"messiness" poems
It's 3:09am
I'm im the library
Desperately trying to write a research paper:
'LGBT Familes'
How fitting.
Caffeine courses through my veins
Coffee overloads my bladder
Bathroom.
I hate bathrooms.
When you have no gender
The simple act of relieving yourself becomes a chore
The heavy weight of that key decision
Chokes your lungs as you stand outside the doors
Two doors.
Men.
Women.
Not me.
The choice becomes simplified:
While I sometimes pass as a man
I often do not.
I can choose the men's bathroom
The consequence of which could end in physical violence
The same hate I explain through my essay.
The same fear that plagues my community.
The women's restroom is also an option
The consequences likely less dire than the former:
Heavy side eye and the potential of yelling.
A much safer choice.
Obviously.
Per usual, I walk into the women's room.
I take three strides inside.
Then I stop.
I've never used the men's room.
My fear of violent reactions has always won.
Yet at a time like this
How likely is it that someone is inside the men's room?
Now is my chance to face my fears.
Now I have a safe chance at peeing in peace.
In a bathroom potentially more suiting
Of my gender identity
So I turn around.
Let the door slam behind me.
Half a step into the men's room
The smell of rancid ***** hits my senses
Toilet paper liters the stalls
I have missed absolutely nothing in my years in the women's room
Women have nicer facilities
A significantly more advanced hand dryer
Cleanliness
Air freshener
Men do not have these luxuries
Now I question,
Do men not take as good of care of their bathrooms as women do?
Do the workers intentionally prioritize women's sanitation?
What causes this undeniable divide?
Is the messiness of the men's room a result of their conscious decisions?
Or simply a response to societal expectation?
Regardless,
I think I'll stick to the women's room
While I add bathrooms to my compilation
Of more discrete gender inequality
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
i open my eyes and the light hits my face
i toss and turn in my bedsheets, stretching my arms
i inhale breaths of life
and exhale
i am grateful
i am grateful for a roof over my head
a warm bed to sleep on
clean water to drink
and food i can eat
i am grateful for blue skies and sunshine
staring up into the horizons
feeling the warmth consume my body
from the inside out
i am grateful for friends who care about me
saying i was lonely, feeling hurt, and down
giving me a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on
i am grateful for tough days
for without them, how could we be grateful?
learning to appreciate what we have
despite feeling empty and broken
i am grateful for silent moments and days where i sing at the top of my lungs
learning to embrace the still and quiet
taking the time to reflect
that even silent moments have something to teach us
and expressing my joy
dancing like nobody is watching
but most of all, i am grateful for my Savior, Jesus
who bore everything for me on that cross
pursuing me despite my messiness, failures, and sins
fully knowing me and loving me
i am eternally grateful
forever grateful
of each breath He gives me
teaching me to live this life for Him
and not myself
to give glory, honor, and praise to the One who paid my debt
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
My life pressed like those perfect folded sheets. Married in steam and good intentions of having life together.
Of course, that always starts with making your bed in the morning and filling the days with things you ought to do.
I'd spent my whole life trying to be this person....
I can't but help miss the stain on my coffee table and my linen sheets sprawled across my floor waiting for my return.
The chaos in my life felt like a harmony of bethovan's seventh symphony. A beautiful orchestrarted master piece I could only make the sense of.
I was an absolutist. Completely content with the messiness of it all. Entirely captivated by the beauty and desire with urge to succumb to it all.
The unequivocal grounding of not giving a **** at all if at least felt good.
I can't help but wonder if the person I'm unbecoming is the person I should be saving.
Jan 13, 2023
Jan 13, 2023 at 1:36 AM UTC
I favour the deep, impenetrable truth of the jungle
Over the smooth ride over sleek black rubber;
The ***** disturbing, demented disorder;
The distortions of the lights we bathe on,
Over outward alignments and the staleness of systems.
I favour the cheap, rugged, bittersweet taste
Of a late night's substandard drink,
In the midst of true lights and shadows
And the uncertainty they cast upon us,
Over the orderly and satisfactory--
The dead pleasures and securities that
Exist nowhere but in feeble projections.
I favour the basic, primeval, animal grunt--
The dirt, the dizziness of true treading
Across the muddy shallows--,
Over the clattering of an overflowed,
Certain mind.
I favour doubt, earnest doubt,
Unpalatable doubt, inescapable doubt--
A smile in a pitch-black room,
A journey on a lukewarm air balloon,
A half-finished sentence in a half-serious gloom--,
Over hasty conclusions and tainted allusions.
I favour the endearing messiness of reality;
The chaos of light and dreams;
The mystery, so out of reach,
Of you and me and the space in-between;
The stained, torn, shattered, burnt,
Twisted texture we find ourselves upon,
Over the smooth, marble-white,
Sterile surface where false certainties
Slide, grinning, before they find themselves
On an impending collision with the infectious hesitation of the ground.
I favour the acknowledging look
Straight into the eye;
A ladder with one step;
A race with no competitors;
A contentment without resentment;
A bread on your table that's good enough,
That doesn't tease you and promise you more,
And more,
And more,
So that you forget what you should really care for,
What lies deep under your skin,
What stirs up the dormant contents of your guts--
You climb to the hilltop
Which finally allows you to have
A peek at the next one.
I favour uncertainty and risk,
And walking too close to the edge;
I favour barely enough,
And cutting it too close;
I favour throwing all excess over the board,
And lowering standards;
I favour the taste of imminent failure
And the adrenaline of a heart-wakening sprint;
I favour meagre means
And big dreams, free of currencies;
For they all remind me what the world
Really looks like,
Who I really am,
And what the winter-night winds
Really feel like.
I favour the ways of nature, often erratic,
***** ugly and convoluted,
Often dumbfounding,
Unintentionally intelligent and mysterious,
Over the ways of fear-ridden constructions,
For there is no such thing
As a straight line.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 2:31 PM UTC
i look at our time together like the keys of a piano,
somehow pounding on a mess of a's and d's and f's creates something beautiful.
somewhere between all the laughter and late night phone calls
our messiness of a journey became a piece that was worthy of being played by Bach or Mozart.
we found the balance of those a's and those d's and those f's,
something that will be remembered by those after us for centuries.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
my mom called, i cried by the dhall, on facetime
been thinking about how lucky we are to be alive
even if to deal with mornings and swollen eyes
even if dad's always on the night shift, even with
this big rift caused by the distance and the lack of time
just because we made out once doesn't mean you're mine
i got glimpses of a pink top, my blanket of a jacket
i bet it would look classier if you were wearing it
but you're distant and cold and partying is getting old
i'm forever out of polaroid film and cheap distractions
so i took an amtrak home, straight from south station
the flight back to boston was short but still exhausting
and when i walk home alone, the silence is unsettling
seems we're both better than i thought at method acting
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 1:21 AM UTC
jia jia of supple plastic face
gracefully arranged hair
hands that gesture, eyes that roll
a lifelike porcelain doll
docile ****** expressions
perfect height to weight ratio
fluent in English and Mandarin
soothing, well-modulated tone
what can I do for you, my Lord?
the creator's goal
to refine programming
until jai jai can laugh and cry
learn to interact naturally
he calls her his
robot goddess
a wet-dream confection
with none of the messiness
of a full-fleshed playgirl
though she is artificial
and cannot feel
I pity my non-sentient sister
controlled by design
submission absolute
maybe she can fill
the hole left by women
who abandon conformity
to seek being real
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
I want to be a place you call 'home'
Do you know what's the meaning of 'home' itself?
Home is a place you always keep coming back, no matter how far you could go
Home is a place you always gonna miss, no matter how messy it could get
with its imperfections
with its messiness
And I don't want to be a five-starred hotel-or a mall, for you
with its perfections
with its glamorous
with its beauty
But you can always leave them, anytime you want
Because it's just a place you passed by,
just a place you enjoy, you look at,
for short periods of time,
then you leave it behind
I want to be a home, for you
with my own imperfections,
with my own messiness,
Because I want you to keep coming back to me, no matter how far you could go
And you'll always gonna miss me,
because I'm your home.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
To love me is to put up with a messiness I inherited from my mother.
The displays of self loathing and self sabotage i work on daily.
The clothes I leave on the floor.
The coffee cups in the sink.
The bed unmade and the too many shoes.
To love me is to deal with an annoying amount of independence I inherited from my father.
The acts of self serving that I work on daily.
The know it all moments when I’m working on something or fixing something.
The confidence in my work ethic, my persona & who I am.
The laughter I have over everything.
To love me is to know the loyalty and respect I’ve inherited from my stepmom.
The empathy I still long for and work to find daily.
The care over details.
The nurture I give when you’re sad or sick.
The standing up for you but also putting you in your place.
To love me is to cope with the stoic coldness and wandering spirit I’ve inherited from my grandma.
The parts of me you’ll never fully know that I work to show you daily.
The look of dismay I sometimes don’t know is on my face.
The inability to stay in one place for too long without going insane.
The moments I want to run away and never look back.
To love me is to cope.
Cope with knowing sometimes I’m mean.
Sometimes I’m sad.
And sometimes I love fiercely and passionately.
To love me is to love all of me.
Everything I’ve inherited and everything I’ve learned and unlearned over time.
To love me is to be loved in return.
Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 10:02 AM UTC
Social media
Controls your life;
It tells you how your hair should smell
And your skin should glow
Have long hair
No.. short
Pluck those eyebrows off
Oh wait now grow them back
If you don't have the right nose and lips
Well, you're ******
Everybody should starve themselves
Who can be the thinnest
Only then you'll be beautiful
Oh, never mind
Now we like curvy girls
But you better get the proportions right or
You'll just be fat
And fat
That's unacceptable
As well as having any different colour of skin or a uniquely functioning mind
Enough to be lower than others
Out casted
Made fun of
Rejected
Wear what everybody else is wearing
We don't care for the price
But stand out
And do you
And be yourself
Just be happy.
But how
I ask how can we be happy when we're put into such impossible standards
When we're labeled
When what we have to offer is never good enough
When we feel judged everyday
And by whom?
Who's created this social media controlled society if not us
Every single one of us
You and me
So
All I'm really here to say is
You are beautiful.
Each of us is made differently in such an exquisite way
And that's what really matters
The uniqueness of each person's nature, appearance and story
The messiness and diversity of life is what makes it so alluring and magnificent ✨
Let's embrace our differences and learn to love the beautiful imperfect
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 1:53 PM UTC
It makes me look weak,
My tears leaks…
My eyes are sore
My heart is a bore
and My body repeats a painful encore.
I dust away the sad memories,
but it comes along like it’s my adversaries.
I hate sadness
It shakes my reality, a piercing faithfulness
towards my soulful unhappiness.
I don’t need help,
but in truth I am lying to myself.
You’ll never know, what comes and goes
yet I am stuck between my toes.
I hunger for that light
but all that comes is my arresting night.
Perhaps I am doom with my own gloominess.
Starvation and Weariness
is a consolation of my messiness
~ a choice with laziness,
to ponder and wonder
to the world’s unending sadness.
© Pax September, 2013
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
I try to cut, through the skin, as if it's my last effort to free my own soul from it's own pain,
The skeletal bones and tissue intertwined, wanting to break free, from such limited physicality's
Rather to feel real pain, then this goopy stuff they call emotions,
I'm entangled in a war of not my choosing,
A world, I was not made for,
And I walk aware of this,
Every, single day i'm breathing hard and the cold air ***** all the warmth from my own blood,
And I feel nothing, but darkness, ******* out my soul,
The life I once wanted,
A fairytale forgotten while I'm living this horrid nightmare,
Full of language and knowledge I could care less about,
When all I wanna do is run in fields, and soak up the ocean with my heart,
And never return to a desk if it's the last thing I do,
Freedom from driving and technology,
A phone always beeping,
Just me, myself and I,
And a God that I could see with all the stuff out of the way
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
To me, words sing. They carry me up to the heavens and drag me down to the depths.
Sentences soar. They lie there, dripping with juicy meaning as they whisper softly.
Descriptions dance. Well paced prose or the precise hitting of phonetic notes are a symphony to my ears.
Pearls are found amongst the thickest of slime. Masterpieces of diction, form and character one can uncover, buried underneath the deepest mires of messiness.
These glorious works, both lengthy and pointed, are attractive for one main reason: the thoughts and flavour they contain.
These concepts swirl and crystalise like intricate snowflakes and make me think, 'If only life was always like this'.
Webbed connections spin and mesh, reflections and shattered mirrors are found everywhere. The hallmarks of beauty and the breath of the Divine mix with dark and twisted truths. Great words and those more humble writings weave a magnificent tapestry indeed.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Call it women’s intuition—
but she knows the power of silence,
how to bend you to her will,
whether she’s calm or not.
Eventually, you’ll crack,
if given enough time.
Trying to figure out what’s wrong,
following her from room to room,
asking question after question—
whether you’re crazy now
or crazy later,
it’s soon to happen.
Oddly enough,
the various cigarette and liquor companies
profit from her silence—
the way, even at your best,
it still finds a way to get your attention.
Even if you manage to block her out,
bringing it up at another time is just an argument.
It’s best to take a minute and get yourself together.
no matter what you do.
You can’t trust the way she stares,
you can’t trust the way she laughs.
It’s all a trap.
You won’t realize it until it’s too late.
Through her messiness,
through her beauty,
through her chaos,
She just wants to see how you’ll react,
if you’ll reach for her,
even when she’s right in front of you
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 10:41 PM UTC
VIII
Glassy smooth
a mirror-sea
reflects a turbulent
cloudscape blending
white into grey
today far distant
the sea joins the sky
the sky absorbs the sea
into the one
the other disappears
and little movement
at the water’s edge . . .
the tide-uncovered land
lies exposed to harden
in the still air
IX
Despite the profusion
the messiness of it all
and with disorder everywhere
there is a precise vocabulary
for the nature and experience
of the coastal strip
the area caught between
land and sea.
Rocks littered
Sand pitted and patterned
Sea sounding breaking pulling-back
Sky an overarching complement to it all
and the necessary story of coming
and the ‘just being here’
and this path to the sea shore
strewn so with anticipation
with forward-facing dreams almost
urgent imaginings as we let go
of the constraints of the squared space
the vertical architecture of daily life
X
See how those we love are transformed
when the sea is their only boundary
a figure stands before a sand bar
in a crescent of water left by the tide
an affecting geometry of solitude
another gathers her body in a crouch
to come close to a speckled play of tiny shells
fragments thrown together by the morning’s tide
The beach is such unconfining space
where movement demands no direction
XI
this attentive looking
at what lies at the feet
or not
choosing to pass by
the curiously-formed
or not
but there is a measuredness
of step an accompanying intent
with that always-confidence
there may be something
so single out what can be held
in the fingers what can lie
entire in the neutral space
of your collection’s row
then later
with the pencil’s mark
the brush’s touch
in line and shade
and the tricks of chiaroscuro
an image will be secured
in mind and muscles’ memory
you will have drawn this form
into knowledge
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
passports, abstracts, and cigarettes
i swear it was all just for the aesthetics
thin walls, smoke screens, and window tints
we crawled through one just for the hell of it
it's nineteen and nose rings, i got asked for an id
we're twenty-one in jersey, you like my con artistry
i borrowed a street sign and failed to book an uber ride
everything is so much messier than i would've liked
i tired of people pleasing, and you never reply
we don't really need to talk about it
i try my best to not really think about it
said that i'm conceited, hedonistic, manipulative
but some nights i just want to drink until i start to lie
see, if coping was a job and paid an hourly wage
i'd be working overtime, id have a career drive
and i'd be a millionaire after six shots, or maybe five
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 1:22 AM UTC
I don't like new notebooks.
I mean, I like new, beautiful, clean, pristine notebooks,
but I don't like using them.
I don't want to ruin it.
I open up to the first page and it's so blank, so white, so pure,
there's not an imperfection in sight.
I don't want to use it because I don't want to mess it up. I want it to stay perfect, and beautiful.
I don't want that inevitable ****** drawing or poem to **** it up.
I don't want my uncleanliness, my messiness to spread to something so perfect.
I do end up using it. If I didn't, I'd just have a bunch of empty notebooks lying around which honestly I'd prefer.
But I take forever to do it, to break the seal.
I have to have the perfect thing to ruin perfection because if it's not perfect, it's not worth it to ruin it.
It goes two ways though:
The first entry is perfect, beautiful, inspiring, deep,
and then I never use that book again.
Because now it's perfection is magnified.
I couldn't possibly follow it up with something better or just as good,
and it's quite possible that the more I try to come up with something good to match, the initial piece deteriorates and it becomes disappointing, thus resulting in the notebook not being used.
The second way this goes is the first entry is trash.
It's disgraceful and I want to tear it out
but suddenly the book becomes less daunting, less intimidating because now, it's imperfect.
Every entry to follow doesn't have to live up to some grand standard.
But I'm reminded everytime I use that book that I failed, that I created garbage.
It makes everything that comes after, not as good as what I want to do, it lacks passion.
If I tear out the initial entry, the cycle starts over.
No matter which way you spin it, we just don't get along. I end up with a bunch of half used, disappointing books sitting around haunting me as I walk by.
A notebook is reflective of who you are,
it displays the deepest parts of you.
What if your unhappy with what you see on the page?
What if what you see isn't you?
What if, this blank, empty page of nothingness is better than what you are?
Why would you want to ruin something so pure and perfect with your mess?
Because nothing you ever write, draw, sketch, compose or create on it will ever be as good as it's once held purity.
-t.s.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 9:18 PM UTC
The
Cuddle
Of
A Thousands
Cries
Pacify
My Soul
My Childish
Ways
In The
Mist
Cold
Deep
Snow
Alone
Tears
Of Numbness
Perfume
My Eyes
Into
Despair
The Messiness
Of My
Shameful
Diaper
On My
Vary
Delicate
Body
Filled
With
Shame
In The
Desolated
Crib
Of Mine
Like
A Child
In Shankles
My Tears
In Jail
Wrapped
Around
In
Sorrows
My Pacifier
My...
Stuffed
Animal
Taken
Away
In My
Childish
Eyes
~Numbness Of Despair~
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:10 PM UTC
I am a girl,
And I hate details.
I hate the little things in life that seem to cause so much trouble, I hate decorative pillows, accented candles, and making sure I eat some pinterest recipe meal my friend sent to me on thursday.
I don't like the minor things in life, such as cleaning, or cooking, and making sure I get to bed on time, or if my hair ever looks right.
I walk around with no makeup usually, sometimes wear the same shirt twice in a row, if my hair is semi greasy, then let it be under a hat,
I'm a girl, I won't wear the right clothes when it's 50 degrees, or I forget to take my medication so I wake up all clogged up from my allergies. I don't always eat right, and drink coffee way too much, and I don't dream of my dream wedding dress I like to think of other things that make sense to me.
I don't get upset with C's. If I passed at least I passed. I don't always make it to class, and though I wish I could be a neat freak, I can't, cause that's not me.
I am a girl who can't stand the little things in life, like perfect date nights, or pleasantly planned events, or fretting over if my earrings go with my outfit.
I like the messiness of life, unexpected relationships, random calls, winging assignments, and trying not to make everything make so much sense, It doesn't matter, not a hundred years from now, I live through the rhythms of my own heartbeat. Yes it's troublesome, and I am always late, and I quit jobs, and make irrational decisions, cause I don't like the details, I like to flow with destiny and fate and see what happens nonetheless
and I really don't like rules...
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
*"we are learning to ...
fish in the river of sorrow"*
Faith Sherien
this has been a year of
hard lessons.....
of trying,
again and again,
to perfect the the cast
to catch, cleanly,
the fish of loss.
to split it open,
and seize it's innards...
the stench, the messiness,
the ichor, the guts.
to scale the skin,
rough, cutting scales,
little tear shaped discs.
to eat of the flesh....
chewing, chewing, chewing
on the hope of afterlife.
and picking the bones clean
of delicate, delectable memories....
hard lessons,
too many this year,
yet all a part,
of a fishermans journey....
down, the river of sorrow.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
We are all fallible because we are all human.
There isn't a soul on this earth exempt from
hanging a skeleton of ignorance somewhere
in life's hidden closet.
A big, brawny bag of bones dumped atop our
fragile heart spaces, in order to quiet those nagging,
screaming egos.
Sharp elbows and boney shoulders
forcing us to truly taste the soured-sweetness of humility,
and humbly drink it down.
Peace is found in our common flaws - our shared ability
to be so **** cruel, cheap, manipulative, scared, loud and wrong.
What hurts you hurts me,
we are all connected through that which
we've decided separates us.
We are not perfect. We've all really messed up.
Sometime, somewhere we've caused pain to ourselves
by inflicting pain onto others,
and vice-versa.
It's within the murky kaleidoscope of messiness that
we find proof of our connectedness, our mutli-colored similarities,
our twin tattooed scars of wisdom reminding us of our divinity,
in the wake of this endless slumber.
We must embrace our skeletons, transform them,
set them free....
For they are our greatest teachers
holding up a mirror to our souls and reflecting
all of humanity back at us,
revealing the brightest darkness we've ever seen.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
It doesn't happen very often any more
But at times
The darkness calls
And I, feeling pulled
Betray my better self in favor of
A temporary respite from the loneliness.
And though the path I'm on isn't perfectly straight, it's perfectly imperfect in all its human messiness
And it's beautiful, for all of our madness comes
from within, as so does our exquisiteness.
If darkness calls on you, and you find yourself
Unable to resist, I will love you just the same
in the morning, as we are more brothers, lovers, sisters than we are distant cousins.
And you are not the darkness
You are not the pain
You're the seer and the seen
And it's not always easy
to refuse the mad hatter's offer for tea
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC