"misinterpretations" poems
She stands before the class
Her voice rings loud and clear
Each word beautifully enunciated
For all who wish to hear
The perennial English teacher
She reads with such dramatics and flair
Such a pity that its only noticed
by students in the first few chairs
She's reading out my poem
She paints pictures with her words
But honestly? Sometimes I find
Her explanations quite absurd
No, That's not what I meant!
Dear teacher, stop twisting my verse!
Dear students, please notice the flaws
In the story she so carefully rehearsed
It's amazing how sometimes she understands
The thought and feelings of what I wrote
And sometimes she gets it so very wrong
That I want to strangle her throat
She continues unperturbed
By the lack of interest in the room
Students only see her smile and energy
Not her disappointment and gloom
She worked so hard to teach them,
A little appreciation would go far!
But they just sit and pretend to listen
As they wait for the end for the hour
Finally, she comes across
That fateful line
The one that sparks a discussion
I watch the class come to life
In a tsunami of opinions,
She smiles proudly, riding the wave
She launches into her explanation
And it's the completely wrong one she gave
Its one of many misinterpretations
Of my carefully crafted work
There! That student! She understands what I meant!
Now now, don't tell her she's wrong. Don't be a ****
A debate ensues and words fly
The classroom divides into two.
Half are on my side, dear teacher
And the other half believe you.
Out of the blue, the bell rings
For once the students want more time!
A pat on the back for the English teacher.
This victory is both hers and mine
So what if she gets it wrong sometimes?
So what what if she's too dramatic?
Sometimes she's just unreasonable
She's your average literature fanatic
She always gets her point across
Without having to scream and shout
She teaches the students the value of words
Isn't that what it's all about?
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy
Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract
Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing
When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations
Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some
Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned
Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat
The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music
Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
Many of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,
without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,
it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,
as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,
and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”
I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,
as lovers or friends,
either way I am here,
and I’m open,
completely,
devoted,
and cleanly,
unfolded,
and ready,
high voltage,
but steady,
I told ya,
I’m ready,
I noticed,
already,
that you noticed,
me so deeply,
that I broke open easy,
as our emotions,
became confetti,
I told you I told you,
I’ve already been ready already,
and we’re in a storm,
and we’re lost at sea,
but we’re almost to shore,
so please just hold steady,
steady,
steady,
breathe,
steady,
steady hand writes the words,
before fingers become spaghetti and I can write no more,
because honestly I feel like I’m losing all control,
and honestly experiencing strange things then staring at screens doesn’t help,
help,
this is a cry for help,
I’m not scared to admit I’m scared,
I actually have only one fear,
I’m only scared of one thing and nothing else,
being alone.
I am alone.
You are alone.
But we can be alone together.
I told you before I’m totally open,
I told you before I’ve already been ready already,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as possible as I wait for you,
and that’s why I wear these sunglasses so that the EMFs don’t extra affect me,
many,
of you don’t know this,
but I wear my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write,
without any misinterpretations whatsoever,
I wear my sunglasses when I write to block the EMFs,
that emit from the the screen on my electronic device,
and make their way to try and make a way into my eyes,
it’s as if every electronic device is alive,
and they want to take every thing from us including our vibe,
and I’m not sure for sure if this is true so just to be safe I protect my eyes,
by wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
I want to stay pure,
pure enough at least for you,
because everything I write and do,
of course I do it for you,
as cliche as that might sound,
please know that every word of it is true,
and I’m trying not to rhyme to much so these words don’t sound corny,
but I’m a poet I can’t help it I rhyme without even trying *** else am I supposed to do,
and as far as cliches I’ve got another one coming your way hey, “I Love You.”
I love you,
and I’m trying to stay as pure as I can,
so that I can be clear when I see you,
if we ever have the pleasure of seeing each other again,
as lovers or friends,
either way I am here,
wearing my sunglasses at night when I write,
and I know I am a poet,
and I’m supposed to be both understood and misunderstood at the same time,
but I can tell you exactly why I wear my sunglasses when I write…
∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
Stored up enough,
but the energy now takes on its
own purpose.
If only I could draw;
I'd create picture books
on exactly what the ending looks like.
Rough sketches left collecting
for many months,
before I ever once thought of putting
color to them.
The why, would be as mind trancing
as tracing catch phrases into the many
levels of dust accumulated.
I'd write something so cliché, like,
"With this oily finger I remove the collection of time."
or, "With this flesh ensconced utensil, I cut
through time."
I'll think myself so clever, that I'd forget
where I left off, and distract myself
again with writing.
A small recluse emotion of mine
objects viciously, but my attention to every
words incentive laced meaning would
leave the visual to again rest unchanged,
not colored.
So's the plight of one who likes to think
himself an artist. There's that scandalous
narcissist again just waiting to ****** you up,
reminding you just how beautiful your words
are, and how small in intellect those who
don't get it are.
Upon that shelf your pictures sit.
I can only write as a narrator,
because our "philosopher,"
"philanthropist of word volley, our
genius of word play,"
is once again too caught up in the
descriptors to finish the real
picture.
Not that this idea will stand the
test of time, but I do believe more
writers will commit suicide, selfishly
of course.
Oh, the tragedy, the malady of writing
so enigmatically that no one gets
your "deep soul."
While upon that shelf,
within a fiber of your overrun
writer's ego, there's a drawing begging
to be finished, colored, maybe even
shared.
But just where does it reside?
Did the alternate you place it
in plain sight, simply so it wouldn't be found?
If it's too early it just can't be worth it,
can it?
He'll have to learn to put down the pen,
rid himself of the whiteout, the erasers,
set up an easel, squeeze out some paint,
and realize there are other mediums
where there aren't mistakes, misinterpretations.
Only perfect imagery through wispy wrist,
sweeping arm, no words, images
are now your letter blocks to construct with.
Brushes, and all manners of paint your pen.
Stop being so foolish "Writer man,"
if your ego clings too sharply to words,
simply remind it,
"This could be another pen name."
"...I love that idea, what would it be?"
"Narcissist Ugly."
"So caught up, I forget I'm tethered to nothing, but doubt."
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Engulfed in emotions
Everything's a blur with tears
Silly old hopes
Silly old misinterpretations
of generic pleasantries
and politeness
expressed into something more
Let the water flow through the creak,
over the hurdling stones,
let my thoughts move on from this day
Charging forwards leaving your stone behind
Adieu!
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
I once thought big words
held more depth
than small ones.
Now I know they just cause
macro-cosmic misinterpretations.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
Follow the rabbit he will take you to happiness
Do not be late, do not miss that date
You could get lost in a sea of confusion
You would be deceived by the ostensible outlook
You could go fetch seven little men
You could be the fairest of them all
Beware of the deep and everlasting sleep
You would be deceived by the apple's red color
Worry about the petals, they are falling so quickly
He will be stuck that forever if you cannot make him love you
Keep an eye on the rose, it is far too beautiful to let go
You will be deceived by the appearance of a beast
Stuck in a tower, do not ever look down
Grow out your hair past the tall brick walls
Spot a good man, make him rescue your heart
You would be deceived by the family relations
Cleaning the bathroom, making the bed
Sneak out to town, be invited to a dance
"Fairy Godmother, please just give me once chance"
You would be deceived by the loss of one shoe
So waiting, I am waiting for an answer to come
Looking for one man to be the one that I want
A fairy-tale ending is nothing I am after
For I would be deceived by the misinterpretations of the story
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 8:28 PM UTC
your screaming cigarette smoke rises and i,
in anticipation,
know not
what
to make of you and your-
my!
my misinterpretations of you.
your exhale clouds my kingdom and i
am walking with intention,
trying
not
to mention
that my bloodstream is swimming with-
(drowning in)-
the friction
between us.
soft-spoken?
a shady spectacle,
that cigarette is,
exploited by your splendor…
bear with me! I’m
baring my soul, your
spirit-
[make me drunk on your truth!] i
know it-
(tho’ hidden by soft petals,
pollution—{your
body}) – exists, it
is brimming, is
dancing
at the edge of
your smoke, (your
exhale clouds) my
vision,
…, my apocalyptic intimacy:
pure, untainted thought
shared in mind- (no words required)-
a b s o l u t e l y g r o u n d e d !
your
inhale, (i
watch you dying!), you’re
still alive, my
(cough) inhale, I’m
dying!- you’re
watching and I’m
still alive,
on the brink of chaos, i
watch,
on the brink of perfection, i
write
you
with
fragility,
but speak
in harsh ironies- you
do affect me, i
regard(less of) your
opinions,
the ones clouded by the ocean
of your self-imposed
poison, (this
catastrophe of your
tidal tombstone).
condescending? i
told you, no, i- i
just speak in
mundane repetition
of scarlet lies,
mundane motifs
in this life.
It’s just that…
(no. never mind.)
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
slate sleepy streets wet
you make like a wizard
funny feelings from your fairy dust
is the wild prospect of
misinterpretations making you hard
for me like your fear of my flirt
gets me turned on?
these warm shadows sail
dumb conversations at a coffee shop
the core of you is warm and i am cold
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 3:18 PM UTC
Am I in Love?
At night, laying sleepless,
I bemoan the treacheries of life
with my love
and appreciation....
And though,
in my dark,
and cavernous foundations;
Roar the pillars of stone,
and shake them.
Waked,
by curiosity,
and interest,
I stare intently at you,
and though I cannot see,
You are there.
Tangible,
by my creativity,
and invisible,
by my negativity.
And through the secret game
that to many, has forbidden name
we speak.
Fear,
and pride,
my greatest hatreds,
now run through me,
though the game of
Predator, and Prey.
I am the prey,
of myself,
in the black vapors
of my confusion,
you two rought me
with confusion
elaborate,
and woe,
despicable.
My thoughts now strand
off into many divisions,
all joining together,
to reveal my fear,
of disappointing you.
The thing we connect through bings,
and so we remain in contact, it seems.
But ever, we thought beautiful
I am marred, and proved untruthful.
You do not deserve me,
but somehow
in this void-feeling heart of mine,
I sense you care.
I care.
Am i in love?
My Mind craves you,
and I put much emphasis on that,
for that, might,
just might,
be my undoing.
Should I look to the East,
to find you, riding, in
shining, and metallic armor,
And see only dust clouds
roam aimlessly from North to South.
But I hear banners, in the West,
all risen high,
as high hopes,
and high spirits,
to guide them.
This, is what I've waited for,
for years,
as do we all.
But my misinterpretations,
now lead the banners,
with silver swords,
bearing the name of hate.
with this,
I deserve only
to lay my head down,
lamely, for you to hew it
from me, and call it,
Victory.
This, I forsee,
this unsensible
and crazed
sight,
that passes through me,
and guides me
to all darker paths of light.
So that I may be dimmed,
and in a cycle refrained,
I should, as a doomsayer,
say my doom,
and I, as a fool,
should subconciously make that true.
This is what I see.
I fear, for you,
and fear,
for me.
I burden all, though a child
and my will is heavy, upon you,
and wild, is my desires
and should you penetrate my curtains,
you should see,
the cold bitterness, of my truth.
But all the while,
mind and soul crave you,
and body revives,
slowly,
but surely.
I sense love,
and my stomach churns,
knowing I shall hang my head
in Guilt.
Am I In Love?
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:26 PM UTC
"don't waste your time on me you're already a voice inside my head"
funny that you didn't realize those were my favorite song lyrics, not my conscience telling you to go
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
I don't have recurring dreams, but... right..., my dreams... recurring themes. And, if in-them, I've a ... "love-interest?" ... they've taken many shapes. The one, and-one-and-one more, who've shown up more than once, I could cough up, cry-out-over, and name. Only three come, through the old haunts, of my odd-head's hallway, Round-and-round-and-round trip. [redact] At least here, I dated her. In real-life, as-opposed, to the annals of [page 6] more depths-delusional. Did wrong [redact]. couldn't believe she was "glad I came." Care enough, to care. She couldn't-care-less. Middle-ground, Grey-areas, and misinterpretations make my skin crawl. Excepting another-day-in-April,
[big
redact]
and maybe if I sing it better this time she'll seeeeeeeeeeeeeee... "wait, Kay, Cee, and Ell?" I've noticed too, and it's cute, but a fluke. Not some-hidden-meaning. "Got a subconscious, on me," Freud couldn't pursue.
Silly, and I didn't mean to be serious, but you're starting to get a grip-on-it. The feelings may fade, but the drip-drop flow of dreams adds to the direness of my dilemma. Alas, around when she's leaving us-all, in Natick, [page 7] I began-becoming acquainted with another-animal-lover. "Any port in the storm?" Any pill, and a razorblade. "A penchant, for an interesting existence!" Next-door, the slowly-nailed-coffin! Where people are abandoning their unloved pets! She mentions Bertrand Russell, in-the-line to buy, more jet fuel.
"(sung)Way down in the hoooooooooooooole..."
...
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
Ultimately, in the end!
Misinterpretations of religions rend
Rather than mend
The fabric of social togetherness
Rites and rituals are just a way to appease
Not the Gods but the religion’s keepers
if you please
Lost is the essence of all religions true
as professed by
the possessed few
Science's chosen providence
Is to dissect the whole into pieces
In search for futile evidence
Arts bring pleasure
In glorious measure
To the artist and the art-lover
With views disparate
Hearts become desperate
Causing all to separate
Nature is a symbiotic symphony
teaching us
to coexist in harmony
Let literature and poetry
Paintings, pottery and culture
Be the unifier
Intellect is an instrument fine
But a heart’s insight is needed
To reach the soul divine
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
He was a compulsive liar,
A cunning spider,
That spun silken webs of lies,
People were drawn into it like flies.
With his skills and uncanny ways,
He finally had his says,
He spat easily poisonous deceits,
That made you clench your fists.
He was charming and charismatic,
In weaving lies artistic.
For him lying had become a ritual,
Sort of habitual.
His descent was gradual,
Down to nothing from a pedestal.
He lost people's trust and credibility.
He was known for dishonesty,
As such he stained his name in society.
He was scoffed,"There goes liar,liar."
At first he excused his lies were misinterpretations,
Or may be miscommunications.
His lies ruined his friend's life,
He lost the trust of his family,son and wife.
He realised when he had lied,
He had committed suicide.
He had burnt all his bridges,
He had dug his own ditches.
To have his life back,
He had to stop lying and bring everything on track.
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC
You're a man of sorrow
You're a man of passion
Your love is deep, your love is wide
You're still so into her
It's evident, please don't deny.
Your misinterpretations trouble me
Your sorrow scares me
Your love is thick, your love is strong
Your eyes are still set on her
It's evident, please don't deny
Your arms are still wide open for her return
Your heart craves
Your sorrow grips
What more can I say?
What more can I say?
I'm not demanding anything from you
All I have is some little understanding of you
I'm just a fan of all I know of you
Please don't misinterpret me, Mr. Weary Heart.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
If you ever wondered what do I sound like
and pictured me like untamed winds on rainy nights,
humming melodies in chorus with raindrops
and spilling dulcet tones off holy concert
Or contemplated I would be as synchronized
as the sound of a calm water fall,
off a sharp cliff erupting euphony
every time its hits the bottom in a xylophonic fashion
Or believed I would be as patient
as a cuckoo reciting her syllables religiously,
calling out to her mate every evening,
let go
Let go your fallacious thoughts.
I am not a piano, violin, xylophone, flute or a guitar
I am
A tender heart who squeaks like squirrel
when exposed to unprecedented depths of uncertainty.
An introvert who sounds like a voice narrowed down into a tunnel
cascading echo in batches when exposed to unfamiliar faces.
A small town girl who orchestrates her crescendo in vain
when the slightest ray of hope is felt.
A fearless soul singing silently while her hands spill cacophony
when exposed to prejudiced ways.
A fiery lover whose heart beats on high tempo of passion
and spill music off desires.
Come in, know me better.
-Pallavi
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
Not a good beginning.
Though the ending is good.
Specks of energy ending life.
Zooming into the waterfall.
Is not isn't it?
Can the worst still come?
Misinterpretations and bird calls.
The fever is the cure.
Grand overused.
Over underused.
Seeing the released steam,
You make a new turn
To replace your last one.
The path is worn out
So you slip a new one in place.
The time is up for your inspiration;
The monks are ending their chant.
Look to your new direction,
And find a new dimention.
While writing chalk on chalk,
You find an intrest.
You hear the screams of made up animals,
and steam engines.
The clicks and clacks of spinning.
The ticks of a new idea.
But you dismiss it.
It's all in your head, right?
It's not like anybody else can hear it.
You write it down to save a note,
But words are left in limbo;
But the words are cut short.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 9:18 PM UTC
Where do we stand?
We’re cool enough to check up on each other even though that makes me sadder./ Cool enough to make small but not enough to talk about something that matters
. I wanna work it out, but all you seem to want is space,/ i just wanna tell you how I feel ,and the feelings you had for me seem to have faded without a trace.
I love you so when you when I ask if you wanna talk and you tell me “I’m not free today” I try to have patience,/ but the thought of you with someone else got me Layin in bed like a mental patient.
I don’t know what to do because it kills me inside/… I see your snapchat story of you and other guys.
I wanna flip out , carry on yell and cry/ But all I can do is be jealous and sit at home as my chances passes me by._
So I sit and wonder , when does patience turn into a missed opportunity?/ When does respecting your space turn into you foolin me?
When does me offering my heart become not enough?/ when do I stop trying and start givin up?
What do you do when there’s a chance your love went from something special to unrequited?/ When does it go from holding a flame to going to parties uninvited?
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 2:59 PM UTC
Foggy scribblings of last nights misinterpretations
Scattered chairs
Cotton flesh and torn stitching
Doggy dandruff
Burnt air, Bic lighters and crooked intentions
Ashes to ashes
Soldiers marching in silence
Keep moving
Layabout possessions and broken things
A roof, at least
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
I used to think that I would be so good at it
He made my head spin
His fingers traced empires on my back
That refused to collapse long after his touch had gone
Now it all tastes wrong on my tongue
There's something inside me that wants to remain untouched
Every silence is a space of misinterpretations
Infinite imperfect endings
I don't have the stomach to hold dear
Scrunched paper and meaningless words
It doesn't sound right to my ears
I thought love would fill me
Instead it ate away what I had built for myself
We starved each other
Devoured on bodies in the dark
Crammed and indulged
Until all I could feel was the sun burning my skin
The purge lasted for days
We ejected cold
And discharged the fates we didn't try hard enough to hold
It bled into weeks of damage
Until our memories wept
And our bodies healed
Waiting for either of us to acknowledge
That we were better as strangers
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
Frequencies are tough. Frequencies are managed. Two frequencies combine surfaces not existing in one another. Unless strips of different wavelengths are pushing each frequency to each others enlightenment. Nothing judges. Except one binding these apparitions together. A form becoming static too mutual for any compromise. Frequencies become laced with purposes. Easily definable. Never perfect enough for change. Only enough for simple practices. Practices reminding two frequencies of compromise. Compromises aren’t welcome, if one’s purpose is easily definable. If so, then why ask? It’s already staring you right in the face. Proceed with balance! Strips of wavelengths letting frequencies off chains made of static. Finally! One rippling a new focus. Releasing their time and service to entities holding them back. Purpose lays waiting, for all to see. Two frequencies happily definable now. Without change, static doesn’t occupy their purpose. Sparking a judgeable wavelength. Letting you off with a warning. A warning filled with benefits to a newer frequency. One that doesn’t hold frequencies by chains of static. Chains stripping connections between outer wholes. Sparks flying around its properties. Molding your own frequency together. Molding static between ripples of its own actions. Actions feeling the ripples of energy contracting with concern. Movements seeping into another part of itself that wasn’t identifiable. Becoming what wasn’t apart of its own identity. Surging pressure of rippling actions not belonging to itself. Stinging the outer symmetry of ripples. Frequency becoming thoughtless. Submerging into a shocked exterior. Feeling stressed without foreboding it’s purpose. Rippling the caregiver away from its own appreciation. Apparitions flowing misinterpretations. Faltered to a halt! Filling volumes of enlightenment too closed off when trying to supply purpose. Energy is a purpose. Rippling all around each spark to pledge. Pledge what? Pledging a way out! How will it turn out for these rippling fabrics of stationary purposes? Only two halves to a greater wavelength tapping into its own energy supplier.
Oct 6, 2019
Oct 6, 2019 at 8:41 PM UTC
The lives we cross unknowing
The green-grass paths they wayfare,
Fables of fays and fiends unspoken
Truths belonging to entities of matter,
Flesh bones a body, rhythmed by breath
A heartbeat, pumps red juices carrying
Cleansing oxygen through tireless veins
To a brain, synapses creating thoughts
Interpreting, nervous sensations only
Tempered by hormonal roller coasters
As we defy, the mystic and attempt
To make sense of our existence beyond
The astonishing complex husk leisurely,
Deteriorating in time as we blow on candles
Grasping indeed there is far more inside,
A microcosm endeavouring to reconcile
With an all-pervasive Universe encompassing
As stars fall before our eyes, chronic sunrise,
Twirling incessantly without ever feeling
Dizzy, dazed by questions sparkling intuitively
As we struggle with the limits of earthly
Confinement, the green-grass paths we wayfare,
Health impediments, mental distortions,
Quarrelling with our fellow adventurers
Our frustrations, neglecting to acknowledge
The fays lifting us up whilst unpredictable
Fiends bid to crush when unexpectedly
Unfathomable interior strength unites
Us through experience a succession
Of collective errors misinterpretations
Aware however that we will endure,
Evolve to reach our highest potentials
For a unique welfare granted to all
Creatures, as we set course into the vastness
Of bewilderment, inexplicable space,
Omnific unfurling home to humanity
And all the breaths within.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
What have my words really Created
other than feelings...
Emotions
and
Misinterpretations...
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC