"quarantine" poems
In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.
She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
10.9k
When butterflies fall in love, do they feel humans in their stomach?
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 6:22 AM UTC
Her man had left for California.
Left her with nothing but the dog
to fight the emptiness of her apartment.
She told me she couldn't sleep anymore,
told me she couldn't eat anymore.
She got sick,
so sick— swore that it was
tuberculosis, malaria, typhoid fever—
My experience led me to my own diagnosis;
another case of a love long lost.
I didn't have the heart to tell her.
Instead I slept with her,
despite the risk of sickness.
She was afraid it was contagious.
I laughed, told her I would
take the risk.
I stayed there two weeks, laughing.
She could eat again,
she could smile again,
she made up love late into the night.
It seemed like this
quarantine was paradise.
Till up one night there was a
knock on the door.
It seemed like her bags
were already packed.
It seemed like she was gone
within the few moments it took to see
who it was behind the door.
Told me to lock up the
apartment, leave the key under the
*** of wilted hydrangeas.
He was back from California.
It seemed like she was cured—
of her malaria, her yellow fever, her cholera—
Just like that, a clean bill of health.
A modern day
miracle.
It seemed to have been
contagious,
after all.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
They had the plastic coffins ready
Before the panic hit, Ebola was a planned
Population reduction project
A good distraction from Economic collapse
Governments always divert your attention
At critical moments in history
The elite wish to keep their control
Ebola had no trouble infecting
Medical professionals, but they assured us
It’s not airborne, it’s only an exchange
Of fluids, so cover up your eyes
Ebola carries with it the heat of Africa
Able to make your blood boil form the inside
A post-colonial bioweapon specifically designed
To make you fear, to make you a follower
I think my stomach can feel it spreading
Around the world, in months, years
You cannot contain something like this
By simple quarantine? Even the medical staff
Don’t want any part in it, so cover your eyes
The black plague drips sinister News
In our times, the mainstream media plans
Consumes with its grip, like Ebola
It has the power to consume, a portable
Killing-machine, enough to linger about doom?
Ebola is an outbreak, taken more seriously
The closer it hits to home, what is home
On a planet of billions of travelling people?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
Concerned,
my wellbeing doesn’t come into it
neither does my wife’s;
but worried I am,
for my children’s future,
my children children’s future
and for my great, great grandchildren too.
I listen with horror,
I watch and shudder,
I read and feel misery;
when the wind blows,
because time enough at last,( or is it?),
I gaze at the old man in the cave,
with a little peace and quiet,
will it be shelter skelter?
Are we in quarantine?
Chosen?
For a new place, alas, Babylon
with perhaps Dr Strange Love?
Maybe there is no soul
within the man,
unless the balanced man became unbalanced,
what reason has a man got,
(even if he’s people are suffering from punishment),
To justify such actions?
Perhaps Pak Pong-ju is not a man,
Could he be God’s apprentice
God’s messenger
God’s terminator,
to emulate ***** and Gomorrah or Pompeii?
Why should we shoot the messenger?
If this is the case
then truly I should be concerned,
my wellbeing doesn’t come into it
neither does my wife’s;
but worried I am,
for my children’s future,
my children children’s future
and for my great, great grandchildren too.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
oh right...
back in h'america it's called
patriotism -
but 'ere, over, Here -
it's called nationalism...
back on the old continent
where and when all politics
is far-right mantra
and then you have
your Victoria and Abdul -
love the curry...
but like the **** said...
i'd prefer the aura and sauna
of the...
don't get me wrong:
i love the food...
but watching the Indian caste
system?
of Indians employing slaves
to build their upper-middle-class homes?
more tanned?
oh, you mean the Sri Lankan
or the Bangladeshi poor ********
sorry... i thought all slave
owners were white...
no?
oh...
alright...
**** you then!
because?
next time you ask...
i'll do what the Nazis did to the ********
i'll twist the star of David sideways...
exposing the prayer mat
and an opened book...
and, as far as i am concerned,
Islam is equivalent to the bubonic plague...
now...
compare the geographic literature
and spot the quarantine areas on a map
that constitutes Europe.
i'd rather die...
than fiddle with a phallus for
a taste of the Arabian quasi
harem orchestra of... absolute...
********
Arabian women?
fat hands...
their hands are too fat...
they have to inter-breed to
get rid of their
farmers' market of
fudge fingers and knuckles...
Arabian women expose
what is the most **** aspect
of a woman's body...
their hands...
Arab women have pork chops
for fingers...
and i'm not even sorry
making this observation...
fatty extensions
that you wish could at least
succumb to the esteem
of a pork head terrine.
Arab women can wear their niqab,
or whatever the hell they wear...
one problem...
FAT..... HANDS...
FAT.... FINGERS...
hell, hide them...
these women are worth half the erection's
worth in the *********** market of
feminine hands...
Arab women are no possessed with
geisha hands... porcelain architecture...
they're not tender... slight, polite...
the hands of Arab women are
the hands of European women...
who have a legitimate sway on arable
land, that is fertile with either
potatoes or cabbage;
well...
fat fingers eager to harvest ginger
(roots) -
what can i say...
no matter the diamond,
or the European *****
the hand is still looking
readily available to milk a ******* camel.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Harriet turned back off the intercom and stood in the office for a few seconds. What have we done? I can't believe I let my ten year old son be the vessel to that thing. I can't believe we were stupid enough to summon that thing thought Harriet. Harriet walked out of the office and back to the worship area where Evil was waiting.
"Why do you have a look of concern on your face Harriet? What did you think I would be like?" asked Evil. "I didn't know what to expect" said Harriet. As Harriet and Evil stood eyeing each other the members of Sinister walked in the worship area.
"I'm glad you all could make it. Now sit down" said Evil. A stocky middle aged man walked up to Evil looked down at him and said "I don't take orders from children." with a smile on his face Evil broke the man's leg in half by giving him a front kick to his knee cap. The stocky man hit the floor and screamed in agony. The members of Sinister watched in horror as Evil wrapped his arms around the man's head and broke his neck. He then proceeded to rip the man's head off and throw it out the door of the worship area.
"Now if everyone would please listen to me very carefully. The person you see is not Levi. I am Evil. Your priest summoned me and I answered his call. The vessel you see is Levi but I am Evil. All of you may address me as Levi" said Evil. The members of Sinister looked at each other but didn't say a word. "Sit down. You all thought the Book of Evil was something to play with and that I wasn't real. You put the cult Sinister together to pass time and have fun. I am very real" said Evil as the members of Sinister sat down. "Your High Priest use to run the show but from now on I'll be running the show. You may now return to your rooms until I call for you again" said Evil.
All of the members of Sinister stood to their feet and returned to their rooms. When all of the members of Sinister were gone Evil looked at Harriet and said "I need for you to update me on world events. I need to know what's going on around the world." "You need to watch the Visual View Screen. The Visual View Screen is a device that show us World News, entertainment shows, movies, and music. What you need to watch is world news. Follow behind me" said Harriet.
Harriet led Evil out of the worship area and to a room where there was a Visual View Screen. She turned on the Visual View Screen, turned the channel to the world news, and the two sat down and watched the world news.
"That's it right there. It's amazing how Scientist and Bio Engeiners come up with things" said Evil. "What's it?" asked Harriet. "Don't you just love war? Your species create genius ways to **** each other. They created a virus and a cure to for the virus. The building where the virus is kept is under quarantine. We are going to release the virus and live in the underground city designed to keep the Scientist and Bio Engeiners safe if the virus ever got loose. Once the virus **** everyone on planet the members of Sinister will reemerge from the underground city and I will create a new world" said Evil.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
I read somewhere recently
to release all my sorrows and anger
I must start by going within. Finding
that place where it all goes away.
My question to you is, is who are you
to say my worries can be
scrubbed away like dirt on a dish,
when they feel more like infections to
quarantine like a plague. When I
venture deep inside behind my
mental consciousness I find it crowded
like a busy city street.
I wander lost in the sounds and smells
surrounded by my illusions of
the human spirit. I fade into the
background of my mind.
I reach for a hand to help
me on my way, but I must climb the staircase
of self-doubt before I find my
own way out.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
You can’t tame this beast inside of me that wears my skin.
This monster within knows the secret to making victims give in.
Like a werewolf during a full moon, I turn into such a fiend.
The only way to stop me is to bury me six feet under in quarantine.
Love comes in endless flavors and I’m addicted to tasting them all.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
Di ko mawari kung bakit mas masakit
Ang mga katagang "mataba kana"
Pag sa bibig mo galing ay mapait
Gusto ko lang sana'y madama
Na sayo ako'y may halaga
Ngunit imbes na matatamis na salita aking madinig
Ang pagtaba ko lang iyong bukambibig
Kung sa ibang tao ay kayang palampasin
Pero pag ikaw ang nagbitiw,
Kaya akong inisin
Oo, maari
Sa timbang akoy nadagdagan
Aba'y sa quarantine nga naman
Oras di mo na malaman
Minsan di mo na nga namamalayan,
Dalawang beses kana palang nag hapunan.
Pero kasalanan ba talagang maituturing
Ang makailang beses kong pagkain?
Eh sa may kaya kaming ihain
Afford po namin
Ang ilang beses na mag saing
Mas pinipili ko kasi magluto
Kasi la pa ako lakas ng loob mag TikTok
Lalo pa ngayon nasabihang mataba
Aba aba
Hampasin ko yang pangit **** baba
Pero joke lang kasi mahal kita, kahit na bash moko miss pa rin kita
Kaya hayaan mo ako magtampo ng konti
Bukas baka humpa na ang inis
Kasi di kita matiis
Ikaw ay aking miss
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 2:17 PM UTC
*When we start building Walls
Amidst neighbourhood woes
neighbours we encouraged to construct
their homestead close to our doors in assurance
of a strong shoulder on which to lean in times of adversity,
you definitely know the wines we call Wars
are brewing somewhere, walls are just a wine cellar
Divisions are the bottle to the wine seller
We once built bridges to unite the world
that peacefully lived as a divided entity
That's what happens in times of crisis
Some build walls to quarantine the endemic
while others choose to build more bridges
even if it means risking an entire generation
for we were once a world without boundaries
neighbourhood miseries were our miseries
their laugh was our laugh and their cry was our cry
We sung a single anthem in unison without a sigh...
always wait for drums of war to judge who is true
wait until then to know who honestly loves you*
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 8:24 AM UTC
What if I could find Heaven
Amidst my own way?
Would you condemn me to your Hell
Tomorrow?
If my soul could wash with the wind
And my heart could soar the skies,
Would you quarantine my unique spectrum?
If I could sing with the full moon
Or dance to the soul of fire,
Would you claim me a hedonist?
Or would The Tower of Babel block the barrier
Needed to perceive you and I as the same soul carrier?
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
Thursday you've finally arrived
Work is over and I'm ready to imbibe
You've become my favorite day of week
Most of my jobs done and giving Saturday a wink
Late enough in the week to relax a little more
While Friday's shadow lurks closely under the door
Early enough to fantasize about Sunday
Yet still so far away from Monday
Pour me a glass, or two or three
Unplug my brain and help me let it be
Since I only have one more day of work
Will one more hour really hurt?
So sweet Thursday you may not be part of the weekend
But since the quarantine, it's upon you I've come to depend
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 9:01 PM UTC
The drip drip drip of the Nespresso machine keeps me company.
I watch the brown pool rise and rise, filling my cup.
I take a sip, flinch unconsciously. It is bitter and scalding.
The cool foam coats my top lip.
No one is awake. It is 4am. I shouldn’t be awake.
Still, I am.
I will be nineteen in nineteen days.
This is not how I imagined my nineteenth; though my birthdays never really go the way I expect.
This is not how I imagined this month, this year.
There are worse things than being homebound; there are also better things.
I am trying to reconcile the existence of the two.
I am lucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be safe
To be healthy
To have a home
To have a stable family income
I am unlucky enough to be (almost) nineteen.
To be mentally ill
To be isolated
To feel useless
To have a family spread thin
The two can coexist. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to see this.
In nineteen days, I will be nineteen. Few people will know unless I tell them. There are bigger things to consider in the world. There are smaller ones too. I lie somewhere amid it all. I am just a girl— a faceless, healthy girl— amid a world of strife. The sun will rise, I will turn nineteen, and it will set; I doubt I will feel any different. The world will keep turning, with or without me. I am lucky (and unlucky) enough to recognize this.
Quarantine has provided me a bit too much time for introspection, I think.
My coffee is finished. The brown drops on the cup’s bottom resemble a smile. I am lucky enough to notice this.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 12:16 PM UTC
Another day in quarantine not sure how many days left now, I've mainly been giving most of my writing time to the short novel and for a moment there when I was describing how one of the characters looked like I thought of you how your voice is like a sweet melody that one needs after a hard day, how your eyes are as comforting as a toddlers hug, how your smile brings the same amount of warmth as the sun peeking through the clouds of a rainy day, how your presence is enough to wash away any negativity brought on by the world leaving a person feeling blessed like God placing his hand upon one, with that I realized how much of you this world needs, a person who by just being themselves brings joy to others without pretending or expecting something in return, and for the millionth time you're one gorgeous woman and till my last breath you will forever be.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC
~
I.
*Killing Mary Poppins
with a spoonful of sugar,
the sugar from the medicine
on the other side of town,
the town called Silent Hedges
And A Bit Of Fluff.*
II.
*Only a display model,
her name is Marmalade;
skin white like the moon,
she wears her ****** stranger dress;
one of her sisters is dying,
the other never lived;
God is a far off concept,
the fuchsia colored ball on
an overhead power grid
points her way to salvation.*
III.
*Morning became something else:
bright decline,
cold things start to burn,
tragic saxophone
among the beckoning,
everything's a symptom:
tax exiles, imperialists,
girls talking nitrous
--mouths full of soil,
Virginia Reel around the fountain
(do-si-do),
ready to buy up impossibles
as the dominoes fall.*
IV.
*Memory is a chemical
to the girl who cried champagne,
like ceiling stars
during the prodigal summer,
she played the game
on all fours,
and found a drawer
full of quarantine polaroids,
some with blood in her mouth,
others, of rain on her birthday.*
~
Mar 4, 2024
Mar 4, 2024 at 4:13 PM UTC
In Quarantine We Trust
There will be annihilation
In Quarantine We Trust
It will end in jubilation
In Quarantine We Trust
An awakening of the soul
In Quarantine We Trust
Dirt for this empty hole
In Quarantine We Trust
Compassion for the spiteful
In Quarantine We Trust
Humility for the prideful
In Quarantine We Trust
That there will be healing
In Quarantine We Trust
For the tears of families kneeling
In Quarantine We Trust
First Procedural Sense
In Quarantine We Trust
Next Misplaced Reverence
In Quarantine We Trust
Dominion of material
In Quarantine We Trust
Elimination of ethereal
In Quarantine We Trust
There will not be new beginning
In Quarantine We Trust
The world will keep on sinning
In Quarantine We Trust
Unattainable height
In Quarantine We Trust
Fingertips missing Light
In Quarantine We Trust
The Essence will be rust
In Quarantine We Trust
Until we change our Trust
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 11:06 AM UTC
Is it bad that I think, think,
think about the way the end will come.
That I see the water flood the streets,
that I feel the fire burn inside me.
I can hear the animals charging down
roads and fields, as the earth cracks and crumbles.
The tips of my fingers turn cold and blue
as my mind freezes over, and volcanoes boom
under our feet as we bring the world to its end.
The thing we fear arrives at last
and we are all to blame.
I put my heart in quarantine
as pestilence sweeps the land.
War tares us apart as we try to lower our guns,
but we are compelled to do
the things we hate as we attempt to pursue peace.
We run and run and run and run
in search of life that has been trampled by our feet.
The conflict in our midst becomes obvious
as the dust clears but does not disappear.
Our friends beside us grow feral and hostile
as long, ****** fangs are bared.
As the fog rises and the clouds black out the sun,
it becomes clear to me that the end has been here,
but has not taken us all.
And we wait and wonder who goes next
as our comrades turn to competitors.
Yes, we wait and wonder,
as we see the end has come,
but still, it is not here.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
The subtle cross between intersections, a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s and neatly dotted i’s I removed from the phrase Poetic Form, (trying to spell it without crossing myself back into it).
From lesbianism to manhood,
to cross what being a man means,
I wonder if my own identity is written in pen and everyone wants it typed and edited,
Yet I’ve taken the plastic keys off my computer board and made them into magnets last week,
Setting myself up with stolen magnets stolen blocks,
Putting them in order on my own fridge,
Scrambling them back because there is no order,
They only told you there was so that way you’d sing a song,
But I know now that I can write words, there’s no need for a pre-prescribed song when I’ve written my own,
In my own words.
When I look back and have pages of songs nobody else asked for or decided to write,
When I’m in class and I pocket my songs into stories and my stories under my low grades,
Under my teachers’ requests for MLA format,
I think of that caterpillar I played with in my room when I was six,
And how i thought about how people only wrote about butterflies
And how the caterpillars felt about that,
So when I asked my mother to ask her friend, an author,
If she’d write me into a novel,
Would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar,
Only choosing to open her mouth and write when my story became beautiful and socially acceptable,
When it grew out from the pubescent disliking of itself and stained the sinks of society,
Out of a hot *** of queer and quarantine,
Till the broth of the fluidity of my own being was was down the rabbit hole
Till all that was left was whitewashed spaghetti?
If these songs were anything I could write down again and again,
In pen, ignoring the requests to write neater,
To type faster,
If I put all my work into an envelope I already broke,
Shove it into a mailbox decorated with things people disagree with,
My pages bleeding ink few people can touch without being soaked,
When they ask me what to file me under
I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore
I say file me under “road signs”
At the intersections.
File me under that caterpillar,
In the wheat field,
Next to hydrangeas on the dinner table
A Sunflower in the spring
The harvested Brown Rice,
So when you make me into a meal I didn’t ask for,
I can be at least eaten by the vegans.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC
Eager, ***** I washed my hands of you
in Rippling Creek on the 1st of January --
the beginning of the beginning.
As you turned to driftwood,
the friends and cross-eyed strangers
asked what was I thinking when I let go of you.
My mouth stitched by bongwater haze
all I could do -- watch your notched body soak.
Now on the 18th of September,
sitting in Fox Hollow, USA,
the shiniest of suburbs --
the sober of the sober--
In honest,
I say I'd rather have you alive and hating me
than dead and loving me.
If I lied in the grey dawn,
it was out of love.
If I lied in the grey dawn,
I was out of truth.
I'm alone
fending off vultures prying in with fake Facebook profiles,
taking threats from fathers who long ago went blind,
and this much I promise to you and Fox Hollow, USA:
I will quarantine the past.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
American
Whiteness
the greatest mental illness of all time
even before they were diagnosed
the world has become safer
because the world finally
has funded a wall around America
a padded room institution
where the dissociative disorder
can destroy itself
and not everyone else in the process
the casual crisis
is an emergency
whiteness the coup d’état
is wreaking havoc
on the human soul
domesticated whiteness
riskiest to do business with
spilling blood all around the world
quarantine the biohazard
whiteness on its journey of impunity
when my family was most vulnerable
to the morbid lust
of the mental illness of whiteness
we gently genocidally refer to as social construction
which is really the deconstruction
of the black human
and the origins of humanity
American
American built by the pieces of my family
glued and mortared by the blood and sweat
spilled from them
the most dangerous deconstruction site
in the world
biological warfare
spewing
leaking
uncontrollably
contaminating humanity
polluting its evolution
at war with symbiosis
for the purity of fascism sake
a coup d’état called American whiteness
which is also been a long
untreated dissociative disorder
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Your eyes circled
With shades of black
From the late nights
Of dealing with your monsters.
Life retreated from those blues
Many years ago.
I watched as the light faded,
Casting a dark shadow over your vision.
Death consumed the soul
You claimed you never had.
Becoming infatuated with the end
Than life itself.
Living for what tomorrow holds,
It wasn’t living at all.
Sensing your absence
Even when you were right in front of me.
You told me there is no God,
That this is all we have:
A cruel world
Crawling with greedy creatures.
People who have judged,
Took you in and threw you out,
Leaving scars and ghosts
That take residence in your mind.
There is no escape for you
Except by the means of a needle.
Apparently chemicals give you
Far more than I ever could.
You retreat into the darkness
The hole you dug yourself
Fleeing from the light.
From the world. From me.
Going through great lengths
I tried to save you.
But you didn’t want to be saved.
And you hated me for that.
The monsters escaped your closet.
No quarantine can save you now.
Because they not only reside in us
But in you as well.
You ask, “What’s the point
To this absurd life we lead?”
Constantly kicked to the ground
But this time, you can’t regain footing.
Exhausted by disappointment
Drained of emotion
You just want to end it all.
It would be easier, right?
You just want to feel loved, desired.
But babe, you are unable to see
How the blanket of intoxication
Blinds you from what’s before your eyes.
You say you hate everyone,
That no one understands.
Then who was I?
I was nothing to you.
I could have chose a simpler path,
Spare me this obnoxious ache.
Intrigued by this dangerous flame,
I was unable to resist.
I came too close,
Now scorched by the fire.
And I am unsure of when
This pain will subside.
With clear vision I can see
How our story will conclude.
Not only destroying yourself,
I will be capsized. I will be the one that loses.
You will end me,
My darling.
Take this knife from my chest
Before it sinks any further.
I’ve tried and I’ve tried.
You kept pushing me away.
So maybe this loneliness that accompanies you
Is more self-inflicted than realized.
I love you, my dear.
And that’s what makes this so difficult.
But I cannot continue searching for
What does not want to be found.
I can’t save you from yourself,
The monster that’s inside of you.
But I realized I can spare me
And I’m afraid that’s what I must do.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
I posted a picture on the internet today,
after handpicking the best of all.
While she is left with no choices,
so she walks on the roads that burn
carrying herself upon her feet that bleed.
I took my camera and checked up the lighting,
as I wanted the picture to look 'natural' and 'candid'.
A cameraman rushes to her to click a picture
as he is a magazine photographer searching for stories real.
I sweated and protested about the scorching heat
while I set up my camera.
She wipes the sweat off her father's forehead
on which the glabellar lines cease to exist,
while hers is carrying the roots and branches of it.
I held books in my hand to strike a pose
as my fingers laid in front,
whose nails I painted yellow for this summer.
She holds the handlebars of her bicycle she can no more hold or paddle,
her nails have painted themselves with the colour of mud.
I clicked too many pictures for me to count or recall.
Even after thousands, she remembered how many miles is home.
I captioned my picture
'No more lonely quarantine',
She hardly knows alphabets or words to even ask for help.
I swiped from filter to filter
selecting an 'aesthetic' one.
She drinks the pitch-black liquid,
they tell her is water,
without even demanding for 'cleaner' one.
I finally edited and made a perfect picture,
with my wide grin sealed with a gloss,
And the cameraman too asks for her to smile for once.
She with her deserted lips forms a curve that makes the cameraman frown.
He deletes the picture from his camera
as it would be disliked by all,
It got 1.9k likes,
The picture I posted on the internet today.
May 26, 2020
May 26, 2020 at 1:10 AM UTC
Sitting at home being lazy
Another day at home, I might just go crazy
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 2:40 AM UTC