"photographic" poems
I'll never forget
my first one.
The tree was
aglow;
branches
blazing
with enormous,
yellow and orange,
halcyon sunflowers.
A glorious heat
pulsated
up my back,
their magnificence
radiating
through all
my senses.
My eyes:
wide,
taking-in
every iota
of this visual
majesty.
Transfixed,
in a state of
awe,
my photographic
memory
came into
play.
Snapshots
of
those giant suns
forever imprinted;
negatives pressed,
into my mind.
A night to remember;
when halcyon sunflowers
danced
on the limbs
of trees and
the branches
of my mind.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
For no reason he starts screaming
Then begins to hit you
Shouting for no given purpose
He will begin to bite himself
It is then as nothing happened
He plays with an electronic game
Something then will disrupt him
So begins punching himself in the head
He will not wait his turn
Even when others are already speaking
So starts to bite himself once more
Shouting out threatening behaviour
You can never try to tell him off
It will only make him worse
He believes he is only allowed to shout
He will never understand what you say
The throwing of things will then commence
Showing you outrage and anger
Comes up and shouts in your face
Followed by slapping and hitting you
Then it will all suddenly stop
Begins talking nicely to you
Talking non-stop about his cars
He will then put them all in a line
Come and ask for a cuddle
Not even remember what just happened
For an hour or two he talks politely
You dare not try to change the subject
Never try to break his routine
For he will start swearing at you
Everything will start all over again
Because he will never understand change
He even hates his baby sister
Because he needs all the attention
He has no understanding of sharing
Or how to ever show fair play
He is locked away in his own world
Expects everyone to know what he is thinking
He can not even dress himself
But he has a perfect photographic memory
Others will never come to realise
They will only think the worst of him
They call him names behind his back
All because he is a little different
Autistic children may be a challenge
But remember, they are still children
All they need is understanding
So, will you love him?
copyright Chris Smith 2012
For children with Autism/Asperger's Syndrome
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
The dunes are tall,
but, we can still hear the crash.
The smell of salt reminds us,
of treasured frames.
You asked if I remembered,
“yes” I do remember that one.
Flour like sand,
it cradled our feet.
Our palms smacked,
the land.
As we progressed,
to our full stride.
Loops of gold,
surrounded us.
Tickling the laughter out of us,
it echoes beautifully.
In slow romance,
your gaze meets mine.
That is when you turned,
'click' a pose framed,
by my eye.
The shutter captured,
a moment of escape.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 9:15 PM UTC
toes buried in the sand
smiles painted on faces
frame this memory
because you'll never see it again.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
an oval antique photograph
from the century just passed
six youthful brothers
must be sunday dressed
exuding life and promise
facing forward all in line
symmetry pervading
sister mary in their center
on the photos right
a startling recognition
an image seen before
colins great grandfather
raymond often ray
in features and a gaze
seemed as colin
would have stood
photo has a crease
fading but still clear
now with photos recent
privileged to compare
colin next to ray
both fully present
yet a gaze away
rays gaze anticipating
army time in paris
fortune seeking in the west
fortunes to be found
four generations branching
to colin and beyond
colins gaze capturing
a journey now beginning
does he see montana paris
or the stars
repeating patterns forward
reflect photographic truth
music completes the pattern
with colorings of sound
rays trumpet and harmonica
introducing a guitar
which colin has absorbed
thus in his confirmation
new dimensions
now foreseen
confirming four generations
reflecting many more
expanding light and love
carrying our gratitude
for the glimpse
an old photograph
favored us
to find
(poem written for my grandson's
confirmation....)
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Feel the chains change in me tonight
Condense me to evaporate in want
The long of a bounce to another world
Light the fire to burn deep and fervour
A belly roasts in repetitive embers flushes
Hearts tied connate as the essence flashes
A tangle ribboned to last after the dawn
Testify as our sparks infinitely ignite dances
Titaniums of our tectonic plates merge motions
A convergence entwined in bordered emotions
Link me in the convections of transformations
Conversations of a lasting warm benevolence
Paradisiacal chum of a past in resonance
A photographic collection of a lived long life
Unwrap the snare, unwind the erased tapes
Lay back as we hide away behind the moonlight
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Every picture of you,
brings me back to a time,
where all things were fine,
The world was all mine,
and life was divine.
**I wanted to share it with you.**
Gained perspective,
from taking your pain, feeling strained.
**As I bare it with you.**
And to the naked eye,
You and I, are one.
Living art, so perfectly done.
But, that collection has attracted dust,
And it’s a must, for trust, and self reflection.
Perfection never met.
What lies in the message...
...is love. It's us.
Above, everything else I could think of,
One thing can never subside,
And that’s loving you.
Forever, never, and in between.
The middle of nowhere isn’t always where it seems.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
(Warning this poem contains visual content
which may be considered too morbid or shocking
for those of refined and gentle tastes.)
Rock a-bye-bye, Bethy,
from the wood-beam rafter stock,
when the neck-noose tightens,
Bethy's body will twitch, sway and will rock,
the chair she kicked out shall tumble and fall,
and rock a-bye-bye Bethy, will be dead and that's all.
_________________
Disturbing photographic image:
http://beautyineverything.com/2375915615
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 6:01 PM UTC
i am my grandmother’s small and plump tears
when she thinks of her pueblo.
i am my mother’s broken english
as she greets the cashier.
i am my sister’s abandoned dreams,
her acceptance letter is etched into my palm.
i am my brother’s path to citizenship
along with all the photographic evidence.
i am my brother in law’s laughter
when he speaks to the nephew he has never met.
i am the ever constant fear
of being denied a home.
i am the secrets carried on backs
through miles and miles of desert.
i am the pan dulce on sunday mornings.
i am the mole and carnitas at birthday parties.
i am the thick hair on arms.
i am the first bite of a burger king hamburger
after years of poverty.
i am the first item of clothing bought at a kmart
after years of patching up old clothes.
so how dare you think less of me?
you do not know what i carry.
all this pain.
all this joy.
all this strength.
i am chicana.
the bridge between two worlds.
i will not be burned down.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
For Henrietta Swan Leavitt—
Henrietta
dark-eyed darling of the night sky--
A Swan
who sails
the heavens
deaf with lights
that pulse across your mind
In photographic plates
that number
many thousands
You see the differences in light
You swim the curves that grace the arch of heaven
between the cloud and pinwheel galaxies
You measure
their exquisite wakes of distance--
Become the glittering timepiece of the farthest stars--
Bestowed forever in your hands
the clock and keys of all existence
You know the bends of ages
You heard the voices of the light
of the angels
and of man
I hope you've found true happiness
gathered to your love
forgetful of the pond of space and time
and all that hopeless pain and counting
of perfection
and of loneliness
to which you were assigned
that in your hands unravel all....
The secrets of the universe
white and gray in motion...
brilliant beyond all measure
by which you were forgotten
and unvalued by design
Eulogized only--
as loving God
and as being kind
___
*copyright Liz Balise 2019, Use only by permission.
Her colleague Solon I. Bailey wrote in her obituary that "she had the happy faculty of appreciating all that was worthy and lovable in others, and was possessed of a nature so full of sunshine that, to her, all of life became beautiful and full of meaning.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henrietta_Swan_Leavitt
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC
I am not an artist
I cannot paint a beautiful landscape that makes you believe you're looking at the real thing.
You will not stare in awe as you wonder what compelled me to paint those lines so uneven
And I can't make my color choices dance in your eyes like sugarplum fairies
Off of the canvas and into your mind
For you to transpose the choreography
To your own understanding
I am not an artist
I cannot capture a single moment in time with the simple click of a camera.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words but every shot I capture seems to be silent
Mute
But they're beginning to be heard
Screaming millions of words
Hoping someone will just hear one
I am not an artist
I cannot make your skin shiver as my lyrics echo through the room
Your emotions will not crescendo as each note burns nostalgia in your memory
And I will not leave you wanting to hear more
I am not an artist
And I can't create a masterpiece in two hours
I can't write words that will break your heart as they enter your ears and fill your soul with the emotions I'm feeling
I can't make you believe that I'm actually the character
I tried so hard to become at rehearsals for the last three months
My movements on the dance floor dont flow with ease or grace
And you will never give me a standing ovation
Or shower me with roses as you cheer for the art I've created.
But
With every step that I take on this earth
I am leaving brush strokes in the dirt and in your memory
Every laugh
every sob
every word that I speak
Is going through your ears for your own musical enjoyment
My eyes are like cameras capturing every moment and every face each time my lashes flutter
And even though most of we don't have photographic memories
We still remember the precious moments our personal cameras caught on film
I am not an artist
I am art
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
The Sukhumvit Rap
by David John Clare
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
Well, she come in to Na Na town on dah midnight sky train, anonymous esan girl she a mysterious Bangkok dame
Out of the nite shadows she will walk and magically appear, I'm telling you fresh forang you got some awful things to fear right here
She can slave your mind in a minute without talk so lyrical, she's a modern Thai freak, a ****** miracle
First She opiates his mind then double you'll see
will loose all sense of time and then the trouble will be
She knows what she is doing, her instincts are cold Forang men they surrender and just do what they are told
Beyond the like of a dibbie girl as you are a sucker for her date
she will leave your mind and body in a wicked deadly state
A jealous girlfriend could now completes the scene as you walk back to your short time room near Pat Pong
soi cowboy libertine...
If you get near her you hear the voice of a Thai Siren
Don't you look at her don't you touch you'll start cryin'
If you dare embrace her fool you will think you found a rare Silom Road Jem or Jewel?
She can tear your heart out and she will do it with your own **** tool !
Tell The brothers not to look the wink of her eye, tell all of the brothers not to watch her WINK!
You can tell by her moves and the slit under her dress she is a one trick thai pony ahead of you by her breast
She got a photographic smile Greta garbo movie hair
She can tear any man down with that Siamese cat like looking stare...
Don't look into her eyes she'll control you blind
you want to wine and dine her? ha, it is your mind she will sixty nine
Shell try her best to allure you so now don't concede cuz if you touch her now boy your heart will bleed
It is a hell of way to take a Thailand vacation but remember this; there is no way of ever stopping this ****** man killer creation.
Tell The brothers not to watch the wink of her eye, tell all of the brothers not to watch her WINK!
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
Boom boom bah smoke yaba bah bah bah boom!
WINK!
(c) 2010 Clairvoyant Music / BMI Los Angeles CA USA all rights in perpetuity by the author
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
Oh, how could I have been so careless with time?
Trying to catch hummingbirds with a hula-hoop.
All the un-watered whims,
planted in subconscious deep;
inside great empty tiger cages
that capture only the echoes,
and photographic negatives of dreams.
With a knapsack chock full of stars,
and clouds, fully reviewed then abandoned
at random. I have been spinning separate
from the world; wearing time capriciously
on my wrist, fully reviewed then abandoned at random.
Maybe only clocks are careful with time . . .
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
everything about you screamed infinite
the type of person I could spend forever trying to figure out
sunsets and sunrises pass by like fast trains, and my minds still reeling
a photographic memory is a blessing and a curse but right now its a gift
i can remember every word spoken, every laugh and smile
and i play it back like a movie
the kind of spirit that makes you forget the hurt
the universe cries but you remind me that it laughs too
coexistence of bodies and minds, sweet and surreal
worlds colliding at a rapid pace, they collide
they become one
everything about you screamed infinite
everything about me screamed indefinite
indecisiveness and paranoia floods my veins
love and knowing floods yours
a scale sits between the palms of our hands
and is level, for we are balanced
I lift my pen and let my hand guide my mind
my fingers already know you and they haven’t felt you
yet my page screams your name wholeheartedly
vast space was left empty in the corners of my brain
but they’re filled now, even in the dustiest of places
everything about you screamed infinite
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Take countless photos, when the mood so inspires.
You may as well have not even thrown the shutter.
For the things that move you right in this moment,
Will not adhere to the chemistry of film
Will not flip one single electronic switch
Cannot be stored, except in the mind,
(A shoddy storage medium)
For the sight of your face,
Your beautiful otherness
Mingling with me in the air in between us-
( As you try to pick my nose… )
Your head is on my shoulder,
Heavy with sleep
And trust, always growing,
As your eyelids drop lower
My arm, sore, bends to raise you up.
I’m relishing the time
To be quiet, close, and still.
When I can find, in my heart,
All the words that mean something,
Not tossed about casually, in the noise of the day.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
What do you do
when you realize
your life as you know it
is a cardboard cutout,
a dollhouse scene,
Of what your life should be.
Of what it once was.
The people in my life are characters
A backdrop in the place of reality.
Scenery behind my doorstep.
Photographic fire in the fireplace.
Tiny kitchen cutlery that isn’t sharp.
Staged people in my living room
at literally, a lifeless party.
A fantastic picturesque magazine spread in Southern Living.
And I am a part of this falseness.
I am a creator of this un-reality.
I am a willing participant in this stagnant stage of my life.
This life, this love, this truth
Is a figment
Is a dream
Is a scene of a scene.
I remember when green was green
And blue was blue
And I breathed in newness in every breathe.
Reality bowed down in servitude
And I took every step into a setting sun
The world around me, my partner in crime
As I took it by storm.
The tragedy here
Is knowing that life and love and truth barren
Is knowing it naked
As it really is.
As it really was.
And knowing that you’ve settled for the cardboard cutout
is recognizing you’ve given up.
You’ve settled for second best.
You’re taking the doll house route to life.
You’d rather watch the movie than live it out.
It’s cowardice at its best.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
His light house amidst
his mystic fog, signals belated
in triumphant decore,
Enamoured with ancient joy
of his blue green dreams
I chant.
“His rod and his staff
comfort me and all surrounding
gore departs.
I breathe in gasping
about my true love.
as he spots my battered
vessel into the wind sailing.
Ecstasy twinkles his teary eye
in the magic water dancing glare,
of our mystical full moon light.
For too long I've traveled
jeweled triumphant
yet unable to reach
his promised treasure vaults.
To the greed of legions on
treacherous paths all alone I wept,
through enemy's territories,
but all those from me have fled.
I roamed alone yester woods
I reach his safe private harbour
his peaceful shores.
As trustworthy jeweled queen
regardless of grave loss.
Willfully he reveals his home key
to come open up his door
as photographic memories
on new calming waters
get anchored deep.
At last I shall rest in love
on my bittersweet bed of roses
red, and flowers wild;
white sad lilies on hand,
saluting my beloved glories
recaptured and retained.
Enduring rhythmic ways
with courage, heart
brain and hope and off my
survival modes into éasier dwelling
into my grave but neither there
I shall trod alone no more.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All rights.
Mar 29, 2022
Mar 29, 2022 at 7:53 PM UTC
On the long continuous bench in Audobon park, New Orleans, I sat watching the Siren statue. Her hand high with proud strength of her metallic near-immortality. Her cherub children sitting on bronze turtles, holding separate items of ritual in their hands, perhaps a conch, perhaps a lute. As the Siren stood on her globe, a murky green orb of a thing, there were lovers and birds, children and historians with photographic memories in their voguishly composed hands, crouching, cropping, and framing images as infinite as the bronze statues.
I wondered.
If our memories were as sound as granite, and our hearts as pure as the water that froths at a Siren’s feet, would we enjoy and enjoin our attempts, our passions, to act as our own scaffolding to our existence? Would we appreciate the small things, pleasures of love, photographs and amazement that only those bound to and cursed by time could possibly appreciate? Have you actually seen the faces of these bronze castings, once earthly golden in hue, but now terrorized with their own emblems of decay in sheen of turquoise tarnish? Those smiles of the Siren on her globe, her frolicking cherub chums with eternal infantile fists and oceanic paraphernalia, are not the smiles we should ever want to understand.
There was a breeze.
Somewhere in the leaves of an old photo album, across the globe beneath the Siren’s feet, sits an island I call home. Amongst them, the photos of the young boy who always questioned and liked answers all the same now was by and beside himself. His smile eternally saved for the memories of souls yet to come, and no less by the loving eyes of a mother, with voguishly composed hands.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
his voice echoes continuously through my mind
repeating those same fluid words
like ripples on the surface of an endless pool of water
again and again.
That same photographic memory
of four beautiful seconds
filled with brilliance and easy laughter
is in high definition
playing on an endless loop.
It tears away every outside thought,
accelerating and building in a crescendo
driving out the rest of the world.
his gaze sweeps over me
in its path around the room
and evanescent as it is,
it causes my heart to flutter,
threatening to fly away
I'm left with an image branded on my mind
of eyes the color of antique coke bottles
Those kind eyes
begin to take on a menacing edge
in my memory
piercing deep into me and allowing
intense insecurity and admiration to flood in
as i recall the treasures behind them
Like most artists, he has no clue
that he's an incredible writer
but, as the days pass by in class
we start to let him in on the secret
yet, he still refuses to accept it
his sweet, shy smile
always talks down his brilliance,
clouding his depth
like he almost fears his own words
That expression of near embarrassment
when people enjoy his work,
mixed with the thought that he's so incredible
tears me up
and i strive to measure up
while he simply shrugs it off,
almost unaware of his excellence
like he's staring into a ***** mirror
I find myself thinking about it
in bed at night
when the rest of my anxieties
team up to press me under the day
in a deep, wildly-colored sleep
When the morning finds me
and the sun pulls me back to Earth
I stretch out my arms and
draw in the fresh scent of the new day
but as i fall into my usual routine,
the memories and insecurities and inferiorities
creep up to the surface of my thoughts
and I wonder if I'll ever move past this stage,
listening and admiring from afar
Suddenly an idea strikes me
and i press my pen to my paper
using his medium
to release what I've held in so long
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
I
Tired
the long road ends
by a sea wall
The engine dies
to cries of estuary birds
to halyards’ **** and tinge
A lake of light set in night’s cloudscape
brims over the western marshland
to seaward a dense darkness
On the ferry’s step
ear close to the brown water
a part-song sings the ebb tide’s flow
II
Threading into the marshland
a braid of cloud-reflected water
of oval sedge and common reed
In amongst the brown canes perspective vanishes
only by mind’s foreshortening or body’s levitation
is there sight beyond the creeping rootstock
By the river path a leaf
pearled with glazed dew glistening
dew grabbing the photographic eye
Standing backs to the horizon
a sculpted triad of bronzed ancestors
watch over the summer rites of music
III
This ****** field
moves clamorously under the feet
waiting waiting for the sea’s kiss
Proud-coloured the boats here
resting poised on railway sleepers
beside their tractored guardians
How to know which way to turn
which view to hold for memory’s stamp
this patient sky this slow exhaling sea
This foreground flow of white-grey-brown pebbles
each sensibly-sized for the hand in the pocket
yet substantially-singular on the window’s sill
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:12 AM UTC
You asked me what I want
But how do you mean?
Like a wish?
Because it's always been a dream of mine
to fly with my own wings
or to control time
so that maybe I'd get enough sleep
and I could draw out the memorable moments until I'm sick of them
and then
maybe
sometimes when I need a break I could just stop everything
and focus on the serene silence of a world frozen in place
But does this wish have to obey the rules of this reality?
because if that were the case
then I could wish for the attention of that one boy
the one with the electricity in his fingertips
and that might temporarily please me
Or I could wish myself convenience
I could wish that my hoodie strings never crept uneven
I could wish that my nails stayed short and neat
so I didn't have to cut them
I could even wish that I knew everything there was to know
Or I could wish for something to better the world
I could wish that natural disasters were a myth
I could wish that 'pretty' didn't mean anything more than the empty breath of air and intangible vibrations that it actually is
That it didn't have any more impact than 6 letters of graphite should
Or I could wish for something to better myself
I could wish for better handwriting
so maybe I can convince myself that my words are worth the paper they stain
Or I could wish for endurance
Or effortless conversation skills
Or pristine work ethic-
something I can use to my advantage in the future to ensure success.
Or I could just wish for success.
I could wish for the job of my dreams
endless money
the perfect family
but where's the fun in that?
I could even use my wish to help someone else
cure someone of their terminal cancer
Hell-
I could wish up a cure for cancer!
I could wish that mosquitoes didn't exist
or that I had a photographic memory
or that I lived somewhere I could wear flip flops in January
or that I would never age, never feel pain
I could wish for an A on my next science test
or that poverty inversely reflect humanity
But you know what I think?
I think it's human nature to feel discontent
and I think
that's vital
to the evolution of the human race
I think that we need it
to continue
to grow
and better ourselves
So what do I want?
What's my one wish?
I wish that I could believe in the magic of the stars peeking through tonight's sky
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Yes.
I remember you
But not your name. Kate? No.
Mallory? No.
I'm sorry.
There's too many faces now.
But I do remember you. Mollie? No.
You were the girl with the blue eyes. Yes.
The girl who wore contacts.
The girl who's eyes are actually a beautiful brown.
Yes you. I saw you. I remembered you.
I wanted to love you madly. Kelsey? No.
You spoke to me about how you're from out of town
But you said you'd move here one day.
With me? No. Emily? No.
******
You'll have to forgive me...
See, I have a photographic memory,
But sometimes the pictures come out blurry.
Here. Let me hold you a second.
I promise it'll come back to me. No? Ok.
Nice try? I know. I've never held you before, but it was worth a try.
But we can start now? No? Ok.
Jenny? No.
Forget it. I don't need to remember.
I love you. Brown-eyed, Blue-eyed, name-less girl.
We don't need names. Why? Because it's really not that important.
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC