds,
sinking their teeth into whatever life they have left, clinging on.
I'm stable on the mountainside.
My family have never even seen a gun.
I haven't missed a meal in my entire nineteen years.
What the hell do I have to complain about?
My unhappiness disgusts me nearly as much as I disgust myself.
Sitting on a damp bus,
watching beads of rain rush down the dusty windows in diagonals,
like meteors crashing into Earth,
I curse.
I curse the vehicle,
I curse the safe home it's taking me back to,
the three course meal it's taking me from.
It's ******* sick.
I wish I could smile and mean it.
I wish I could love and not hate.
I wish I could love myself.
I'm so sorry for not being able to fully appreciate my life,
for taking it for granted,
for sounding like a spoiled brat.
You probably hate me as much as I hate myself.
I.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
*******
I.
That's a vowel I'm going to try and use less of
(at least after this poem),
I promise.
Oh the irony.
I am not looking for sympathy.
I am not looking to be compared to a dying child on the street.
I am not asking for a single kind word.
I just ask for a bit of forgiveness.
I don't blame you if you can't seem to find any.
Just know I'm sorry
and I'm going to try.
Now.
*A
E
-
O*
U
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
So many hopes have
been laid to rest,
snuggling tight and cozy
where all dead dreams lie.
There wasn't even time to say goodbye.
Oh, my fighting spirit is now a sleeping spirit.
It doesn't wake to sweet smell of fancy,
to the buzzing of bees and all manner of honeys,
no.
It lies dead in the gutter,
or should I say,
asleep.
The only hope I have left, is to lie of the pain.
To wish away the wash of bitter taste
and lie away the bodies of thought and waste.
I have died too many times to count the carnage
and how I massacred myself,
past, present and future,
there is no more potential,
there is now just a rein
lying slack for lack of force,
the beast was too burdened...
There is a constant whispering.
Voices from a place I dare not venture.
My hands are bent and scarred, like twisted puppets.
How can I mend these broken dreams?
I can no longer traverse the seams,
now torn
beyond are the hopes I knew.
How do I mend the horses?
Is it not the hand of God that restores life
to dead things?
Why do his hands look like mine?
If I do not believe in myself,
how might I believe in him?
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 9:06 PM UTC
species massacred for grazing
cows rule the world
the Brazilian rainforest
is now 80 million acres
of open range
supporting our demise
one cheeseburger at a time –
6700 gallons of water
is the cost of a big mac
when you factor in growing grain
giving cattle drinking water
and processing meat
peak water and peak oil
mean nothing when chewing cud –
more than 50% of greenhouse gases
methane from bovine flatus
without a single environmental group
working to stop this plague
instead they openly swallow
government lies about carbon
and the role 300 million United States citizens
have in saving the world of 7 billion
by driving less and recycling –
I laugh uproariously at the idiocy
knowing our karmic retribution
can only be extinction
like so many other species
we’ve killed off to make room
for more livestock agriculture
when everyone knows at this point
we can survive and thrive
off a plant based diet….
I’d write more,
but I am starving for
a bacon double cheeseburger –
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
O' bygone poet's,
For where hath
Thou gone;
O' bygone poet's,
I keepeth thee alive;
In mine poetic song's.
O' archaic poet's,
Arise from thy
sepulchre;
O' archaic poet's,
Hath thou gone
Lost; massacred.
©Brandon Nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:07 PM UTC
For Idil Ibrahim
In memory of Tim Hetherington - 1970 - 2011
I cannot stay and speak my truth while the front line has no voice.
The carpet doesn't share substance with the blood-clumped
dust of Liberia; Red wine doesn't stain nations and it hasn't
changed the world.
I cannot stay and walk these steps while the fragile youth stand.
Our Sunday morning route doesn't cover landscapes of wounds
and bodies; Central Park has never felt a thousand welted
feet march for death.
I cannot stay and see your face while molten plastic scars her world.
Your delicate eyes have never seen the darkness of a child's grief;
Our democracy cannot fathom the searing, slow drip after a family
massacred.
I cannot stay and feel worthy of your love while injustice goes unseen.
My lens has immortalised what we held dear, but is yet to capture
the human condition; I spoke to you like I spoke to them;
Through decades of mortar fire I spoke to them.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
I am angry in my grave,
Filled with disappointment, animosity, disbelief, and resentment,
Blacks had no rights, Blacks had no freedom,
Whites had the rights, and whites were the leaders,
Until I chose not to abide by the regulations of inequality,
And led the Civil Rights Movement,
Fought conflicts with kindness,
Opposed to Hatred and violence,
And tolerance between the two ethnicities was born
But why?
For the non-colored and colored could equally cause treason?
Or for racism to still apply in many communities?
I fought for no discrimination.
That doesn’t mean to enslave each other, cause disruption, unfairness, and deaths within the same race.
Gangs committing murders because they feel certain things are out of place,
Pilots flying planes into towers,
20 innocent children being massacred,
Drug dealers smuggling crack in homes,
All I see upon my grave is what I devoted my life to being destroyed.
For that,
I am angry in my Grave.
“But Dr. King, things have changed. Blacks and whites can be friends, and we even have a BLACK PRESIDENT.”
Yes, but you have to acknowledge the fact Obama agreed,
And supported what I stood for.
I was a pastor,
A pastor who used the Bible as my Code of Conduct,
A Bible in which Obama laid his right hand on
And sworn on during his inauguration,
While with his left hand, he’s supporting,
Adam and Steve, and babies saying goodbye before they leave their mother’s Womb.
For that,
I am angry.
“Martin Luther King will never be forgotten and his morals will be followed. He was a great leader and may he rest in peace.”
How can I?
Each day in my grave I mourn,
I’m frustrated and disgusted,
If I were still alive til this day,
My tears would flood America,
I would speak amongst the country and say,
You have been indoctrinated by the wickedness of mankind,
Propaganda is being embedded to get wrong points acrossed,
For that, I will continue and forever be,
Angry in my Grave.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
My sleeping mind cannot contain
{the horrid images of waking life}
All that my waking mind soaks up
{sponging filth from gutted city streets}
Dreams turning into lucid experiences
{the hypnotic effect of being drawn closer to a blade}
All colors, sensations too intense to categorize
{molded into a colony of unthinking, unearthing drones}
Wind down inside of me
{boiling tornadoes raging from the depths}
Concentrated awareness of my subconscious obliviousness
{the benefits of obsidian isolation}
I wish that I could weave them all together
{the stitches at the seams are wearing thin}
Like tall grasses woven into baskets
{like scythed grasses cut down by rampant Monsanto}
Strong, unbreakable, able to withstand the heavy weight
{pressure baring down on fracturing ribs and shoulders}
Of my spirit
{i feel alone}
Instead I leak through the seams, tear through edges
{leaving me tattered in a massacred pattern}
Five am cannot keep me
{six am will never know me}
My thoughts scatter
{my mind dances with madness}
Drifting in and out
{drifting in and out}
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
Falling in love is mutilating and murdering yourself.
Sharing your love is carrying the dead body, showing it off, all around.
For God’s sake, burn the book or leave it on its shelf.
Or at least hide that horrendous corpse; bury it underground.
But it’s a ****** cemetery, this witty world is.
Every one bragging of decomposed dirt.
Yours surely is more rotten than his.
So smell the rot, you asinine little flirt.
Life should come with a warning label.
WARNING: DEAD BODIES EVERY WHERE.
Ironic, to be born on a doctor’s table.
Then die, massacred in deathly affair.
But we can’t live without love, it’s hilariously tragic.
For death lurks, immortal, in our hearts.
Yet our minds, gullible, believe it’s magic!
Beware, beware of Cupid’s darts.
**** it up, Romeo, move on with life.
Cleanse your soul; stop being sadistic.
Sure it’s beautiful, but not when she’s your wife.
It’s a dead body, you’re stupid and unrealistic.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
Believers vs believers
A sign of judgement day
Spilling the blood of mankind
That is what the Lord forbade
The one being slaughtered
Is clueless as to why
A brother is taking his life
And the murderer also does not know the reason for picking up a knife
The state of mankind
Is beyond ******* up to be repaired
Long gone are the times when strangers cared
Every night is in competition with another to becomes the darkest and wildest
Next of kin worried about inheritance
And spouses taking out life insurance claims
The soul is bruised
But on a shell is placed a band aid
Fine wining and dining
Abundance leftovers in the bin
Whilst the neighbour starves
As people frolic in sin
Slaves giving birth to masters
Power in the hands of wrong
And those buried six foot under
Are suddenly the lucky one's
Knowledge decreasing
And ignorance on the rise
We compete in the construction of the tallest building
And mothers abandon their children
Beauty pageants
And *** selling cars
The ship of the world sinks
In broad daylight
Yet we un-fasten our seatbelts
And live by ride or die
Yolo people
Get an intoxicated high on a traitorous life
A year passes like a month
And a month like a week
Nothing remains but a name
Humans who massacred humanity
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
Girls have beautiful legs and men have beautiful hearts,
both I love to squeeze, both I love to open
hide my gold locket inside like a ticking bomb:
I use the chain to lasso arteries and muscles for me to chew on
but the necklace unbolts for a souvenir collected inside.
It could be the curly hair of his shin, one wisp from her neck
I previously tugged on with my teeth. I performed
open-heart surgery on a man and open-leg surgery on a woman
both called me back to say a second goodbye
and I wonder, I wonder which farewell will be the final.
When will the mementos be massacred
glued to a comatose form, deceased into an emotionless resin?
I could amputate their limbs and turn off the pacemaker.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
the heart aches
like
earthquakes.
today
i allowed myself to feel
heartbreak
one very last time for you.
the sun was settling,
silhouetting the city
it felt like
the burial site of massacred dreams.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
Massacred and double crossed
this is not me crying from loss
or sad poem about how everything I love
treats me like ****
this is me showing you how strong my back bone is
and how from this point I refuse to take any of it
Tear me to shreds
I'll put myself back together again
I'm not made of steal
and I will falter
but I am closer to resolve than I've ever been before
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Your travel has given me freedom.
But what is freedom when
you possess a soul divided?
What is the chronic sea without
its unfathomable dominions?
My soul is thirsty for you.
My cold and naked ankles mope
around your desolated castle;
Jinn, dust, and piercing silence is all that echoes
in this darkened dungeon that I have succumbed to.
And then there is me.
A heavy-laden wasted artist with
Spiny paintbrushes and faded color.
I refuse to leave the spaces that you read and play.
I refuse to exhale the memories of your sky painted blue irises.
My skin hungers for your delicate surface.
My teeth long to bite into your fleshy thighs.
In the hour of the noontide I feel you most
For our souls sahasrara blooms colorfully in the hour
Of the sun-the ancient mother of our roots weaves
Love with all of loves children and meets us with pneumatic cosmic kisses.
This is when I feel closest to you.
Without you, the world is just as it seems;
the sun burned into cinders,
Leaving the crops belonging to the sacred
soils of my flesh to prune and wither .
Ay! the droughts that you spread with your distance.
These are the days of my reaping
These are the days of my sulking.
The gardens are now closed and the
black raven cries out to a mournful mothers son.
Your scent died along with the laughter of the flowers
And the butterflies wont even flutter
Without your lovely eyelash kisses.
To live another day without the energy
Your presence fills my heart with,
Is to live an eternity hugging
Your coffin with sobbing rage;
fain would I take deaths hand.
The suffering of your glorious dawn
Wedded the universe deep beneath my skin.
You are the light,
And the absence of your holiness
leaves me opaque and hollow.
In my solitude I have watched the hours burn
And in each hour your fragrant sighs
escape with the dust motes
Surrounding the beaming light that
breaks through the cracks of the curtains.
I sit in the depth of myself
And listen for the echoes of your sounds.
A mother am I and a pitiful one too.
Like the rawboned mother with sunken eyes
carrying a baby in the womb, draining all of
the nutrition her body has to offer,
Your distance maps a massacred trail
Of my health and happiness.
You are the mother of patience
And the descendent of beauty and love.
You are the tsunami, and the still waters.
You are the uprising cub leading and mending.
You are the sap that feeds the giving tree of life.
You are the prince of wisdom.
You are
My flesh
In purest form.
- Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
My blood is marked by genocide
on the two sides
of these Atlantic lines
My fate was sealed with the blood stains
of cotton workers from Marash
slaughtered by the ottoman
and the mixed blood
of conquerors
and massacred
of masters and estranged slaves
The rot of colonialism
lurks underneath
our 15 second democracy
My eyes were numbed
by what I hadn´t seen
after the ***** war was over
after the bowels of the Earth
had vomited
bones in Uruguay
lifeless infant mummies
in the soft heart
of Africa
after the tide brought in
the loot
of generals,
green men of power and no shame
My past was carved with knives
on children´s bones
in the mountains
of Leninakan
with hanged peasants
on the slopes of Ararat
My human pride was dumped
in Rio de la Plata
one summer night
in a death flight
that time when I
had learnt to sing
before I grasped
the word
The word was born
from the colonial rot
under our soil
and under Africa
The word was black
and cast a deadly storm
before the sun
The word was Genocide
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 23, 2009 at 3:12 AM UTC
A pen in my hand
Nothing in my head
Pains in my heart
Tears in my eyes
Trembling hands
Red eyes
Stained face
Swollen eyes
A sharp knife thru my chest
A puncture in my heart
A wound I doubt
Will ever heal.
Sleepless nights
Days of the same
A scar
That’ll never fade
Broken into pieces
Damaged beyond imagination
Massacred to the extreme
Manipulated to condemnation
Words are worthless
To what is felt
A hole that cant be refilled
A tattoo that cant be erased
A mark that’ll last for eternity
A complete infatuation
Land I never thought I’ll be
Broken-land
A broken person
One thing for sure
The thing called heart
Will be attached to you
With epoxy
Words are worthless
To what is felt
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:49 AM UTC
At the Biafran front, I fought
Tearing down Nigerians
With shots of guns
We fought like men
Defending our lands
But with risk and fear
As some went blind
Among our troops
Were hatred and envy
Tribalism of doom
Had taken over our army.
Alongside my brother
We triggered together
Tearing down men
Like pales of feathers.
As a boy of sixteen
I saw terror in fifteen
Behold dead men lay like weeds
Vultures had enough to feed
Among the dead people
I saw my old father, he died still feeble.
Turning to my right
Lay my mother, sister at flight
My hands became weak
And my heart did bleed
They were killed by the army
Which I fought that they live.
Biafra was in famine
As children starved to death
A thousand Igbos massacred at night
As our troops retreat to die.
Nigeria flew their jets
Bombing no one but children and old women
A grenade caught my brother
And I knew it all be over.
The seaways were surrounded
Nigerian Navy locked us in our grave
No weapon came to Biafra
Even our camouflage had become rags
Enugu; capital of Biafra had been captured
There's nothing left, except to be raptured.
Oron and Calabar fell
Nigeria sent us hell
So in battle front we had
Nothing more than matchets and planks
Our major had ran
And we were left, to die at our hands.
With fear, my fellows fell
The fear of death, none could tell
I ran through the forest
Finding way for my escape
Lo there was a tunnel
And so I escaped Colonels.
Fifty thousand fighters quite survived it
They were buried alive
In mass graves for their deeds.
Down in my tunnel of sleep
I saw my family in the deep
Papa, I called aloud my father
He said go for the war is over.
Biafra had surrendered
But I had lost an arm
Millions had died
Diseases did bade them bye
The war, famine did sail them high
Though a soldier I survived.
I had lost my home family and lineage.
What would I do with a withered arm?
Flies had really fed it by
As the last man alive, No one cared whether I die.
So I died a lonely death
With no one to cry
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The moon shines over the forest,
Lighting the paths for us.
It’s quiet and calm, as here I rest,
Peacefully in my den.
In the peace, I faithfully wait,
As my pups run about, playing.
Soon he’ll be home, their father, my mate.
With game for us to eat.
In the distance I hear a howl,
In excitement, I reply.
Gunshots fire, I hear a growl.
I stiffen and fill with fear.
I gather my pups, hide them in the den.
I whimper at them to stay,
In the den, remaining hidden.
Then I sprint towards my mate.
I hear him whimper, I hear him cry.
I feel my heart break.
They hurt him, they did, but why?
He only wanted to feed his family.
I smell gunpowder and the blood,
I am quickly nearing them.
I silently run through the mud,
I can hear his laboured breath.
The man with the gun walks up to him
I pounce in between before I think.
I growl and snarl, I try to scare him.
He just laughs away.
He lifts up his gun, and points at me,
Then I hear a screamed, “No!”
Into the clearing runs a girl of eighteen,
Pushes the man and takes the gun.
She points the weapon at the man,
Yells to get off her property,
And to never near a wolf again.
A shot, then the man takes off.
She approaches us carefully and
Calls her friend to bring First Aid.
I step aside as my mate tries to stand.
She soothes him back down.
This girl is different, I can feel.
I can’t help but trust her.
Next to me, she does kneel.
Stopping my mate from bleeding.
We waited a while for her friend,
And as we waited she comforted me.
“He’ll be okay, this is not his end.
I will make him better.”
Into the clearing, comes a young man,
Not much older than her.
With a white box in his hand,
He walks over to us.
She takes the box, removes its contents,
And they start working away.
Over my love’s body, they are bent,
Cleaning away the blood.
She calmly whispers to me,
“Go to you den, your cubs are waiting,
Your mate is safe with me.”
I hesitate but I run to my pups.
My pups whine and whimper,
And it feels like forever later,
I hear the girl’s voice, barely a whisper,
“It’s okay, boy. We’re almost there.”
She comes to the den,
With my mate close behind.
I leave the den and greet them.
My mate is back, he’s okay.
The girl and the boy
Come every so often,
They take care of my love,
They make sure we’re okay.
I wish there were more people like this,
To make sure that we aren’t massacred off.
To protect us when we can’t protect our self.
To make people see we’re not bad at all.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 6:22 PM UTC
February 2nd: Dire was my day, every move I made was seen as a mistake.Malice my good intentions, I’ve been labeled as a hurtful, evil, and ugly man. Believed to be a demon, from the pits of hell; I am feared by all and eluded like a disease.
February 3rd: My time is spent in isolation. Never desiccated are the tears that endlessly flow down my wrecked up face. My screaming is unheard. Nothing is heard in this room, I am alone.
February 4th: Blood encrusts my massacred body, a true painting of affliction. I have run out of tears. Crying is now a more complex process, involving the bitter sweet touch of a blade.
February 5th: Exile is slowly beginning to **** me. The hands of time have firmly grabbed my neck and with each passing hour its grip grows stronger.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Eleven strong went in to bat
When dusk was in the air,
Eleven strong did face the wall
For others had shown flair.
They'd mustered up a goodly score
They’d shown they had pinache,
They'd demolished Tunnel bowling
And made our field work look a hash.
Eleven strong went into bat
With gritted teeth and ire,
Eleven set the pitch alight
With galantry and fire.
The leather ball was massacred
A pounding it did score
With repetitious boundaries,
Drilled cover drives and more.
The marker looked excited
The sweat ran down his brow
And as the score did level
He had to ask the Angels how?
And the providences shone
Upon this galant Tunnel team
For Claude's classy, deft square cut
Ensured we grinned the winning gleam.
Cricket is to Englishmen
As golfing is to Yanks,
And cricket played with pageantry
Make the civilized give thanks.
And cricket played with elegance
Fills the English heart with joy,
And Victoria Park Tunnel Team
Have downed an ale to victory's ploy!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
Auckland
17/2/2010
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
You stare as if you know
how my blood runs through my veins.
What wood are you?
Did you not come from a clan
of massacred trees
chiseled by an inglorious machete?
Were you the door that barred
the perils to our house?
Did you block the brutal sun from getting in?
Who carved you?
Was it not the ******
Was it not the thief?
Was it not the murderer behind the bars?
And you accuse me to have sinned
when all you do is mimic the fingers of your god.
Have you even opened those tinted lips
to mutter a prayer?
Why did you not dare to move
or tap my back when I opened my zipper?
Instead you feasted on my obscenity.
Why can you not tell your god
I attempted to fast?
Come!
Bleed and let these thirsty eyes witness your miracle!
Idiot.
©04-10-13
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC
you gave me a neglected book
and I mistook it for love.
i tried to find hidden meanings
lurking between the spaces.
i waited for it to pop out from the pages
to hit me in the head
with all it's
senseless rage,
attempting to
command me into belief
with the words you couldn't find on your own.
but alas,
the words never arose,
so,
i massacred
i pillaged
i maimed
and threatened
your book from
front to back
i interrogated under the blinding light
in a cold room
without food or water
and it gave up its
muted fight.
and spoke of page 47
and the weightless paper cup
who
rode the back of
the western wind.
.......
and I recounted my findings to you
and what had lurked on page 47,
but you had confessed to
have never read the book before.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC