"needful" poems
*
Experiences make us wiser,
Learning makes us smarter
All must coincides together
with an open mind to ponder
and a good heart to wonder
-- balancing from right and wrong
We gain rooms for change
and more storage
to process
the increasing progress.
With all that often times we waste something good to needful things.
*
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
My dearest Frank, I wish you joy
Of Mary's safety with a Boy,
Whose birth has given little pain
Compared with that of Mary Jane —
May he a growing Blessing prove,
And well deserve his Parents' Love! —
Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good,
Thy Name possessing with thy Blood,
In him, in all his ways, may we
Another Francis WIlliam see! —
Thy infant days may he inherit,
They warmth, nay insolence of spirit; —
We would not with one foult dispense
To weaken the resemblance.
May he revive thy Nursery sin,
Peeping as daringly within,
His curley Locks but just descried,
With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.' —
Fearless of danger, braving pain,
And threaten'd very oft in vain,
Still may one Terror daunt his Soul,
One needful engine of Controul
Be found in this sublime array,
A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.
So may his equal faults as Child,
Produce Maturity as mild!
His saucy words and fiery ways
In early Childhood's pettish days,
In Manhood, shew his Father's mind
Like him, considerate and Kind;
All Gentleness to those around,
And anger only not to wound.
Then like his Father too, he must,
To his own former struggles just,
Feel his Deserts with honest Glow,
And all his self-improvement know.
A native fault may thus give birth
To the best blessing, conscious Worth.
As for ourselves we're very well;
As unaffected prose will tell.
Cassandra's pen will paint our state,
The many comforts that await
Our Chawton home, how much we find
Already in it, to our mind;
And how convinced, that when complete
It will all other Houses beat
The ever have been made or mended,
With rooms concise, or rooms distended.
You'll find us very snug next year,
Perhaps with Charles and ***** near,
For now it often does delight us
To fancy them just over-right us.
5.3k
Under, over, between, against, something
Needful things and quarks
Infinite infinity endlessly remaining
vacuous vacant and brimming.
Everything everywhere evolving eternally
recent past and the here and now
still reveals it's non existence.
Event horizon is nothing nowhere
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 5:11 PM UTC
Oh do not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember, thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know,
To leave this world behind, is death,
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapors with thy breath.
Or if, when thou, the world’s soul, goest,
It stay, ’tis but thy carcass then,
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.
O wrangling schools, that search what fire
Shall burn this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her fever might be it?
And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For much corruption needful is
To fuel such a fever long.
These burning fits but meteors be,
Whose matter in thee is soon spent.
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
Are unchangeable firmament.
Yet ’twas of my mind, seizing thee,
Though it in thee cannot persever.
For I had rather owner be,
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.
3.5k
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
3.6k
O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.
If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
A gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.
Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.
The birds dismissed (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again:
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And asked what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?
What frenzy in my ***** raged,
And by what cure to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?
Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freezes, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.
Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore.
In pity come, and ease my grief,
Bring my distempered soul relief,
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.
2.7k
He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they're needful for the flower:
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!
Can loving children e'er reprove
With murmurs whom they trust and love?
Creator! I would ever be
A trusting, loving child to thee:
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!
Oh, ne'er will I at life repine:
Enough that thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death
I yet will sing, with parting breath,
As comes to me or shade or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!
2.5k
He sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they're needful for the flower:
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!
Can loving children e'er reprove
With murmurs whom they trust and love?
Creator! I would ever be
A trusting, loving child to thee:
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!
Oh, ne'er will I at life repine:
Enough that thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death
I yet will sing, with parting breath,
As comes to me or shade or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!
2.5k
Here standing again
at the edge of the cliff,
struggling against the
force of the wind.
Drenched and cold,
thinking and wondering
what to do.
This is what I was seeking.
I wanted to feel the
storm in my bones.
Fearing what I want and
wanting what I fear.
Desiring and yearning for it,
yet distanced myself from it.
Never been more sure
about changing than now.
Angels are busy working and
trying to show visions
of heaven.
But here am I clawing the
ground trying to get hell for you.
Now I have to stop struggling,
for this striving and toiling are not
yielding desired fruits.
I'm so breathless from all this
going up and down
trying to make it work.
Rest is not so bad after all this
rigours of running around.
Dullness has taken over the heart
of one who suppose to rule.
Stagnation cannot be tolerated
and condoned or we all go down.
Change is needful urgently.
It is time for you to learn the balance.
I bring from the east,
I bring from the west,
I bring from the south,
I bring from the north
the power of balance.
It begins in the spirit.
We can balance anything.
Our voice, our work, our body.
You can even balance your sadness.
First you find patience.
Perhaps you will meet patience in this
sunlight and become good friends.
I will tell you again.
I will tell you again and again
until your inside knows.
It takes a long time to learn the art of balance.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
The day of your life
and the night of your day,
which one is more important
and relevant to you.
Both have their place in the
scheme of things.
The two worlds are busy
working and building,
constructing in conjunction
with the divine to create
a masterpiece of wonder.
It's really not in your place
to control any of them
but to work with both.
They move subtly to construct,
sometimes with aggression to
change and balance all things,
with or without you.
Actually you have no choice or
control in their decisions.
Man becomes helpless and
hopeless when they begin to
exact their power of supremacy.
You can only command nature
by obeying her principles.
Both are needful and are
blended together working
in synergy to bring to us
a desired end.
Man is placed on earth to enjoy,
but not to interrupt and interfere
with the divine.
A master plan is already within
the blueprint of the architectural
design for a magnificent
and excellent living.
Yield to it and have peace.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
Never mind the headache, ma'am, I got no time for your wishin that you had another couple hours sweaty spoonin with me
These days I got high time
racing like underline
all the while the future words seem
as if they're repeating
much slower or bleeding
white into the rest of the page
I gotta go ta work
Never mind the simple kiss, the stranger smile, the holy art.
Never mind the needful hand, I hear all the words that you're speaking and I've spent years making them not cut into me.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
*You are a perfect branch
descending
from yourself.
I have been waiting
at your roots,
trying to find myself.
Which part of your trunk
do I stem from,
I cry out to the moon.
Am I not a part of you
whose flowers
are in tune?
I am sharing needful moments
full of sensations anew;
becoming naked
with each breath I take,
singing a song
of truth.
Staring into forever
my heart pounds
with hopes and dreams.
I am waiting at your roots,
with beauty bursting
at my seams.
You are a perfect branch,
no need to conform.
I am here
serenading your roots
to become your flowers that adorn.*
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 2:28 AM UTC
The third power of the Sphinx
is Courage.
"Herein lies the great mystery of the empty throne." ∆
Giddy in the throes of realization,
the Arbiter, imbued with needful action,
takes a great, daring leap across the chasm
into the implications of knowledge:
This is It - the Puzzle that Fascinates Itself.
"You awoke in the Kingdom with eyes closed. In the beginning was the Trapezoid called Control." ∆
Borne by an umbilical Breath
to a lens too small to see Itself,
Buoyed by the lapping waves,
Reason wrought a waking sleep
of hallucinations, a sea of dreams
and possibilities to become;
Memories too large
to conceive by aught
but the perennial story
that swallows the narrator:
*"I see their entire lives in an instant,
being devoured and loving and living
in a world that does not realize
it is already over."* ‡
Courage is the Bearer of Truth.
Headlong into the open maw
heaves the gleeful Fool
and his glad Word.
*"The excess of Meaning must be wrought on the Page,
on worlds of our own imagining." ∞*
To Dare is to risk:
consequence the reward
fraught with baited hooks
to tether the Arbiter to Time.
The web of attachment
sprawls, an expansive net.
*"The web is infinite -
those caught in it are beyond Number."* †
Yet the spider is never
ensnared by its Art:
a master of the net,
a climber of the Tree.
At the summit of its dizzying heights,
the depth of the Fall overwhelms.
Responsibility follows.
"Thou art That which resolves the frustum." ∆
Escaper of the Labyrinth,
Master of the Maze,
no longer merely Thou:
Dilation devours the Iris.
*"What speaks through You has Ordained it
from the Beginning of Time,
and only in harnessing it
will you learn to devour your self
totally."* †
*"Then will you know me
as the eye that never shuts,
the eye that blinds."* Ω
The way
(out)
is through.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
This terrible beating, a soundless roar that I
wear like worry. Caught in lace and sequin,
you stupid pretty thing.
Heart, you are so
devilishly ugly.
You make me awful and needful.
A trouble, an aching break that
never healed right.
Pitchfork and shrapnel jacket, a barbed wire
beauty.
I am disastrous and made of weeds. A hungry throat that
only knows
swallow.
Go on sky,
pour. The art of breath and walk,
of continue,
of live.
Of lust for better.
Awake a sugar glass
soul made tender.
I am great care, building scaffoldings between fistfight and belonging.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
It's cold and it's empty, this
hollowed out feeling of pleasure...
I focus on the rush of desire -
desire for the sensations alone...
The sweet friction in my center,
the pounding force of what is
you, merely a tool for my cravings'
fulfillment; an object for nothing
but my physical satisfaction;
a satiating of my burning lust...
You're worthless to me outside
this externally needful task...
Not my heart, neither my soul,
have even the smallest holding
pocket, cradling some sort
of love or care for you...
Tell me, please, why we do
this to ourselves, over and
over, again and again...?
Are we honestly contented by
the passionless movements of
our graceless pieces and parts?
Is this animalistic ritual
the solution for what we so
desperately search for; that for
which we agonizingly struggle,
crawling down confused, tangled
paths, looking without knowing
exactly what we seek,
despairing, sickly, exhausted, and
so pathetic; so pitifully weak??
Are we satisfied with *******
Just ******* could that be
the answer to the question
that, from existence becoming,
the human being has been,
from the depths of the soul,
constantly, repetitively screaming?
I cannot bring myself to
believe such a notion could hold
a sand grain's worth of truth, but
you seem to have accepted
this joyless, hope-crushing idea,
and as for myself, I know
I'll only continue ignoring that
which my heart keeps urgently
speaking with a driving,
whispering voice, from my
inner-most recesses, and
continue on with the oblivious
dance of this pretending; this
charades game all the world
eagerly strives to play...
I will bottle the juices of
my self-deceiving, self-depriving
fruits, borne of my guilt, my
denial birthed shame...
Yes, of course! I'm absolutely
satisfied with the act of
mere ******* Feelings of
wholeness sweep and flutter,
butterflying the insides
of my body's unseen puzzle pieces,
and I'm simply overflowing
with this ever so peaceful calm...
Lies, fiction, deception, robed
by willfully grasped ignorance,
keeps us marching, two-by-two,
silently miserable husks, just
living until it's time to lay
in another void-like place, this
one our grave, lonely and cold...
And now it doesn't seem like
there's anything left, for
any one of us, to say...
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
“How far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
How often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
Why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
Where did it begin?
What went wrong?
And who made you feel so worthless?
If they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
All this time, you were begging for love silently,
thinking they couldn’t hear you,
but they smelt it on you,
you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
And what about the others that would do anything for you,
why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
How are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
Where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
Where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?”
--Warsan Shire
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Name any gentleman you spy,
And there's a chance that he is I;
Go out to angle, and you may
Catch me on a propitious day:
Booted and spurred, their journey ended,
The weary are by me befriended:
If roasted meat should be your wish,
I am more needful than a dish:
I am acknowledgedly poor:
Yet my resources are no fewer
Than all the trades; there is not one
But I profess, beneath the sun:
I bear a part in many a game;
My worth may change, I am the same.
Sometimes, by you expelled, I roam
Forth from the sanctuary of home.
1.5k
I bring plenty and abundance;
I bring beauty and well-being
I bring that which is wholesome
and I bring that which is good for all of mankind
and I bring goodwill to all nations
and all peoples of the world
may all countries be at peace;
may all the people of the world be as one;
may all nations have plenty and be safe
may they have the wisdom to see what is sufficient
and what is needful and refrain from excess;
may each one wake up each day to a world of love;
may all of humanity set aside all dogma and past
and may they learn to see the new, the future
and be past all creed, beliefs and divisions;
and may they see with clarity
that they are as but children of one family
let there be peace
let there be plenty
let there be harmony
let there be love -
all days and all years
in this our world
that changes and moves all hours and ages
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
Knee-deep snow, driven by chilling winds
Blotted out gravel roads and ditches.
Lonely, fence line posts, in rustic rows,
Suffer hoary white in the winter sun.
Only brave or needful venturers brook cold
When wind-free mercury reads 25 below,
But out we went to winter pastures,
Heavy with feed, the old truck,
Tires chained and shovels at the ready
Clawed its way out seven miles to pasture,
And, later, seven miles back.
We boys were riding for the lark,
Enjoying risks, adventures bold
With Dad behind the wheel, no storm or wind
Could stop us, and we scorned the cold.
A hard pull took us up the road one mile,
Til, at the corner, into the lane we headed east
To see old Charlie's truck nosed into the snow.
His neighbors, we stopped to check, at least.
Asleep, too drunk to drive, old Charlie slumbered at the wheel.
"We have to get him out," we said, but Dad just shook his head.
"He's safe right here, stuck in the snow, with half a tank of fuel.
"We'll feed the cows and pull him out if he's still here when we come back.
Perhaps he'll sober up by then, and he'll go home."
How many times we left old Charlie sleeping in a ditch
Between his house and town, I cannot count today.
Sometimes, I think, we saved his life by leaving him
To sleep the vapors off, and other times by taking him away.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
Overcome with grief
But with unhushed tears
I dare not weep.
But the gullibility I see
Makes my heart roar like an angry sea
At the Stupendous actions praised
On high a single minded chameleon raised
We have all failed
And our "knowledge", a waste
At night they lay asleep
With sweet dreams on empty promises
In support of a wolf
Indeed covered in roses
I am of the grass root, he poses
Of his evil deeds, he brags
Down south, his followers, he drags
And on the way down with smiles
And laughter eating rice with chameleon shell topping
They are all asleep.
When will our youths see visions?
Sometime soon I hope
Because it seems the old dreamers are on a mission
To enslave us all with gold plated ropes.
I have seen countless bridges
In multiple nations
And they were built out of necessity
And not stupidity
A waste of our very limited resources
In fact a direct and open robbery of our future
Yet we sit in silence
Our bellies filled with rice and the warmth of a friendly chameleon
With no direction, productivity or creativity
All our natural resources lay in waste.
We need to change our mind set
If we must save ourselves
From the single minded chameleons
Whose goal is self enrichment
And wealth procurement.
We must be weary of those who feed us rice
And rob our children of a promising future
Oh, What a price.
I want to watch as the cobwebs clears from their eyes
The awakening of a new dawn
A people on a mission
To overcome this impending destruction
Through their devotion
To the correction
Of our direction.
We must empower ourselves
We must stand together
For there is power in unity
And failure in division
We can't continue to live in foolishness
By indulging the chameleon's greediness
And enduring his insults in silence.
If there is a time to rise up in unity
It is now
If there is a time to do the needful
It is now
Sleep and slumber no more
For that is for fools
I'm nobody's fool...
© 2018 Busola S. Kolade
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
The heart is weak now, It's shameful of seeing your face
It's screaming out loud, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? DON'T YOU THINK I NEED A REST TOO?"
The smokes and flames bursting out through its pores shows the horrible mid-condition that the heart was in
It's poor soul trying to express its feelings with the gasp of its last breathe
So weak now, so feeble now, so alone now, so rejected now
Why have you treated me so badly, the heart was humbly and meekly portraying
As I take my mandatory and needful rest now I want no goodbyes, and no "I should have treated my heart with love and tender cares"
I just want to be alone now as I bleed and melt up to the point of my last breathe and then will you see and feel me no longer
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
the anthem of an empty soul
a shell crammed full in nothingness
absolutely nil to this choral tune
vacancy's note played by one sole pan
there's a humdrum to its pitch
packing's plump the missing ingredient
always with an absence of ingredient
starved was this emaciated soul
not having the richest cloven pitch
inside infinite quantities of nothingness
ever the void sound to its pan
a totally scooped out dull tune
zero being in the husk of the tune
this cavernous space possessing no ingredient
like that of a dead hearted pan
as it had but the blankest soul
completely useless this bare nothingness
lacking of an ample vessel's pitch
such was the hopelessness to the pitch
its essence so poorly of tune
deprived this barren nothingness
the inner pith hollow of ingredient
all taken from the lifeless soul
where they'd be a destitute pan
an aimless chord in the pan
containing not a wholeness of pitch
the desert abiding without soul
insolvency was its lasting tune
so hungering for that ingredient
to quell the wretched nothingness
an interior gulf replete in nothingness
needful of feeding with a brimming pan
craving much for the ingredient
that ever opulent barrow of pitch
a human warbling a pitiful tune
this ballad so dismal of soul
ingredient not present, a vast nothingness
soul much overloaded, in an unfurnished pan
pitch harping the strains, of a unfilled tune
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
I lay myself open to you...
Like a thumb worn novel
aspiring to be a classical romance...
coming off as a cheap
dime store
rag
My lines less Tennyson and Shelley
more Micky Spillani
yet feel the warmth of each page
once pressed against
my aching
breast
for it heard my needful heart
tasted my tears
Read between the lines
find the nervous boy behind the man
all fingers and thumbs
typing out words his Tongue
could never
speak
Each comma each fullstop
an anxious
drawn
out breath...
as I thought of you discarding me
in pursuit of passion
yet know the foreword and the photograph
do no justice to my ache
for you
to find me
there amongst the metaphors
waiting...
for you alone
to know the real me.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
Obscene as war is, none must ever forget
that poppy-red
stands
for the human blood shed.
Remembered, the fallen who fought in a war,
the red poppy
reminds
what they thought it was for.
Observance with poppies, each one a life,
given for
freedom,
as the means to end strife.
Precious the poppy-red, needful the time
lest we,
forgetful,
miss their reason as prime.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
A small needful fact
Is that 98% of women
Do not look like fashion models.
100% of American children
Are being lied to everyday
Told they are not normal
Told there is something wrong with them.
Another needful fact:
More than two million women
More than eight hundred thousand men
Are bulimic
Add, subtract, multiply, divide
Any way you try to solve the problem
It still exists like a parasite.
If any girl, boy, child, man, woman
Wants to escape these images
Running with cupped ears in the other direction
Hoping to save themselves
It follows them, rank with the smell of sewage
It is the ghost in the closet
Television set
Store aisle
Telling them they are not good enough
They cannot escape the lies so dense
Even their inner most breath
Is hot with deception
And so, even the most basic function of breathing
Becomes challenging.
Until we replace poison with water
Brokenness with holiness
Lies with truthfulness
These seemingly sorrowful statistics
Will never quite add up.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC