"nuanced" poems
Most days, you're not a woman developer,
you're a developer.
You work just as hard,
You (try to) talk just as fast
You keep your feelings under the surface (barely)
Actually, scratch that
You're always a woman developer.
you're just so used to internalizing these habits
Trying to have confidence in your skills
despite the impostor syndrome pulling you down each time slowly, like quicksand
Trying to make up for the confidence you never had
compared to someone who always had it all
Trying to not cry in the kitchen because god who
is allowed to have feelings
Trying not to talk about men who made you uncomfortable because oh my god
for the fact that people call women overreacting
most men seem to make every little statement about them, have you noticed?
oh wow, isn't this just reverse sexism?
oh wow, can I even talk to women?
Being so vocal about being queer and Indian but if you make
one noise
one sound
one phrase
about your experience as a woman
because in such welcoming company you subconsciously thought why not
You let down your guard
But
There goes the shattered glass as the topic of gender-based discrimination is finally broached
There goes the thing nobody ever talks about
There starts the debate you did not want to participate in
"Oh wow you're so harsh to these guys"
"We were just slamming what they were doing, you slammed their actual personality wow"
"I just said they sounded like a brogrammer"
"sure if you say so"
"Isn't that just an arbitrary description"
How do you explain
How do you describe every nuanced experience about
Every male in your life
who have been exactly like this to you
How do you explain the light discrimination
The harsh discrimination
The systemic problem as a whole
How can you condense all this into a workplace environment talk
Where you don't usually talk about this?
Where you don't know if you can actually talk about this
Where you know that you ultimately don't want to talk about this
cuz how can you explain these feelings that they can never understand
You shut up and move on with coding.
But inside, you're conflicted with ideas of presentations to express the fact, or never speak about this again
Because in the end,
You're just a developer, not a woman developer to them.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
I just want to go 200 on the interstate
and see if the world still wants me
My skill is wasted on slowness
Underappreciated and mistaken for arrogance
Behind the wheel I am confirmed
Decisions here are not the customs of monotony
But a nuanced puzzle of physics
I am a navigator in an ocean of outcomes
The engine is roaring with me
We were made for exploding
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
The anxieties are there
about meaningless things
and the meanings behind them
Time is spent
wondering
What he's thinking?
What he's doing?
What he remembers
and holds on to?
If any?
If all?
Why he's with her?
If he thinks about me
like I think about him?
If he thinks about my touch
like I think about his?
If he yearns for me?
If he wants to taste my kiss
and all of me
again?
So many musings
driven by curiousity
by desire
by a muse,
in every sense of the word
Awakening something deep
within me
deeper than lust
deeper than longing
An intensity
that's intoxicating
addicting
terrifying
An insatiable hunger
to search and swim
within his soul
one touch,
one moment
at a time
Only felt
never acknowledged,
engulfed in secrecy
engulfed by secrecy
Drinking each other in
between nuanced subcontext
one moment
at at time
Setting each other on fire.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 5:47 PM UTC
I live
dream
die
to create
complete
each letter
word
turning phrase and
thought-out straightaway
You read
breathe
digest
every syllable
letters strung
like a popcorn necklace
fingerpainted fragment sentences
authoritatively artistic and
defended in brazen resolve
my keeper of the slight,
the nuanced, softly sung,
down-quilted gerunds:
holding, brushing, sweeping
tasting, loving
There is no sound in space.
No quiet nothings whispered.
The sunlight on my face
now scorching, cracking, blistered,
Starvation
comes quickly
when the cook's not around;
so when the words stop
if need be,
feast on me.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
The Picture Window
The vista view never changes but daily.
The naked eye, registers the same distances,
resting objects unmoved, modest alterations
by wind and water are noted, but for intent,
for purpose, the watercolor one would paint
be invariably unvarying as a Swiss Alp.
The subtle nuanced worldview, where the sky
stretches from ceiling to a foot above ground, as
I lay prone neath the coverlet, vista always subtly differing,
from its prior reincarnation, self-reflection demands to know.
Alive & Awake? Yes.
Breathing steady? Yes.
Toes? Still can wiggly to & fro.
My soul?
Presumably ok, as I write, because I write, the
picture window into to my insight, though oft blurry,
yet intact, making discernible the changes in light,
temperature and heart rate, as the body/soul contraption modulates, just as the gradient of daylight shifts lighter and higher, with a rising sun bringing more clarity to our interactive encounters with our environments..
The picture window internalized, much the same,as
the vista, subtle modest changes, colorations variegated,
are registered. Today is mostly cloudy overcast, and shall remain so for the foreseeable future, which be about two days hence. Not unsurprisingly, methinks, the future tends to be cloudy.
Beyond that peripheral, no one can say, our macular envisioning only gets weaker,time is a tough taskmaster
and uncertainty is it’s own principle.
But I can say, forecast from well under the comforter,
that more than less, where less is more, this picture window,
ex and in, shall remain, unchanged for the remainder of my years that fortune shall provide, and will & would grant me awakenings to the ex-sight and in-sight of a sculpted landscape, of negative entropy, where disorder minimal.
My musings end here, unless you still wish, come the morrow,
what the marrow the day reveals, what the window will spill,
new and exciting, subtly unchanged, and always different.
Caution: The injection of caffeine may dramatically alter
the windows perspective, as the exogenous always trumps the
endogenous.
5:50 AM
P.S. Making coffee clarifies: If the vista in +/- unchanging,
then, all my personal, own horizons are immortal as well.
Jun 4, 2023
Jun 4, 2023 at 6:34 AM UTC
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without
a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be
most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death
all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste
a hint of what is to come?
human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction
making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition
going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line
and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
*everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,*
only fools believe,
you'll live forever
but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
fallow lay in a field, neath soil well over-tilled,
the bones of explanations, excuses, and desperation,
a singular self-destructive but upward thrusted commandment,
compose a poem of revelation,
a poem of destiny and unknown destination
of thee, I write, ashen standing,
with the poker face of a lying son,
before the father confessor mirror,
stand with palms facing outward,
with perfect calm and utter fright
for every nominated error listed below,
when confronted,
hopeless the innocence,
easier now to admit,
with perfect clarity, your innermost
confabulatory familiar friends,
rise to the fire,
first and foremost
belabor not with supposed ratiocinations,
put aside, your ration of
conjured up-for-all, and-all-for-naught excuses,
the prosecutors charges, so thoroughly distinguished,
it disables, speech, vision, all reason extinguished
as the lips and fingers silent move,
the hopeless knowledge of a pardon of 99.9%,
untenable, ransacks,
for what passerby criminal thought
has not resided in your head,
the hearth of who you are?
you,
write of nature, love, celestial notions,
the Etcetera's of life, but to me,
leave the exposure of our uncompressed,
here revealed sinning,
for among those who
unashamedly acknowledge
the intertwining nature of
human failings, and for the balance,
uncap our divine imagery
you write at of those other
nuanced pleasures,
nature, love, celestial notions,
while the sinners wrestle with
the angelic demons of
confrontation and revelation
for your own sake and saving,
do not wrestle with me
for sinners love, welcome
company
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
perfect poise
between diction
imagery and tone
measured rhythms
and true fine feelings
that fall like soft rain
to mirror humans
in tender moments
and coarse grim cameos
of things best forgotten
things nuanced and bitter
this vast field of experience
is the business of poetry
the art of aptness
the art of compactness
and incredible depths
leading to damp squibs
we search nevertheless
for unique form and content
that exercise in futility
till at last we rest from our labours
and we understand at last
poetry like life is a bitter-sweet illusion
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
I find innocuous corners in the unfathomable depths of humanity.
Then I weave a silken web of lies against the tapestries of fate.
The longer the web takes, the more fabulous its construction, peppered both with illusions and realities.
For the greatest illusion is the one most rooted in truth.
I have no need to chase; my patience is as consummate a force as any;
I wait for my prey to come to me on their own,
And then I ensnare them, injecting them with venom,
Rendering them unable to escape.
The web is an extension to my soul. To my spirit.
It is me, and my weapon.
Its substance is known to me.
My webs are lies mixed with truths, despair colored with hope.
They are a crawling infinity of colors,
An eternal tribute to orderly and savage chaos.
Each strand, which links me to my prey and my predators,
Each one resonates under the steps of the dancing mad god,
Vibrating and sending little echoes of bravery or cowardice,
Satiation or hunger,
Destruction or architecture,
Blabber or argument,
Each strand carries my reaction to everyone who is connected to me.
Every intention, interaction, motivation that I have been plagued with,
Every color, everybody, every action and reaction that I have endured,
Every piece of physical reality and the thoughts that it engendered,
Every connection made, every nuanced moment of history and potentiality,
Every possible thing that ever was, ever is and ever will be with regard to me,
Woven into that limitless, sprawling web.
It is without beginning or end.
It is complex to a degree that humbles the mind.
It is not a weapon.
It is a trap.
A trap, one to which I fall every single time.
Infinitely bitten, never shy.
I can renounce the world again.
I can turn away once more.
But it never lasts.
The web is too spread out.
There are other spiders on it,
Spiders, which have tethered me to this plane of reality,
With their own silken threads.
It is too late.
Too late to draw the strings close.
It is too late.
Too late to destroy my prison, too late to destroy my weapon.
Too late for everything.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
You
Are beautiful.
You
Are funny.
You are dynamic, and nuanced.
No one knows how to see the world
The way you do.
You don't give yourself
Credit.
You don't think you're
Worthy
Of good things.
You believe,
And heaven forbid these words,
But you believe
(Whether in some immense degree or a smaller, subtle way)
That you
Are
Worthless.
Oh, my beauty.
Oh, my dazzling darling.
You are more than you think.
You are so much more
Than you have let yourself
Become.
It's not too late.
Drop those weights,
Those heavy, dark thoughts.
And remember who you knew you were when you were too young to lie to yourself.
You are amazing.
You have flaws and they
Are wonderful.
You are not a magazine.
You are not a Barbie doll.
You are you.
And that is what makes You
So very, very
Perfect.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
Picasso had it right, you know...
there is no such thing as perfect.
Yet, there is gratitude in the flaw;
there is hope in the falsehood.
She appeared to me
as the manifestation of a fantasy.
I thought that
the perfection within her
blossomed her appearance as symmetry.
The madness
of my obsession cemented
upon her scent.
The string instrument
vibrations of my heart so nuanced,
so rare, yet, so familiar a dream as to be recollections
of heaven.
If she, living, tastes like love,
do delicious pastries
taste like death
The more I knew of her,
the less I knew
pain,
until...
From our love,
so robust in its ripeness,
time gormlessly gorged upon us,
and we decayed,
like seeds in the apple
trapped and never to be free.
It was then that I saw her flaws
and it seemed they were "real"
The distortions grew numerous
and each beauty lost appeal,
peeling away to slowly reveal
the scars that Frankenstein
couldst never, ever heal,
for his monster's myriad scars
are the pillars of its humanity...
Picasso measured the conflicted angles,
and saw perfection would rob them of life.
It is the awkward jostling of misshapen things
that gives them movement, as they ever so try to
shift into place, but if they were to do so,
they would be as the yonder rock,
or the caged boiling soup
of ancient fuel all
perfection
will
be
...
So
I let her go;
I freed myself of
the death I refused to
become. And when she broke,
I told her,
"When you are whole,
you will be happy to break, again."
Break bread with love.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
What’s the connection?—
a secret kept best between plug and socket.
Prophet man gone the old electric way,
[and durn’ an election year, no less]. Epigrammatic burps, and
occasional flatulence, of intellection,
I can’t help
but admire my own kindofbouquet, it ain’t easy—
when Christ was crucified like gas…
…There’s a million and more clichés I could toss around as mud and dirt;
Alas!,
I’d rather speak in terms of glass, [plateglass, stainedglass etc.,
germs and love, and guns and lovely lovely ca-sh,
today’s math; burnt and sad, self—Walking [my] small town streets, sure to stray faraway of dense windows,
and passerby's in ugly masks, with karaoke mouthpieces,
Ballads of boredom on precipitate tongues, Shoo!—away
and blow apart minstrel clouds.
No taxis, [ever]
just men and women in ordinary cars, pedestrians,
in obvious shoes,sporting unconscious denim,northeastern scowls
—fashionable scowls,
nuanced grays that distract from the spots of ill sun [hostage winter sun;]
scowls like Northeastern sky herself.
“I’ve surely lost my perspective”
[An empty phrase, really. A neat vaguery, I submit.]
I had a perspective, I still got it;
Though not much use it does me being how singular it is,
Optics and all, no shades of reflection,
Dense windows of thought, so dense,
—it’s now a microscope! Hell, all i can make out is a loose collection of colors,
A broken box of loose wires
and some kinda bang-up dodgy liberty, those frayed connections, too.
Nothing as tidy as plug and socket,
however,enough
to keep the lights on.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
As we spoke and I
found myself safe in your eyes
I suddenly saw
what you have given me
*His hands link with mine,
our arms create a matching line,
his patterned lightly by freckles,
and we're sitting on the
summer porch at dusk.
He loves me.*
but only because
you showed me the secret
I had kept from myself:
that my eyes can see into souls
my laugh can turn hearts
my smile can make blood race.
that my words, my thoughts, my loves
and hate, my
passion and fire and tears,
my temper and my gentleness,
my utter ridiculousness and
my absolute
poise,
my total seriousness
and surprising propensity
for laughter,
my complex flaws and nuanced perfections,
that I,
me,
everything I am and all
I will ever be
is worth something.
And could be someone's everything.
This is the secret you have pulled
from the depths of my maybe not-so-broken soul,
cupping it in the careful curve of your hands,
holding it out to me,
fragile like a newborn but growing stronger
all the time.
And I'll take it in my nervous palms
and the warmth will fill me
and I will live like new
because of this precious truth that only
you
could have extracted
from the labyrinth
of a deep and winding heart,
that only you could have known well enough
cared for deeply enough
to traverse the dark passages long enough
to find
my lonely light.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
There was never a doubt because she let me know
In every unspoken. Term. Every nuanced flutter.
Deep ****** free fall that I craved and flew across the city
The cities my love
At the end of the week breaking the limit. Navigating the
Madness. Every stoplight was my sworn enemy. Every
Hindrance was anxiety past bearing.
The countdown.
By miles
By minutes.
By block
By street. My fix was ever near . With shaking hands
I climbed the stairs two for one.
I could see every loving sweep and curve of her neck.
The tilt of her head. The space between her brow. Now.
Just a hearbeat or two.
Just ring the bell. Wait anticipate.
Sharpen the pain.
Hieghten the pleasure .Oh my love if you only knew.
Though I. Have professed my love in every way and still.
My words just can't say what my heart knows.
Anything that can be done I have done
And will continue to do .You see. I Listen keenly for the every request of
Your heart.
Your body.
Your body language is well spoken
and I listen keenly.
Required to anticipate .
Your hands my love
Your arms my love.
Your sway my love
The pulsing of your heart.
Sends me to
The smooth expanse of you as you recline all over my mind.
Now the moment of truth sharpens my senses as you
Part your lips to speak a melody.
Symphony.
UN
Bearable.
This is my purgatory my love.Sure as night finds day
You will go away and I cannot stay. We were never meant to be.
Poison is what you are to me
With no malice or intent.
Cry and then repent this stolen love.
Never to be
Not to be
Can never be.
So drown me in your love my sweet
Make my useless life complete
And give me all of you now and forever
Stay in my soul.
That is what I. Need to last a lifetime without you.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of ol'butot near Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.
Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 10:49 AM UTC
I like to get lost in words,
in the lush lines of prose,
the lingering liberation of free verse,
poetry.
Each letter a rosary bead,
possesses its own note,
as tobacco,
in a blue bottle of perfume,
nuanced, warm, stingy;
the code for describing,
lovers on an mid-autumn evening,
drinking black coffee.
But the anthology of words,
capturing my heart whole,
are the small, lace journals,
wrapped, in thumb worn, brown leather,
in the back of a little drawer, sound asleep,
hidden from the world.
Trace a finger along the spine,
open them to a maze
upon maze of letters-
paragraphs-thoughts-dreams-events;
my life, all swathed,
in thumb worn, brown leather.
I write them. leave them. read them
months, years later,
losing myself in, my own mid-autumn evenings,
and word worthy moments of my existence.
Why?
For I am able to say, “look how far I've come."
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
Rubber soled trainers broke the brick
Like the boom of the people tether the streets
Tight strapped caps wander and roam
Strolling the daylight for a place of their own
Screeching and whirring filling the room
Monoxide smog frogs that cling to their moulds
We the people; hardened in soul
A splash in the distance tearing a hole
Enoch and Edna turn in their grave
Darkened cobble flattened; all glazed
Mirrors and cladding click into place
A village that weeps, constant refined
Express the formidable now done and alone
Never your own
EST marks the alleys; so nuanced, so cool
If you knew the truth; that's a tenner!
You fool
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC
Desire has a nuanced way
Of rearing its ugly head
Disguised in a pretty red wig
A cinnamon girl, a wild mare
Racing a hot summers night
And I, a king of trash, lost
Deep in the ocean of vulnerability
That glimmers behind your eyes
Sinking, swimming, submerged
It's hard to stay afloat
When you're ten feet above water
And you can't breathe
When your lungs are full of lust
But maybe just for tonight
Among the places we've drank
The cars taking us here to there
The cigarettes, tequila, and drugs
The warming sensations
The stupid decisions
The too close conversations
A longing gaze, a hand on thigh
Your beauty closes in on mine
And our lips would touch
Igniting a flame, burning me
Embers to ashes, dust to pain
For we'd only exist this night
A memory in the making
A heart of broken shame
A possibility too perfect
The product of fantasy
Something I'd wish for
But never come to fruition
Intuition screaming at me
*Don't kiss the girl
Leave before you **** yourself up*
And in comes the reaper
Here to collect my debt
Of too much ingested
I feel sick, losing control
Get me the hell out of here
I want to go home.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
He was a simple man of simple words,
or high-school girl with broken heart who thought
they had a message, or a call, or not.
Arriving with a sense of the absurd,
a bittersweet purview on life and love,
together with a gift for nuanced phrase,
appreciating how the language plays
upon the mind and tongue, they rise above
the well-worn similes, the tired cliches
for days, perhaps for weeks. Then comes the time
when human ugliness shows up to flay
the budding poet. The evidence of crimes
committed: smoky circles, nameless gray
reminders of whose gifts they took away.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
I've tried to write you a sonnet so elegant
but like daggers my words are too sharp, too harsh.
Crumpled pages liter the floor and all of my ink is spent
from my attempt to twist phrases into proper English.
Nothing can better describe your eyes but the color blue.
Perhaps the ocean or the sky? Every metaphor is too cliché.
I can’t capture the rich color with words as I see it on you,
everything I want to say defies the rules I’m to obey.
Sure, I could compare you to a vast and cloudless sky
but I’d be missing all of the nuanced details of your face
as you send a silent wink and an expressive smirk my way.
My inability to describe your eyes has made me into a mental case!
I've tried cyan and azure, turquoise and sapphire too,
but nothing compares to the beauty I see deep in you.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
I couldn’t put this must-read down, nor yet
Its many woven layers of tapestry
(Or maybe layered weavings of mystery?) -
This book seethes with passion; much blood is let
Beautifully crafted in the tradition of
A riveting re-telling all gritty
Wild, bold, and haunting, nuanced and witty
A daring, different tour-de-force of love
Lyrical, satirical, and compelling
And when the heroine’s not whispering
she’s yelling
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
whenever you feel
inconsequentially small
remember one thing:
the period.
a dark pixel
a tiny nuanced dot
that manages to
transform everything.
"I'm fine"
becomes "I'm fine."
"Okay"
becomes "Okay."
but perhaps the most painful
of all is to see
"goodbye"
change into "goodbye."
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
Holy hell,
this show is insane,
riveting, complexed, nuanced,
compelling, captivating, addictive,
he proclaimed
on Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook,
wondering where the days went,
wondering what unforeseen abyss swallowed him whole.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 1:58 AM UTC
death, apparent,
or...
apparently so...
was never a concern to
concern oneself
with the debate
between a man,
and a god....
i,e.?
funny...
the little **** sleeps
like a baby...
little ****
a maine **** cat,
male,
extracted testicles...
falls asleep
listening to
the dead can dance...
only album favorite....
my cat favored
to fall asleep in half the time
it took to listen to the track...
you can state your
Apocalypse Now! counter
in half the time...
beginning with....
now!
i'm done begging,
i'm imploring you...
added minutes?!
michele campanella...
WAGNER's
walhall
from, das rheingold...
such esteemed people!
such awaiting people!
such... nuanced...
of what could be claimed as...
people...
what wonder!
what ignominious
ingenuity of retraction!
to, have, fathomed!
the last of what ia esteemed
to be deemed,
the, *least"...
finest upon the finest,
and, supposedly,
no more,
that a utility of a hammer,
for whatever came the observation,
to make comprehension
of... the noun: nail,
and the adverb...
nailing it...
with the verb and noun
of final utility of: hammer...
dear... prospect...
of whatever was inclined
by your stressed ingenuity of fault...
how have you....
my... oh my...
your creation wss
supposed to be more stupid
than the people you already deemed
stupider,
and already demanded
yourself to, despise?
and your intelligent
"creation"...
wasn't supposed to notice this,
discrepancy?
now ensure you retell this narrative...
'mother...'
'yes, David...'
'play me... the raconteurs'
old enough.'
mother knows, best.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC