"realer" poems
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
to hold a photograph in my hand
and believe what is presented,
take is at it already is – why not?
if I close my mind’s shuttering eye,
will you be as candid as before?
unrestricted, unsorted from the hullaballoo,
you, freer than what is imagined, closing
in like a bullet from yesterday shot out
of the sky’s contrived clearing –
to hold a photograph in my hand
and tug closer by the mouth of the fringe
as if to pour water on a broken glass,
slithering now, a shadow of moon
at the very dull end of my cup;
you are closer than any rehearsed moment
ready to catch the inner canthus of the eye:
this relentless picture-passing, tense and
fervent, avid like bankiva to air,
water to chrysanthemum: behind thick shrub
of crepuscular, an arboreal locomotion
shatters loose, your frantic figure.
to hold a photograph in my hand
and size it down to the dimensions
of this home – there is potential in this
comparison: flaring out like smoke from
where it infinitely burns, I seek an ache
and hence place a finger to shush,
to hold this photograph in my hand
and confabulate a soft blow to the gut
and feel it realer than any dagger or berretta
held at one’s life-edge: this delusory intimation,
a slipshod work of feeling. to feel it rejoin
me somewhere I ought to be back again.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
Instead of foraging around making connections
with cables and wireless systems that
bluetooth and sync their way
into our pocket technologies
and portable screens
(tablets of which we self-prescribe
and regulate through overdose
and comatose keenings of stillness
and waking dreams)
why, instead
don’t we fool around
making connections
with others of like mind and brainwaves
instead of radiowaves and
the mastered minds of computer waves
and lift an arm and
really wave
beyond our windows to
real people
in real time
rather than peeping
like a holographic Tom through
tabs and browsing windows,
multi-tasking time in a state of mime
like it’s about to expire
(like the wireless wires will break)
and all that we’ll have is
all we can physically take
from this moment awake we call ‘life’
– a mistake.
What else is left now
in this vegetative
one man one woman state
where we live to close our eyes
and shut our minds and wait for
the modem-router to re-dial and
get our avatar back online and
our friends back into our
multi-dimensional realer-than-time
time?
Pseudonyms solving identity changes
emerge without birth
with designer non-faces, as
now that we no longer need imperfection
or meaning or privacy
or even perception
we alter ourselves to impress our connections
with whom we connect without really connecting
by hiding as one almost nearing detection
and tip-toeing straight past
concern or reflection
(invisible firewalls at our protection)
our own walls around us
with keys we can capslock,
screening ourselves from unfriended friends,
and playfully sated by charm and ‘pretends’
that will mean next to nothing
when fantasy ends.
Where ARE the connections we make
in this digital age
that we rarely turn off since
the internet craze has become a new God
that we dial to be saved
as we sacrifice friends we once made
face to face
with those we are longing to meet
as we race across networks
with hunger and haste and
with spambots and data and viruses made
to detect and infect
and reject, just for starters,
and that’s not to mention
the ads and the logins and
passwords that lock us
from somewhere far yonder
that doesn’t exist
as we grow ever fonder
of pics and of pixels and
texts of expression
– the reality of which
we could lose in a second.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Like stray dogs in suburbia we wander.
We once knew a path in our distant dog-year past
one our owners walked us down,
dragging us nowhere fast.
It was catholic school teachers,
conformist preachers
and all the other tame creatures who took us on our way.
We walked on their time,
to the beat of a drum our paws weren't made to pound.
And we were dragged by a noose (otherwise known as a leash)
but their language is not our language
so while I called it what it is
they called it keeping me safe.
What the masters don't know
is that sometimes they leave the wrong door open
and a fence in the yard or a parental guilt trip
feels about as big as a crack in the sidewalk to jump over
when the street looks like a filthy paradise
where things like loud are louder,
fast is faster,
scary, scarier,
and reality, realer.
Now we're never in any rush
because anywhere and everywhere is home
so simply staying in doesn't feel so bad.
Routine is no longer in our vocabulary.
Vocabulary is no longer in our collection of words
and our collection of words is no longer so clean.
We wander because ideas described to us as garbage
taste better than the textbook kibbles-n-bits
and even though it's not served hot
or in a bowl with our names on it
the fact that we found it ourselves
feels better than having our tummies rubbed
or making the grade.
None of this is to say that the old house
will never be home again.
Doggy doors are always open
and winters are always cold.
So once I've had enough of life's streets
teaching me more important things
than rolling over or playing dead,
things like knowing tricks don't always come with treats,
we might just go back inside.
And returning won't be our loss
because we'll be walking back in with unclipped claws for the first time
and with all our baby teeth and naive fears gone,
we just might bite.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
it was time to sow the seed,
stitch the old me
to the present me,
and breathe,
release
all this anxiety,
tension tightening
the grip, strapped around
my throat,
around my hopes,
the me I've missed,
burn white candles,
lay out my stones,
rewrite the misery,
untie the history,
reach closer
to the underbelly's guise, mystery,
why I've lived
through the eyes of others,
flies, gnats,
and dead meat,
there is no me there,
just blurred scribbles,
hopes for sunshine,
trying to be
something realer
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
Let me tell you how you add to my invincibility.
You let me be the realer me cuz you notice my invisibilities.
Let me tell what I learned to see.
That you were born for me. Your insecurities are a blur to me.
And everybody got their own way of thinking.
But our thoughts have their own way of linking.
See your simple as an atom but just as complex.
And our bodies connect without lust without ***
You are my favorite question one I must have correct.
The mind frame you possess is one I must have respect.
You’re so fantastic always need for fascination.
You've become my mental plague but ain't no need for vaccination.
And she knows how to take all the stress from me.
Cuz everyday single day she has *** with me. Mentally!
Never intimidated by the groupie hoes, or the stupid hoes she to use to those.
And though all the puzzle pieces don't guarantee I will complete it.
She guarantees that I will strive for this achievement.
The world is filled with rules and regulations
But her love is my drug that keeps me under the sedation.
And we don't have to together she can stay with him cuz he convo is better than lobster tail or steak and shrimp.
She constantly adds to my life she'll be the one to bear my kids.
I just can't wait till the day that I tell her who she is!
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 12:47 PM UTC
Free Flying above
the clouds
Soaring above the Earth and through the stars.
Past all of the known planets
Those out of our galaxy
The new planets I view
The new and hotter suns I see
Blaze more energies to fill the empty regions
of my mind
called "mystery."
Fuel my spirit and make it run harder
To new found inhabitants and their newer worlds.
Astral planes of spirit that don't require a vessel
or star ship to hold in or hold back
the soul that travels as it's own transport
Faster than any "law of physics"
Realer than the factual brought in by third party satellites.
I gather more and more brighter and true information
Later to bring such forth in my grounded and non-traveling form
Waiting to share my results to those who don't limit their beliefs
to any said "rule" or "fenced in logic formula"
I ride the waves to the calling gates of astral transport
As my soul escapes my heavy and limited physical self
Late in the night
The recordings of fact stored in the logics of my soul
Are vivid and ready to be replayed
to share such gifts of learning to those eager to believe in it's payload
and form.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
I know I am not really lying on the beach
Eyes facing up towards the sky
Where I really am is in Vienna
In a small classroom filled with fourth graders
Sitting in a circle in a room
That was decorated in glow in the dark stars
And a fake camp fire next to a cardboard cutout of a wolf
I remember learning about the Oregon Trail
And how cowboys would campout underneath stars
Guns close by so other dangerous creators wouldn’t be
And looking at the fake stars in that room
I was in another world, a realer world
Where the cosmos didn’t make stars
Bullets did
Silver bullets meant to hit werewolves
Who were so compelled to howl at the moon
They forwent the odds of being gunned down
And so easily they could be when the moon
Lit perfectly their silhouette
Naked in plain view
All the stars were silver bullets
One that never met their target and flew
Past the wolfs and up into the black sky
Where they pierced the world’s barrio
The bullet holes became not stars
But un-mendable scars
From men who wanting to mutilate
The sky’s beauty with weapons
There to remind me
When the lights turned on in that classroom
The glowing little stars melted into the white popcorn ceiling
And as we, the fourth graders, disconnected our circle on the floor
The reality of the origin of stars I had just come to know
Never left me and the stars I see at night now
Are not as real as the ones I saw that day.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
Wow..
****** been watching me, wow.
Blowing my high.
I get no replies.
But my number one question is how.
How does it feel?
Now that you told.
Shut the **** up.
The ***** getting old.
How do you know?
What I be feeling.
And what I should do.
How about you don’t.
How about you just get the **** off ****
How about you read this and never forget.
People aren't worthy of knowing my ****
Now that I know, I won’t do it again.
Feel like a sin.
I'm all on my own.
I wish that y’all would, just leave me alone.
Trapped in my thoughts.
They don't have a home.
This is realer than raps.
Realer than poems.
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
So many songs remind me of you that I can't listen to the radio anymore in fear that every song that comes on will sound like its pouring out of your mouth. My mother saw that all of my nails were chewed off. She had a sad look in her eyes. I guess it's because she knows I only do it when I'm sad. She never could figure out what it was I saw in you. No one could really. Maybe it’s because you always smelled like smoke and bit your lips until they bled. But behind your green eyes I saw galaxies. I saw a place far away. I guess every time we kissed I ran a little farther from home. You were my escape from reality but now the pain is realer than ever. I guess what I'm saying is you shouldn't build homes out of people because bones break and hearts come spilling out and when they said you would ruin me, oh did they mean it.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
***
i wish we could have made that word into friction,
and droplets of ocean streaming off our bodies.
i've always thought that maybe something could grow
like a plant
between us,
plant its roots through our faces.
i always imagined that one harsh summer, sweaty
blanket night, after open mic,
we'd run the streets barefoot,
and you'd sing tom waits in your
rusty voice, like a garden pail
left out for a couple springs.
and you'd take me somewhere frightening and strange,
where i've never been, even though
my feet roam this tiny town even when my eyes are
sleeping.
then i'd tell you
that
heaven is a foreign concept to me,
and you'd whisper
that there is nothing realer than this earth,
and you would say it with passion, with a bite and a kick in it,
like good hot sauce;
your lips moving harsh and fast against
my stretched neck,
its skin begging for the weight of your kisses.
and then we'd recite poetry with our bodies
under a summer moon,
like an empty plate,
with august skin peeling off our bones,
leaving us raw and intertwined,
a knot of ferocious dreams, and thin
crunchy book pages.
words whispered loudly into the sweet
sweat of the dark,
your hands playing me like a violin
my body singing with your touch.
four cigarettes after;
two for our mouths,
and the others for our hungry hearts.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
Reality
False galaxies
Accepting so is rather challenging
Resenting though, is rather cowardly
Our dimensions stack unto this universe and creates what is real
Soft, hard, wet, rough are all unique realities of what one feels
No evil, no good, only what one makes of the subject
I may love, others may hate, few must ****
The converging of realities with others makes the original heal
What my reality makes of love reveals others to see energy that turns one ill
My eyes, your eyes
They meet and dilate
Do they see each other's reality?
Do they meet our beautiful perceptions of what is a light?
Move into one another's mind to make yours entice
Life is making something of nothing
Coming a long journey from our ancestors who have made the 'reality' we have now
We have forgot to think for ourselves, mind controlled by the past, by the dead, by minds like ours
Awe and wow
We are all ignorant only fueled by the ignorance before us
******* gazing upon what seems to be higher
Though all they are is a higher form of ******
The wiser one is, the more one is a ******
None of was truly know reality as a glimpse that slithers
It slithers shortly giving each one of us a piece of the puzzle
Later, the puzzle will become completely gone
Our realities will become bigger through the art of believing
The puzzle will wither
What is truly real will be gone
There only be false
Others that are longed
You see a false, but a real design through your eyes
As one reality has taught me this, I made his realer
Thus what we have is bliss
******* formed by a real master
In my false reality, as this is the beauty of life
Every one of us need our realities to be heard
They need to merge
Though, one mustn't let other realities limit theirs
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Nymphets like me grow up,
and guess what?
I am not any scared or scarred
In a parallel world,
Angela invited Lester to her wedding day
and it's realer than death
There's nothing to heal - no sight of old pain
Am I really strong?
I am not sorry - I am not hurt
Even if I did break a few hearts
This nymphet got a job and she dyed her hair
She got to her destination -
but she's not done yet!
And I might have to leave
all of those nymphet, stylish things
no more daddies on the scene
but my inner fire still burns deep
let me resignify what I mean
when I wear my heart shaped glasses
when I feel all pink
that's eternal, it has no age or anything
It's true, I am not ******** anymore.
Isn't that a whole lot more fun?
I am a full woman now
and I am not backing down
(I always was this, waiting to come out)
So I look in the mirror,
and my inner nymphet eyes back,
"you're doing fine, I am proud of who you are"
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 10:13 AM UTC
I have dreams about you
On nights I wish I don't
But I confess that I hope
I could sleep longer
Just so I could see you
But I don't really pray for
These to be any realer
Because I can revisit you
If I lose you in my dreams
But not when I'm awake
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
I would travel the world
Make hundreds of friends
I would sing at the top of a tower
With the lungs and voice of steel power
I would dance on top of water
Make my passion burn hotter
I would trick the scales of fate
Dissipate every mention of hate
Be a creator of my own place
Take reign of space
I would lift my head
I would lead the army of the dead
Because I am more then a dreamer
I make impossible realer
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
Daredevil laid dead
Dialed aid, leave dread
Viral liar lived idle
Vile drivel, aired live.
Evil idea, veiled lie
Real Reel, diva died
Dire dealer, ever realer
Revived, live, revived, dead
Revealed vivid red.
Redial, aid evaded arrival—
DRIVE, DRIVE, DRIVE!!
Evil deed, via viral
Reel, red river.
Dec 29, 2024
Dec 29, 2024 at 3:06 PM UTC
Pontificate
Set to sojourns music...?
And thrown the light of reason, to sate
Weal is a known seeker, of life intrinsic...
Westerly, the face of men
Has a column of seclusion, adding the facts
Of pride before litany's passage, a wisdom's question
Come to pass, with a realer first of lest, we act:
In favor of solemn derision?
The found privilege, has a callous fate
Where we are, the paces and passion of intuition
Hadding the silence we evoke, is a moment come too late?
Hatred, or by excessive gesture, the world?
Place a future of benevolence in front of a child
And the willingness of wishes to give a gift, or take one for
The lips of destined forces, the actual and the meager keep while...
A babyish face has the time, to remember the day as a friend has
Has a shown turn of courage, beginning and ending with cause
Sought the better of you, like a thread of persuasion is to ask
Can the arduousness you describe as a friend, be at odds?
The worth of hosting, a day dream...
Still to fore, the sanity of regency in the name of future loyalty
The winds of omnipresence, have the sense to live well, to deem
The stir of vanity in the lead, the welcome and or the doubted, to be...
A king about the reach and notoriety of views, here is loves vote:
Meant with maying guests, and the hope of virtue to come
With the worth of anger and bother, the vice we hold to fears cope
With the lip of liberty to prove, is our gift to teach its love?
Jan 26, 2024
Jan 26, 2024 at 12:08 PM UTC
Tony the Tiger can have his box.
Full of sugar.
I have my own sugar.
Take that, Tony.
Or should I say, Phony the Tiger
Garfield go in a corner and eat your lasagna.
I have a cane.
No I'm not crippled.
There is nothing wrong with my leg.
How dare you say that.
I have a candy cane!
Not to eat with.
No, no.
My plan is much grander than that.
I will use it as a weapon.
See how its so sharp and pointy.
Those who think it is not so sharp and pointy.
Better keep their opinions to themselves.
In other words, keep your mouth shut.
Bow in the presence of the cane.
The great cane.
Held by the great soldier.
Bow in the presence of a being greater than yourself.
Me, **** in Boots.
It goes with my outfit.
Dressed to **** never became more realer.
Than in my case.
Its Christmas Time.
Time for sleighing.
Or slaying, as I would put it.
My cane is worse than my claws.
Santa better go to Pennsylvania to get all the coal
Because he’s going to need it when I’m done.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 5:23 PM UTC
How unrealistic the idealistic can be
And yet, there is still our commitment
To something far realer than any war-
When you realize it's what it's fought for.
Aug 30, 2024
Aug 30, 2024 at 6:32 PM UTC
The number 25 was marked along the front of my hand, between my thumb and index finger.
It lowered each and every day.
Its no tattoo,
nothing that I wanted to be inprinted on my very skin.
I wasn't your normal girl,
I was more than that.
People call me:
Saint,
Devil Worshipper,
but you see, I'm not any of those things.
I may have different things about me,
that no one else has.
But I am still human.
I have a heartbeat,
blood,
a mind,
and a soul just like the rest of you.
I am no alien.
You wouldn't be able to tell I was different just by looking at me.
You'd say a friendly hi,
and get taken back from the others.
She is cursed.
They would say to you.
I do not get effected by the quiet whispers that are around me,
tis is nothing new.
They say the number on my hand is the days I've worked for the devil.
The day I fell from heaven and hit rock bottom.
The day I reached up from the ground and cursed this Earth.
They have no clue what this number means.
Would you like to know ?
Every day the numbers go down..
24
Waiting...
23
Waiting...
22
Waiting...
21
Anticipation...
20
Ignore the whispers...
19
Live like there is nothing wrong...
18
Enjoy being out in the sun...
17
Your fine...
16
Live on...
15
The crazy buzzing noise in your head...
14
Your hearts still beating...
13
Thee unlucky number...
12
Pace the room...
11
Bite your fingernails...
10
Whisper silently to yourself...
9
The world becomes to darken...
8
Your blood begans darken...
7
The air gets colder...
6
Your legs start to shake...
5
Your thoughts become realer...
4
Nervous of what is coming...
3
Don't forget to say goodbye...
2
Watch the number mold into your hand
1
I'm dead...
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
is the world real?
clambering the wall, this inner turmoil.
a sensuous solitaire
of sorts
my 10th beer
reading 2 poems
in the total, stark blackness:
receiving me
like a fresh fruit's glaze,
the tumultuous hands of Ocampo Street.
half-mad,
half-believing
there are already so many writers.
there are so many Lang Leavs,
a choir of Pablo Nerudas,
a cacophony of Paolo Coelhos,
(never have i met
Geminos
or Yusons
Arcellanas
Joaquins
de Ungrias
Sawis — always the realer form
if not imagined only experienced
through dumb senses still?)
always their inner sense
of self conjuring
others giving back the same image
like a prayer's way through lignin cross
thumbing are the fingers
small in rumination
so many of them here
and there is only less of me
less of my voice
less of my laughter
less of my caprices
less of my whims
(more of my drunkenness
trying to feign sobriety standing
at the edge of the fringe,
more of my poems here
and there yet nobody
grasping anything at all)
i go home
chasing the pattern of this
cosmic solitaire.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC
Your creativity is showing me a spectrum of colors I myself had never seen,
and though overwhelming,
it's mesmerizing all the same.
The shades of your voice are enough to get me lost in the art,
the cool and warm tones of your words leave me wondering just what season it is.
Similar to the Wisconsin weather I endure daily,
so warm and embracing one moment,
nearly as cold as the deadest of winter the next.
You told me your worry about yourself because of how your mind works.
That over the last two years,
it has not mattered who we've seen,
what we've endured,
we always come back to this.
And can I just say that
I never thought I'd be in this kind of relationship.
Late night phone calls and
distanced "I love yous"
followed by confessions I fear I'll never admit once the line goes dead.
We always joked we'd marry when we were younger,
but the reality of it is becoming realer than I'd ever imagined.
Through it all, I just want you to know that
I wouldn't mind getting lost in your voice one day.
The spectrum you show me,
almost as vast as the space between you and I.
And yes, I really have thought about this-
because I consider you my best friend
And that's something no amount of distance will change.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 8:35 AM UTC
I hate to break it to you but i miss you a lot
Missing like my ability to get over you
because people always say that there are many fish in the sea,
but you see you are the only fish i will ever need,
I swim for you like Nemo across the world.
Although my feet may be tired and my legs sore
you keep running in that treadmill that trumps my mind
so i know that I'm going to keep on swimming just like Dorothy
because i miss your face like hell
I miss your laugh and smile
I miss our long nights of talking because it was pure emotion.
it wasn't squeezed out like the mustard packets we call our friends.
it was realer than Real World
it was so real that it felt like i was shot out of this world with a rocket on my back
your words are rare but they aren't rusty like everyone else
like that Anvil that is making me sink to the bottom of this ocean.
I want to be like Dante and dive through hell even if my feet blister and bleed.
because you give me a reason to keep on being me
i know that no matter what i do you will always wont let me forget my roots
you're like the grass that hugs my tree because without you I feel incomplete
I miss you like a lot
Can you please come back
so I can kick up my blistered feet with you
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
I was aware that we were seventeen
and how on earth
could it all be so hazily perfect,
but also how couldn’t it?
I wanted to raise chickens
with you. I wanted to drive
a poemmobile cross-country just because.
In these early moments:
*We’re Shakespeare’s lovers
standing up on Bambi’s legs,
and always will be.*
I knew we'd met too early, sometimes.
If we were twenty-something and living in Bohemia
when we collided at a jazz-bar
drinking dusky whiskey.
Then life would follow.
I was scared that because we both needed something
to latch onto so badly, there was delusion
and we were too caught up in ourselves to see it;
that my first love would flit away
like everyone else’s.
We were sitting cross-legged
on the precipice of youth,
you whispering in my ear
that you hate haikus,
when I decided that my first love
was realer than any image
of white washed sheets
and yellow sunlit apartments
that this fresh faced
heart could concoct.
Eight months later
when you broke it
I realized I was right
about everything
because the thing about
Shakespeare’s lovers
is that they die young
and Bambi’s legs
collapse with knobby knees
but the things they held up
while they could
were so ******* beautiful
that nobody really cared.
And we were so ******* beautiful,
how could I
possibly
have expected
that to
last.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC