"pastimes" poems
OPPOSITE my chamber window,
On the sunny roof, at play,
High above the city's tumult,
Flocks of doves sit day by day.
Shining necks and snowy bosoms,
Little rosy, tripping feet,
Twinkling eyes and fluttering wings,
Cooing voices, low and sweet,-
Graceful games and friendly meetings,
Do I daily watch and see.
For these happy little neighbors
Always seem at peace to be.
On my window-ledge, to lure them,
Crumbs of bread I often strew,
And, behind the curtain hiding,
Watch them flutter to and fro.
Soon they cease to fear the giver,
Quick are they to feel my love,
And my alms are freely taken
By the shyest little dove.
In soft flight, they circle downward,
Peep in through the window-pane;
Stretch their gleaming necks to greet me,
Peck and coo, and come again.
Faithful little friends and neighbors,
For no wintry wind or rain,
Household cares or airy pastimes,
Can my loving birds restrain.
Other friends forget, or linger,
But each day I surely know
That my doves will come and leave here
Little footprints in the snow.
So, they teach me the sweet lesson,
That the humblest may give
Help and hope, and in so doing,
Learn the truth by which we live;
For the heart that freely scatters
Simple charities and loves,
Lures home content, and joy, and peace,
Like a soft-winged flock of doves.
11.1k
Come friend,
I have an old story to tell you-
Listen.
Sit down beside me and listen.
My face is red with sorrow
and my ******* are made of straw.
I sit in the ladder-back chair
in a corner of the polished stage.
I have forgiven all the old actors for dying.
A new one comes on with the same lines,
like large white growths, in his mouth.
The dancers come on from the wings,
perfectly mated.
I look up. The ceiling is pearly.
My thighs press, knotting in their treasure.
Upstage the bride falls in satin to the floor.
Beside her the tall hero in a red wool robe
stirs the fire with his ivory cane.
The string quartet plays for itself,
gently, gently, sleeves and waxy bows.
The legs of the dancers leap and catch.
I myself have little stiff legs,
my back is as straight as a book
and how I came to this place-
the little feverish roses,
the islands of olives and radishes,
the blissful pastimes of the parlor-
I'll never know.
5.6k
~
September 2024
HP Poet: Victoria
Age: 59
Country: UK
Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Victoria. Please tell us about your background?
Victoria: *"My name is Victoria, I'm 59 and from Wirral, North West England. I studied and had a career in social work, predominantly the field of Child Protection. I was married, I'm happily single. I am the eldest of 6 and have 5 children and 5 grandchildren. Home growing up was dysfunctional, I lived through my teens with my nan. I'm passionate about my family, Liverpool fc and my friends. I was addicted ****** My bio says: "Previously life was complex, I helped make it that way, now, I keep it simple and fun." It's true."*
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Victoria: "I joined Hello Poetry in 2011 and that's when I started writing poetry. Mostly, I started with rhyme and then found that prose better fit my parlance."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Victoria: "I'm inspired by my many experiences, with others and in nature. I'm inspired by poetry here, always. Many a poem has stayed with me, long after reading. Writing poetry was suggested to me and my writing developed, it gave me a voice to express, that which more often I had held silent."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Victoria: "What poetry means to me happens both in the reading and the writing. Poetry for me, gives and changes perspective, I gain new sensibilities and find through the writing, as in life there is, constant readjustment."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Victoria: "I have lots of favourite poets here, at Hello Poetry. I've made many friends and been fortunate to meet a few. I also enjoy discovering new poets and I am always amazed at the talent out there."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Victoria: "I enjoy fishing: music, photography and feeding my family home grown produce. I've rented an allotment plot for about 12 years, it is where I grow veg, fruit and flowers. My other pastimes are travel, walking, watching the footy and the occasional wild night out with close friends."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us this opportunity to get to know the man behind the poet, Victoria! We are honored to include you in this ongoing series!”
Victoria: "Thank you, Carlo."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Victoria a little bit better. I most certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #20 in October!
~
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 4:32 PM UTC
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-side
Echoed through the summer air,
Happy children, fresh and rosy,
Sang and sported freely there,
Often turning friendly glances,
Where, neglectful of them all,
On his bed among the gray rocks,
Mused the pale child, little Paul.
For he never joined their pastimes,
Never danced upon the sand,
Only smiled upon them kindly,
Only waved his wasted hand.
Many a treasured gift they bore him,
Best beloved among them all.
Many a childish heart grieved sadly,
Thinking of poor little Paul.
But while Florence was beside him,
While her face above him bent,
While her dear voice sounded near him,
He was happy and content;
Watching ever the great billows,
Listening to their ceaseless fall,
For they brought a pleasant music
To the ear of little Paul.
'Sister Floy,' the pale child whispered,
'What is that the blue waves say?
What strange message are they bringing
From that shore so far away?
Who is dwelling in that country
Whence a low voice seems to call
Softly, through the dash of waters,
'Come away, my little Paul'?'
But sad Florence could not answer,
Though her dim eyes tenderly
Watched the wistful face, that ever
Gazed across the restless sea,
While the sunshine like a blessing
On his bright hair seemed to fall,
And the winds grew more caressing,
As they kissed frail little Paul.
Ere long, paler and more wasted,
On another bed he lay,
Where the city's din and discord
Echoed round him day by day;
While the voice that to his spirit
By the sea-side seemed to call,
Sounded with its tender music
Very near to little Paul.
As the deep tones of the ocean
Linger in the frailest shell,
So the lonely sea-side musings
In his memory seemed to dwell.
And he talked of golden waters
Rippling on his chamber wall,
While their melody in fancy
Cheered the heart of little Paul.
Clinging fast to faithful Florence,
Murmuring faintly night and day,
Of the swift and darksome river
Bearing him so far away,
Toward a shore whose blessed sunshine
Seemed most radiantly to fall
On a beautiful mild spirit,
Waiting there for little Paul.
So the tide of life ebbed slowly,
Till the last wave died away,
And nothing but the fragile wreck
On the sister's ***** lay.
And from out death's solemn waters,
Lifted high above them all,
In her arms the spirit mother
Bore the soul of little Paul.
2.5k
You do not water me daily,
You allow me to parch
And count the seasons I perennate
With only a drop of what I thought
Was especially for me.
You do not tend to me,
You let me need you needfully;
You burrow deep into my soil
And untangle my roots,
You knew exactly the right fertilizer
To get me to grow.
You do not take me in at night,
You leave me in a greenhouse
I shared with the rest of other plants
You couldn't pick from,
Shivering, waiting for another day
I happen to flush rosier petals
And get your attention again.
You do not choose me,
You do not own me,
You do not love me;
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a confused collector,
Visiting every parterre,
Plucking all the best flowers,
Chancing for the greatest find
Without the intention of keeping it.
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a collector,
A lonely little lad
Running out of other pastimes;
And I am just a hobby
You do not take to heart.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding the flower
You knew could use your sunshine,
So you let it hang right where
It is almost there.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding that flower;
Maybe a porcelain you can break
Into many brittle pieces,
But never a plant
You can watch dry and die and be dust,
No I just cannot be.
I am a vase,
Not a flower;
And you are not the gardener.
I do not belong in your collection.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
You're so dangerous with your profane paraphernalia
Your pelvis postures pandering favor
The line of your stomach embossed by the fire is like a pasture for me
So paranoid with your pacifistic lust
As you proceed to please me with your posture so slightly
And I attempt to pursue oh so politely
You make me perk up like a peacock just with one peak
You're aware of every petty palpitation you can feel just under my sleeve
You play me like a piano, so plush with your lust politics
Pandering for a pardon of my ***** talk poignancy
I part you like Pluto from your orbits serene hum
I'll pleasure you, pleasure you until you're purple like a plum
A pastimes poetises to be written with pleasing lead
You plan every move like a predator in my bed
You're polarizing, plump, and pampered like a pageant doll
Pilfering every plausible pause with a pose of voice, your moan
Seizing the post with your post - modern pompous pouncing
Prompted like Pisces to postulate your prognosis
Lifting your posterior like the pun of a phaliccy
Pillaging me like a pandemic, a plague
Something to be paraded by paganistic plauds
Your pale skin is like playwear for sins
You're pinning me plastered with the play of your grin
Such a pretty motion picture to paint in the prison of your promise
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
“when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.” Grace Paley
fall into me
on blackout days
for something beautiful
is here is everywhere
is nowhere
you knew it
Borges used it
beauty is a physical sensation
the axis mundi piercing
the palms of my hands
memory like a gipsy woman
who reads palms
beauty, yes, it draws the soul
ascetic
I figured it out in the smiling of your sleep
like babies smile to angels, they say
this game that keeps us alive is hers
golden beetles die for it
of for the love of dust
pastimes of gods its archives
everyday the light tastes differently
the body moves where the mind is
or the other way round
I'll read Cartarescu to you half naked
one page a day
beauty is the quest,
this spiral of wonder
filling up the rest &
my nails
Feb 10, 2023
Feb 10, 2023 at 1:42 PM UTC
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:
We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,"
And silence follow'd, and we wept.
Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: "They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;
"Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil."
Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.
1.6k
My poems hide in my morning cup of coffee.
In good hair days.
In nights without homework.
In the little victories of life.
My poems hide in board games while camping.
My poems hide in falling of a horse, but getting back on.
My poems hide in crazy and untraditional habits.
In rearranging and organizing my bedroom.
In summer trips to the emergency room.
In the dents, bruises, and scars that I seem to collect.
My poems hide in compliments from strangers.
My poems hide in the eyes of animals who have grown up alongside of me.
My poems hide in moments spent with my best friends.
In sleepovers in the motorhome outside my house.
In Tulip Time parades twirling my baton.
My poems hide in the embrace of a long-distance friend.
My poems hide in my parents, and in the times they are proud of me.
My poems hide in the memories I’ve made.
In mission trips where 9-Square and hacky-sack are the main pastimes.
In seashell hunting on a clean, white beach.
In being a queen in the eighth grade show.
My poems hide in the trips that I take.
In the adventures I have in ordinary settings.
In the twenty four hour ride to Florida.
In the states I have yet to visit.
My poems hide in my relationship with God.
My poems hide in all the beautiful, trivial things around me.
My poems are constantly hiding, waiting, begging to be discovered.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
“Looking for a walking buddy”
The invitation looms as I scroll through pages of personal ads
Filled with sensitive insight, too intimate for idle voyeurs browsing.
The computer’s hypnotic glow, dousing my cheeks in pale light, coaxes me to search
To rummage through human advertisements and peruse desperate expositions
Behavior quite unlike the pastimes that others might imagine me participating in
Behavior quite unlike the nightly activities I usually partake in
Such as sleeping
Won’t I give up this useless quest for nothing in particular,
And surrender my body to the ruthless aches creeping into my muscles and joints?
I’ll wait for assurance that my grazing has meaning–
I’ll linger to assign significance to this arbitrary curiosity, even into the early morning
Eventually, I’ll resolve to the conclusion that there is somewhere an assembly of people squinting in thought, trying to justify this same bizarre inquisition
We the people, hunched over luminous monitors, “looking for something more”
We who have specific and lewd requests for the opposite ***
We nosing congregation, mysteriously drawn to the Strictly Platonic section of the personals
Should try our luck with a walking buddy
And wander away.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 3:47 AM UTC
Pinhole sunrise
Sodium lit
Murk and ambiguity sleep together
Down in the seabed
One moment of calm in a chaotic rift
These dark vessels
Of the fourth plateau
Scheme vicious pastimes
That live by night
Orphans of the smog
Attiré par le chaos
Soldiers of false beliefs
Progress the beauty of destruction
Their slogan:
"Making better mistakes with tomorrow"
It has the sound of a long goodbye
It lights the final flare
Jan 8, 2024
Jan 8, 2024 at 2:49 PM UTC
One of my favorite
pastimes back when
Spring was Spring,
and not a death sentence
of epic proportions,
was tying a piece of string
to a Junebug's leg.
The hardest part was getting
the restless creature to lie on
its back long enough to
slide the miniature noose
around him in such a way
that when you let go
he would fly around
like Bonnie Blue Butler's
show pony as far as you
allowed his string to take him.
I feel like a Junebug lately.
The process of looping that noose
around my leg has left me
weary and ready for a rest.
My ankle has third degree rope burns
and my wings are getting tired
of flying in exhausting circles.
The child at the end of my rope
is ignorantly unaware of her
imprisonment of my principles.
Or perhaps she knows what she's
been doing all along
and just doesn't have
the heart, guts or brains
to cut the string and let me fly
like the shiny little
Junebug I was born to be.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
I stood in front of the toaster oven to retrieve my slightly singed toast, and for a moment, I felt the warmth of the sun.
It's been so long since I've seen the sun. I suppose I've grown accustomed to the cruel skies of a bitter climate. Lately, all that can be seen of the world when I look out my bedroom window is the grey sky and the bare bones of a Japanese maple.
The waterlogged earth squelches underfoot, weeping the melted snow up through a sparse carpet of grass. The grass, also, is barely keeping it together.
The skin on my hands has grown dry and rough, and while I could blame this on my clumsiness or demanding pastimes, I know better. Occasionally I work up the motivation to fight this process with some lotion or other. But yet, the heat of my apartment and the chill winds persist.
Will my hands ever again have that soft tenderness? Will we ever again see the sun? Will we ever?
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
The world is ending, the moon fell down
Left a crater in the hearts of children whose parents were now just simply gone,
Sent to the non-existent great beyond
Moneys as worthless as amateur songs,
In the end I guess the Earth won
I'm adamant to admit,
My brain's not a muscle, my mind is not strong
You risk a kiss through my face-mask
Meant to repel love and asbestos
Well if I catch your flu I fear my life is no longer
Your lifeless eyes are all I lust for
Happy
Biohazard
We're
Happy
Is it wrong I think this is romantic?
Everyone we know is dead my darling,
My heart's undead I'll admit, what if we both got bit and there was one vaccine?
Then there's NO vaccine.
We'll ramble on about everything we miss
Like electricity and Christmas
On the bright side, hen February comes to town,
I'll be the only Valentine you have around
Happy
Biohazard
We're happy
I like to forget this desert tan
Drying the sun straight from the land
I like to forget this worthless hand
Claimed by your hard, stung in the sand
I like to forget this broken heart,
I will not eat, my deaths not far
(Happy)
You won't admit that things are better
Packed up and living in this desert
Well I'm gonna miss you when you're gone, but I won't write any grieving songs
And I won't kiss the sky and hope you're there
But I'll hold your gun and live your piercing stare
i like to forget sometimes
That I'll miss you
And your technicolor pastimes.
We're happy.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Sweet Yesteryears’
A sound from the radio taps at her ear
And brings back a memory from sweet yesteryear
A smile tugs her lips as she goes down that path
To days of a childhood where hearts seemed to laugh!
Back home in her garden with all of the clan
Knees bruised from scrumping the fruits of the land
Clothes worn and tatty but nobody cared
As laughter was plenty in the house which they shared!
They all made their pastimes with games which were free
Conkers on strings also climbing the trees
Chalking on pavements to play some hopscotch
All was unruly but they felt like top-notch!
A sound from the radio beckons once more
Closing the gate tight from this magnificent tour
Sweet yesteryears‘ over but will never depart
So unwrap it real careful to spread light on your dark!
© By LynnKaren
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth,
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve.
At our old pastimes in the hall
We gambol'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.
We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;
We sung, tho' every eye was dim,
A merry song we sang with him
Last year: impetuously we sang:
We ceased: a gentler feeling crept
Upon us: surely rest is meet:
'They rest,' we said, 'their sleep is sweet,'
And silence follow'd, and we wept.
Our voices took a higher range;
Once more we sang: 'They do not die
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,
Nor change to us, although they change;
'Rapt from the fickle and the frail
With gather'd power, yet the same,
Pierces the keen seraphic flame
From orb to orb, from veil to veil.'
Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn,
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father, touch the east, and light
The light that shone when Hope was born.
994
A Faster Cleanup
I’ve watched the documentaries,
Read the news and watched TV.
I wish I weren’t ordinary,
More pedestrian than I would wish to be,
Surrendering to traps of
Entertainment for diversion -
All those mediocre pastimes I accuse the herd
Of needing, and I shan’t excuse my nerdy being
Leaning on that chestnut ‘will is strong but flesh is weak’.
So before you puke I’ll speak
And say, we need a faster cleanup.
Plastic on the ocean bottoms,
Record heats and floods and rain.
Deserts spreading, Arctic’s melting: symptoms
Of the odium of inhumane
Expansions everywhere you look:
The Book of Crooked Modern-day,
Modernity’s last supper.
So, we need a faster cleanup
Mr. Trump
and all the others.
A Faster Cleanup 5.27.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
I'm sure you get the message. It's a pregnant one!
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
Periodically put pass peoples personal perceptions
Physically Pass Pompous Proprietors possessive profits..
Passive pupils perform persecutor's pineal priorities
Problematic Pastimes produce poorly processed plans..
Police purposely Prosecute pigmented Powerful Personas
Peers, Perceive, Portray, Procreate Positive Progression
#micromoments #6x6challenge #PtothesixthPower
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
I plunge my fists deep into the cavity beside your heart
oh then I scream as thou pristine hands are painted red, for
my knowledge's a disposition, my loving's an addiction,
I may be tightly knit but my mind's fraying at the edge,
I felt myself caring, when I thought it no longer could be
my warped obsession with you
gave me something to think about, and queerly set me free -
alas my pastimes remained
a quandary to the twisted and deranged
through the eyes of a calculative Psychopath
I am cursed to forever see,
yes I know what to feel, I know what to say
but don't be fooled, I'm a living masquerade and I care not for you in any way -
oh I'll buy you a coffee, take you to a room and please you there -
but then the twitches start, as I rip the sultry fabric
from your skin, grab handfuls of your velveteen hair,
oh you'll be petrified, you'll freeze
as I finally unveil the insanity that I strive to appease -
in full swing and oblivious to the pain
revelling in the serendipity that is my disease
I'll take you for all you are, and all your worth,
then I'll swiftly **** you
and leave your body bleeding upon the hearth -
strolling casually into the dying sun,
smiling as the day collapses and begins to fold -
a horrific sight enough
to make one's blood run cold.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
I thought that writing
had abandoned me;
left me forever
like a lover
in an unrequited union.
I spent evenings waiting for
it to come back,
for words to stumble into me
at the grocery store-
but alas I waited 14 long months
and I was still alone,
as I started thinking
I had found other pastimes
and met other interests.
But when the passionate
ebb and flow of words
finally returned,
I realised this old flame and I
have unwritten business to finish.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
To render strings of scenes from your head
into words on paper
that another person could read in order
to recreate the voice of someone unmet,
and at the same time be presented beautifully and clearly;
to choose the right words making the right phrases
making the right sentences making the right paragraphs
making the right chapters, and to have these chapters
interweave into a cohesive story that manages to
fulfil the reader and make him feel
joy, sorrow, despair, or hope;
is insanely meticulous,
and inanely ridiculous.
And to come up with characters
that need to feel alive:
to have to be so many people at once,
each with their own dreams, wants,
thoughts, feelings, identities,
and treasured memories,
how can one not explode?
How can a mind not erode?
And of all the hobbies, passions or pastimes
a human being can engage in—
from juggling chainsaws on a tightrope
to playing the piano while painting yourself playing the piano
to sculpting a hypercubic klein bottle,
nothing is as delicately difficult
as juggling a thousand possibilities of plot
on a swinging tightrope of self-doubt
while playing the instrument of your vocabulary
to paint a scene revealing itself magically
all the while sculpting an entire universe(!)
piece by piece from the flesh and bone of your own
pregnant imagination.
Who, then, but only the most idiotic,
brave, ambitious, and diabolic self-haters and self-lovers
would write a book?
It's a noble task, to be sure,
for without its fair dose of literature,
mankind would crumble and un-create
back to the unthinking, unfeeling dirt from which it is made.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
I'm trying to compensate
For the void in my mind
With other people
With other pastimes
Nothing is very satisfying
Especially after I've crossed the line
Now I really wish
That I could just rewind
I wouldn't take advantage
Of the moments we shared
The long nights together
When our eyes would stare
Into each other
I could see your soul
Now I am empty
With nowhere to go
I wish I hadn't given up
I wish I gave us a better chance
Everything seems ruined now
Slim odds of romance
I don't think we can come back
Not from this damage
It's all my fault, I've done it to us
It was too hard to manage
I'm sorry for how I've treated you
Nothing can take back the things I've said
I'm sorry for how I gave up on you
Nothing can take back the things I did
Despite my tragic flaws
You still treat me as if I'm the best
You love me unconditionally
Every day I am blessed
What did I ever do to deserve you
I ask myself why I don't try harder
Why I'm not on my knees begging
Why didn't I act smarter
All these questions
Swimming in my head
I know I want this to last
To clean up all I've bled
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
Wooden fences,
broken and cracked,
maple trees,
with wires collecting sap,
Blooming flowers,
red with rust,
old country houses,
beyond the narrow dirt road,
Sacred memories,
and timeless treasures,
are hidden inside,
I'll forever remember,
Our old pastimes.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
Treat the lemon
Like it's rain
Find the rind's weak side and cringe
Blowing softly at the fringe it delights the mind for one,
Whole night
You smile in rows
In columns and dots
They line me up and slather me with offense
Knock one down and forget the rest
Look at me for two whole seconds
Just enough time to make me start
The hungry thunder of my heart
The warmth spreads like a second skin
And a nasty laughter folds within
How've I been, how've you been?
Knead the dough until it's dry
Knead until your knuckles crack
Fold over but it never shrinks
Just enough to make you think
Keep running 'til I die.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 8:48 PM UTC