"mindedly" poems
sometimes you're like homework
so confusing
and i just stare at you
absent-mindedly
hating you
yet you're important to me
it's so hard to finish you
and i lose inspiration every now and then
but when i get high as my grades
i come running back to you
i can't wait to graduate from school
get rid of this infatuation
we would be adults by then
and hopefully this mess will be sorted out
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
My son runs, wrapping arms around
my nebulous waist.
"l love you, Mom!" He squeezes tighter,
as if letting go would be his black hole.
"I love you, too, " I squeeze back, absent mindedly. (Where is the cream? I need coffee.)
"I love you more!" he breathes, without pause.
He gazes into my eyes,
searching my planets.
"Oh no, that can't be true," I retort.
I forget the coffee, his eyes are starlight.
"I love you to infinity!" he exclaims,
staring harder.
He wants to sail the Milky Way with me.
"Me too," I reply, and remember oxygen tanks.
I'm speaking in light years, and I hope the sound waves will catch up to him.
His face cracks into a million years of forever, before he lets go,
dancing across the universe of our livingroom,
his solar system intact.
At least for now.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
You don't deserve any of this.
You don't deserve the smiles I try to hide back whenever people merely mention your name.
You don't deserve me happily listening to love songs and absent-mindedly dedicating them for you.
You don't deserve my feelings when I'm high off my mind, looking back down from the clouds, wishing for nothing but your presence silhouetting mine.
You don't deserve my drunken texts when I feel like I'm wasting my youth away; it's ironic how even though I can't form coherent sentences and I barely remember my own name, you still ****** my thoughts and lurk behind the shadows of my mind, like a spell I've been wanting to cast myself free from since the day I first met you.
You don't deserve my midnight blues when I drown myself in sad songs and relentless thoughts of you, along with endless voices screaming and questioning why I'll never be good enough to be called yours.
Above all, you don't deserve me.
(So why do I always find myself crashing back to you?)
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
her eyes are taunting,
her lips inviting,
and she is absent-mindedly
precious, with her crimson
cheeks and blonde hair,
perfectly swaying with the wind,
having the most intimate dance,
constantly interrupted by her
melodic voice ringing through
the eerie night.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
I see you, love
Dancing on the line of apathy
Self-deprecating voices chatter away in your head
The light of inspiration has dimmed in your eyes
Your heart beats absent-mindedly
Dolefully complacent are your days
In and out- smiles to fool them
Rotating doors of relationships
Faces change- your role play stays the same
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
My city spews poetry like smoke,
In vicious columns of abstracts,
Of unspilled blood, untold hurts,
Unsung love and unrestrained joy.
Neck of an old refill snapped
absent-mindedly,
Sploshes a tiny blob of red ink,
On the table cloth,
And so flows musings and rants.
Smell of twilight rain mingles with
Incense fragrance of evening prayers
Triggering a burst of longing and love.
Electric bulbs and rainbows coexist
And emit more than just light.
My city breeds more poets than
The Lakes ever did.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
The inlets
Wrap around the water
Writhing in the fury of the ocean’s waves,
Obscuring the distance they reveal
To the eyes that gaze absent mindedly
Down their beaches and their cliffs.
Indifferent to the conflict below,
The sun blazes down
But the winds cleanse the skin of its heat
As they are driven from the sea.
The sea that breaks the stoic rocks
And casts the sand’s lonely grains
-Along with the many homeless winds-
Across the beaches which slope
At the feet of their stony bluffs.
But the cliffs stand in austere grandeur
Defiantly surveying the endless waters
Whose numerous, ceaseless, enduring waves
Are kept at bay by the towering unity.
I am of the wind that has no home
In the conflict of sea and land
I am the sun that lights this vision:
Firmament of hills, sea and sand.
Tides come and go but never leave me
Sands shift in time but never deceive me
As sun I shine light on all at hand:
This ceaseless meeting of sea and land.
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
Time and again we all get hurt and the truth is it takes long to heal. So yes, the world is full of people who are secretly nursing the wounds that were inflicted upon them. Some of these wounds they got from friends, some from strangers some from family and other wounds, believe it or not, are self-imposed.
We are often quick to get angry and we do not even think twice before we point fingers and blame others for the wounds they caused but what about the wounds we inflicted ourselves with? What do we then do upon the realisation of self-created hurt and pain we orchestrated ourselves?
There are times when one absent-mindedly digs themself a hole to fall in, sets themself a trap to be caught in or lays a bed of thorns to lay on. Reality only sinks in when the pain is felt and the pain one feels from what they did is way less compared to the hurt they get upon the realisation of the fact that they are the reason for that pain.
People hurt us, life goes on, we learn to get over it but what about when you hurt yourself???
The answer is quite simple: Forgive yourself but the implementation of the answer is a different story altogether.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
Absentminded speech.
You had taken the scissors from the basket
in the darkroom, they were just
still in your hands, the ones
not covered in rust.
It was absentminded, that part
is important. Just absentminded,
like the way you'd play
with her hair or pretend not
to care,
like the way you'd talk with
your hands even when the
darkness spoke louder. The way
you'd nudge me, a "don't move"
elbow, to let me know you'd
dropped your film and I shouldn't
step for fear of stepping on it
like the shadows did.
I absentmindedly twirled a pen,
and you absentmindedly looked
down again and again,
scissors open, scissors closed,
running your fingers over
the little ***** between the blades
as I ran my fingers
over a little ink drawing I'd made.
You absentmindedly followed
my eyes with your own, and then
threw absentminded to the smoke,
up and out the window and gone,
and the smooth blade up and down
your arm.
It wasn't sharp. It couldn't even
cut the film. That's how you'd
dropped it in the first place.
Still watching my eyes, my dawning worry.
Oh, you. Ignorance reduced me
to child and pity before your
knowing eyes, but what do.
You know me, I know you.
A deliberate story now (absentminded
can't be filtered out of the smoke anymore),
of a girl you used to know.
Something to do with little screws
in every pocket of every
long-sleeved shirt she owned.
They had to be from something cheaper,
you mused. Mindedly.
Scissors don't come in bulk.
Little screws. Not razors, not knives.
Little screws.
You thought out loud, but it wasn't
thought. It was speech. It was
words you already knew.
Where'd they all come from?
You asked questions to give me
the answers.
I reached out for those ****
bright green plastic scissors
that wouldn't cut a piece
of film in a darkroom, because
fear gives light great powers.
You smiled at the anxiety in my
eyes. You chose then to stumble
upon the answer. (It wasn't scissors.)
To relieve me, you meant.You
meant to share without telling,
to lighten my head and dissipate
the ignorance like your
absentminded smoke.
You knew a girl...
But when you put knowledge
in this mind it gets picked up
and circled around and around,
centripetal acceleration, exponentially
flying, so fast, so high, what do I
do with it there. I build it up.
It tears me down.
I scanned your wrists for months.
I watched you pull your wallet out
of your pocket, checking the floor for
little screws.
You knew, ****** You knew
your wrists would stay smooth
as a scissor blade, smooth as
darkness. You gave me the story
deliberately, but you gave me the
answer absentmindedly.
You didn't mean to.
You gave me the worry,
you gave me the thought.
You didn't tell me where to find
a ******* screwdriver.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
Farewell! Farewell!
The rest can go to hell.
And perhaps I should be chided
For being so small-mindedly pegged,
If it were left to me,
I would not care to see
Another Easter Egg.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
**I nip your soft bud
ever so tenderly
during my nightly visits
to make you open your eyes,
and blush, I love the flush
spreading on your cheeks
mademoiselle,
but you bit
my probing lips lovingly hard,
it gave me new ideas
that you didn't expect me to carry out
in presence of morning mist, curious
that peeped from outside
the limits of this quaint pond.
I love the honey seeping out
without any effort from my part,
I am a blue beetle that loves
to smear yellow pollen all over.
Look! your buds aren't soft now,
***** they have become truculent,
if they want to rub me wrong
do you think, I'll back off?
I am game for a tete-e-tete,
better now, than later.
A beetle that find cozy warmth
within the purple folds of your petals tight,
every night; being a lotus
you should know what I seek,
let's get it together, single-mindedly
warm, fragrant, cuddly lover.**
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
He had been robbed of all character and individuality.
Once eyes had shone outwards, now white dwarf orbs shimmering from porcelain remained.
There was no excess whatsoever, nothing frivolous; his sinewy frame carried not an
ounce of surplus fat, nor did his attire serve any social function other than to cover his hijacked carcass.
He walked the streets anonymously, blending in like an instinctive chameleon, single mindedly rehearsing
the acts of the play that cycled through him.
Score. Cook. Nod. Kick. Relapse.
That was when I promised myself I'd never chase again.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery. Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.
"Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother. "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."
"Yes, they would have," she replied. "I'm ready if you are. We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."
William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag. "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."
Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant. He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for. The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents. William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him. Father had passed a year before either of his parents. Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way. Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.
"All done! Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said. William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots. Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby. He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave. Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place. He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.
After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own. Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought. "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"
Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."
"Oh. I forgot."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
when we think idle thoughts and ****** with our mind
we might as well just blandly look into the sky
and absent-mindedly pursue the flights of distant birds
against the matrix of blue firmaments
which seem less infinite than our imaginary universe
trying to look beyond that globe of blue
we venture into depths that really make us think
about the cosmos out in space
infinite stars and planets of unknown identity
we soon become aware
that our idle thoughts are dwarfed
by the immenseness of the space
through which not quite discovered forces
propel our planet with incredible speed
to destinies we do not know
perhaps in order to avoid acknowledgement
of this precarious reality
we fill our lives with more comforting things
fashions wars power games religion money
internet chats with other avatars et cetera
anything to distract us from the contemplation
of insights into how to live
in such a transient indeterminacy
with a determined sense of goal and meaning
think about it
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
Autumn arrived clothed in whiskey and wind
that dressed the ground in leaves it lifted
from the old oak trees. In the crisp air
you traced the outlines of their branches
to give their loss meaning, you said
as I considered the weight of the golden leaf
I was twirling absent-mindedly
between two fingertips. Then in October
we became thieves like the harvest
breeze, surreptitiously stealing glances
and words and then, feeling brave, kisses.
Under the gray afternoon sky
you fashioned a map out of fallen leaves
to give their death purpose, you said
as I tread lightly over their surface, now
brittle and brown. Then in autumn's quiet
valediction came the swift invasion
of winter, who cloaked our leaves
in a blanket of snow, robbing us
of the delicate guidance of that
which we had come to know as beauty.
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 8:22 PM UTC
Is this what love was meant to be?
This overwhelming feeling in your company
Undeniably true, unfathomably right
Becoming my everything in the blink of an eye
How is every touch so perfectly placed
Mindful and distinct
Yet absent-mindedly performed
Like second nature
Every word written or uttered from your lips
Fills my heart to burst
You've been fulfilling my young girl fantasies
Those of which I never thought could be brought into this reality
When you ask me, "where did you come from?"
While staring into my eyes, bewildered
Or breathlessly gasp, "what the ****
During and after every passionate night
Every time I'd blow your mind
Knowledge of some obscure childhood memory you hold dear
I was there to share it
Though I was nowhere near
Our beginning started on a shattered base
Each of us unaware that the other
Was precisely meant to be in this place
Convoluted events leading us here
At the same time
For our beginning
It's been 4 years in the making, you and I
And even longer than that still
A perfect set of circumstances
That it took to reveal
You're what I've been wanting
You're what I've been seeking
I'm what you've been yearning for
I'm what you've been needing
May we continue to grow this happiness
Grow this family
Meld these lives
Expand our spirits
I cannot explain why I feel this way
But I promise to love you every day
Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 10:57 AM UTC
Beijing’s Child points at the white clouds flying, veils in the somber sky, to the moon under the yielding tree’s red lantern, he is absent-mindedly playing with his brown braids. He pictures himself abroad, by other long shores turning the pages of his dear illustrated book when a fired fish jumps up to the skies clad in its rainbow scales, glistering. Under the yielding tree red lantern
Beijing’s Child rubs the green ginkgo Although the snow, winter’s daughter plucks the feather leaves of her silvery coat....
Was it the wind, messenger of the west that brought the Biloba bird until Ta? Under the yielding tree red lantern
He thinks about it sprouting, seed of the past. The Child whose name means pagoda lives over the gates of the shining sun chanting to the elements songs and lullabies,
Under the yielding tree red lantern.
And when Earth vibrates under the storms when the frightened men rise their damped eyes the child wraps his body with the veil of the stars I hear by the mounts his voice and his augurs. But the tree was cut down and cannot offer its sweet sap anymore the red gleam has faded long ago of the marooned torn by time book only one thing remains, and it is a dream.
Because, at bedtime, as the world is sound asleep the child pours a golden powder to the souls. Stay awake at night because the Child of Beijing will enchant you until your morning!
Written in French in Beijing, October 20, 2011. Translated on May 9, 2014 Lyon, France
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
the day in the park when you told me you loved me i noticed things that i never noticed before. your hair looked darker than usual and i ran my fingers through it almost absent-mindedly, a quick action that happened before i could process it. my fingertips came back wet.
saturday morning and clearly straight from the shower you smelt of deodorant, that lovely boy smell, of something fresh and clean but with the hint of sweat already from the walk over here which made me wonder why you ever even bothered with showers, when i liked the ***** sweatiness of your skin more than anything.
spring was sprung, flowers everywhere, the council gardeners pruning and weeding every afternoon when i wandered this way after school, but blissfully absent this morning, you and i lone lovers on a lark.
i noticed the dandelions were swaying, how picturesque, us in that strange place between friends and more, and the grass wet and dewy beneath our feet, rose bushes lining the path. but we strayed from that path, we did. you stole my hand and we started running, you raucous and wild, a lion inside a boy, and me, following and cautious but laughing.
there was this lovely weeping willow, the branches dangling gorgeous leaves, sweeping the ground, a curtain of green which you parted and brushed aside like the way you sometimes brush my hair from my face. under that weeping willow things happened.
“i can’t deny it,” you said. you said, as you touched my hair and my face and no other part of me, so intimate and courageous with my heart beating faster than any other saturday morning. “i can’t deny the fact that i love you,” and you were pushing me back as you stepped forward, little nudges in the hip and the shoulder and then maybe just hard enough to leave a bruise you pushed me against the trunk of the tree. as steady as i was weak.
i checked later, at home, safe in my bedroom with the curtains closed, in the almost dark i pulled off my shirt and checked, and yes you did, you did leave a bruise, but it was not as painful nor as potent as when you finally finally finally kissed me, your lips air as i was drowning, against that weeping willow with your hands finally finally finally on my waist and stomach and ******* and the fire you started in my heart as stupid as it sounds that has not and will not burn out, the pain of having to leave you at my doorstep and waiting until the next time you could relinquish my need, and now after we’re broken up the pain of not knowing if i’ll ever feel those lips again.
the bruises on my skin do not even begin to rival the internal bruising of that first kiss.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
My tongue flicks
Absent mindedly
Discovering and rediscovering
The new sensation
Of a missing tooth
Or a kernel of food
wedged in my gums
Or a ****** cheek
Bit ferociously while chewing.
In my same manor
My thoughts stroke
the idea of you,
Feeling for any new details
i may have missed
My first time
across your surface.
a mark, wrinkling
beneath your eye
a small tattoo
above your elbow
a delicate crease
where your head
meets your neck.
Subtleties of self
are everything to me.
you hold your cigarette
between hits,
bent backwards between
thumb and middle finger
as if subconsciously,
you know
you’re damning yourself.
You hold your elbows
When you cross your arms
As though you are afraid,
Should you relax your grip
The contents of your chest
Will spill out before you
Like a toppled canister
Of produce remnants,
Juicy, sloppy, and sopping
But you speak quietly,
like a discarded bag
of shredded documents.
Rustling with partial importance
I try to piece together
your comments
almost as though your words
hang beneath the weight
of your breath
as an afterthought
of your exhalation.
I watch you
watch me,
calmly calculating
baiting conversations
with tactful insinuation
and later,
in deep rumination
they replay.
I select the moments
That fit the narrative
I've created,
rummaging through
until what I want
you to mean
is all I hear you say.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
There's a perpetual silence
around myself
but I can't help hearing
the ghosts of my voice
inside my head
I wonder if I am going insane
or if this is just
how life works
once you're ready to admit
to yourself
that you'll never be
anything else
but this
no more changing
no more failed attempts
to become someone better
there's no escape
and still I try
as much as everyone else
even though all of us know
that the silence
screams louder
when we keep our mouth shut.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
Do you ever want to spit your own tongue out
Apologize to God for using it as a sword to slit your own throat after absent-mindedly digging into the hearts of others with your words
Do you ever want to shove your brain into a suitcase and "accidentally" leave it on a train headed for the bottom of the sea
Because you don't know how to use the thoughts that have grown from your own brain stem
Are you ever allergic to yourself?
Do you sneeze as you sniff your own stupidity?
Do you want to soak in a bathtub full of forgiveness
Wash yourself with the soap of solitude
(re-surface your skull)
Well
I need to remember that nobody is perfect
And that I shouldn't hate myself
But all of me has self-destructed for existing
How do you stuff a pipe cleaner into a soul
How to come back from that
How to clean out the inside of a straw
How to yank open a locked-jaw and leave it gaping
in order to be filled with the endless
love
mercy
acceptance
Offered by the Person who has created me
into more than I could have ever been by my--
self.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
The jig is up for us who know each dawn delivers
A renewed sense of dread, despair, disillusionment; another day in,
Day out slog, the persistent, insistent fear of, fill in the blank,
An absolute knowing in the end, nothing really matters.
A tranced-out going through the motions at a meaningless job,
The mechanical everything's fine exchange, the pasted on smiles,
The inevitable, "How ya doing, how's it going?",
Muttered absent mindedly on the work-a-day-rat-wheel.
One thought that saves the day; the ride home, the solace of
The burn of the ***** the quick numb out effect straight into the
Blood brain barrier without a hitch, the fear lifting, down into the dark Chamber of no real care and slowly, surely, relief arrives.
And deep inside this numb town, a desperado appears, calls the shots, Schmoozes slyly, "Hey compadre, give me your fear, and
I give you my self-righteous willfulness in return, and best of all,
I’ll deliver you your very own smothering mother of oblivion."
Awakened, head pound, brain fog, dry as a desert, need water now, And Like clockwork, a barely audible patient inner voice asks,
“Is this the really the life you want?” and without hesitation,
The regular repetitive retort, “Yup, one more day at a time.”
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 4:00 PM UTC
… On a bustling street,
she shuffles her feet,
her eyes hold a desperate heat,
eyes darting, discretely charting
a line through the crowds that are parting for her.
In a world of abundancy,
she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
her life breathes new life into the rubble
from a fickle society’s burst bubble.
Her world otherwise grey,
she colours her day,
collecting, affecting
what the world has thrown away.
Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
discarded, unguarded;
all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.
Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.
She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.
She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.
Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.
In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.
She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.
She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.
Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.
On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
It Hurts
it hurts , it hurts
when your gaze scan to search for her sight
not mine
it hurts
it hurts, it hurts
when all the melody that you sang
was for her,
it hurts
it hurts, it hurts
when the night came and those sleepless night haunt you,
in your thoughts was her,
her ear to ear smile
her full lips
her soft yet shiny black hair
her angelic voice that soothes you through the days,
it hurts
it hurts, it hurts
when you spend hours and hours with her, and yet
you never feel that it was enough,
all you wanted to do was to be with her,
by her side,
everyday
it hurts
it hurts, it hurts
when your heart skips a beat every time she looks at you,
even when she did it absent-mindedly
It hurts,it hurts
When i know you would never know this kind of
subtle torture,
A silent scream,
An invisible pain,
You will never know,
And it hurts.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC
im not drunk enough to forget what its like
to be close to you
to feel you grip my hand tighter
im not sober enough to remember what its like
to be alone in my bed
to feel an empty space next to me
i dont know if im drinking to forget
or if im drowning sadness absent mindedly
but what i do know is
liquid love is my only escape
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC