"redoing" poems
with respect to your hair man
play with it, been living large
so you ain't got time to cut it
put it in a ponytail that puts mine to shame
it's a little weird talking about your hair
seagulls make a birds nest on it
it's a hair song, sing songs along the cold air
picasso paint it well, redoing the blue three hundred times
police pull ya over because of it
sometimes ya skin color makes it knappy
like the way it settles on my blue jeans
when you rest your head on my lappy
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
Laying on the bed, reading your wedding invite.
I recall the day you went silent and I threw my crown.
Stepping down and lost myself.
Today I let you go, my love.
Not because I give up.
I believe you cared and you still do.
Your silence did cut through my flesh,
Your strangeness burnt my heart.
But here I stand today ready to let myself heal.
Years of gathering broken pieces of my heart.
My lost pieces of love, wailing to be found.
Stranded I searched, and I still do.
I held on to you, like a stubborn child.
Your memories engraved, your doings encircling my thoughts.
Strangely never remembering our fights, I was partial.
My heart wanted more, my soul was thirsty.
I found pleasure in pain.
I kept you alive.
What a splendid journey, my love.
The impeccable high of your addiction.
As I drowned, I found myself.
One day I chose to revisit my past.
Regretting the time lost to stupid fights, blaming myself.
I never felt, keeping you alive.
Stupid were my acts, unreasonable was my anger.
Childish were my demands.
A sinner, at your altar I confess.
Sleepless nights, result of a restless brain.
Blaming you for the love I dreaded I deserved,
For making me feel worthwhile.
Keeping your memories alive,
Redoing my past, for an escape.
As the odds increased, so did my grief.
For the broken promises, and the endless thoughts.
U left without a word, so did my Tears.
You coward, I pushed myself to oblivion.
I saved our love when the world sympathised.
I held on to respect, for u and our love.
Wishing you the best, I kept u alive.
My futile attempts to blame you, was a curse.
A part of me found pleasure when they blamed you,
My stupid selfish heart.
But today I let you go my love, I allow myself to heal.
You meant so much, you still do.
But life is more than just you and me.
A part of my soul is still with you, it’s yours now.
Keep it safe my love.
I’ll nurture what is left of it.
As time flies by, I’ll heal.
For a better tomorrow, for a better me.
I’ll strive with a hollow heart and a partial soul.
Thank you love, for the heat.
For never cheating my heart.
For the never ending euphoria.
I know u cared and you still do.
When you found me, I found myself.
For your breath of life, I’ll keep u alive.
You made me believe in good.
To Love someone more than my being.
Surprised I’m to know my strength.
Entwined souls, living in the moment.
We headed together, Insane and reckless.
Towards our predefined end.
I’m glad it was you and no one else.
You were the one, my wildest decision.
Oh my wings, my strength.
But today love, I let you go.
I was your princess.
Now it's someone else.
It’s time to put back my crown to rule.
U won't be forgotten my love,
but like any life chapter ours has come to an end.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
There'll be a crowd encircling you, I'm sure.
They'll nod at your every word, imperfectly mimicking
what people look like when they actually listen.
I'm sure the crowd will be people we know.
Old high school friends with real estate ventures
and gyms and multi-level marketing schemes.
Most of them will be doughier, their cheeks permanently
stained red from a decade of drinking.
Most of them will have photos of their kids on their phones,
and they'll tell you they're "sure you don't want to see them"
as they pull out their phones and show you photos of their kids.
I imagine I'll approach, stop just short of the circle, pretend to bid on an Alaskan cruise.
As you talk about redoing your floor in a faux tile that looks just like the real thing for like half the price, you'll see me.
I hope you'll think of that kiss five years ago, outside of a bar in Norman, when the world entire bent for us, when all traffic silenced for us, when all people vanished for us.
Maybe you'll think of the time we ****** in a twin-sized bed, beside a wall decorated with newspaper clippings, which I thought made me look worldly and learned. I admit now the look was less academic, more serial killer.
And maybe you'll think of the manchild fit I threw when I found out you had moved on after I moved away.
And maybe you'll be totally present. Good to see you, you'll say. You will ask about my family. We will discuss the cooler weather. We will talk about your business, your kids. We will side hug and say goodbye. We will take the same route to the same exit. There will be children coloring the sidewalk with chalk. We'll each borrow a piece. I'll outline you; you'll outline me.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
Tick Tock goes the clock of wanting to hit the pipe again
Tick Tock goes the clock of wanting to be numb again
Tick Tock goes the clock of the flame burning against the glass
Tick Tock goes the clock of the drug melting away
Tick Tock goes the clock of inhaling danger into my lungs
Tick Tock goes the clock of exhaling the smoke
Tick Tock goes the clock of the high warming my body
Tick Tock goes the clock of desperately wanting more
Tick Tock goes the clock of crushing more danger
Tick Tock goes the clock of rolling the dollar bill
Tick Tock goes the clock of snorting away my problems
Tick Tock goes the clock of a rush of euphoria
Tick Tock goes the clock of redoing everything again
Tick Tock goes the clock of coming down again
Tick Tock goes the clock of endless sleepless nights
Tick Tock goes the clock of hearing my mother and father cry
Tick Tock goes the clock of the haunting silence in my room
Tick Tock goes the clock of my heart beating inside my chest
Tick Tock goes the clock of picking up the pen
Tick Tock goes the clock of the tear hitting the paper
Tick Tock goes the clock of wanting to be numb again
Tick Tock goes the clock of the trembling hands
Tick Tock goes the clock of folding the paper
Tick Tock goes the clock of whispering one last goodbye
Tick Tock goes the clock of me hanging in the belltower
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 10:05 PM UTC
The day a lightning struck my home in September 2010
I read in it signs of bad time grave misfortune’s ill omen
Early morn it fell the night though didn’t hint of a bad weather
Jolting us further a bereaved family my father had died that year.
Spitting fire it chipped a chunk of attic struck dead an arecanut tree
Blew the TV dead lights and fans fled it vented such awesome energy
What had we done to deserve such a deal why befell us the curse
Redoing the roof replacing dead wares it was taxing on our purse.
They say it’s too bad when god goes as mad as to strike your home with lightning
You must have sinned to incur his wrath more misfortune it probably would bring
So we brought a priest for peace and worship we had to appease the deity
In our quest to strike a deal with god’s will was forgotten the arecanut tree.
The house was mended things returned to shape we brokered a peace with god
It all looked fine the mishap forgotten no calamity struck our abode
As a relic of that time stands the arecanut tree without a leaf on its head
Mutely it bears the brunt of god’s fury so is the way it is made.
One autumn morn there was a tapping sound on that tree’s hollowed dead bark
As I peeped through the window I saw a woodpecker its beak was busy at work
So many times I had thought to cut off the tree for it could never grow its root
The bird has got a nest for little ones’ rest god’s will has borne a sweet fruit.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
the caffeine is crucial
for this day-time creature,
the low-lit room an optional feature
for my attempted artistic-flair
paint brushes discarded on the floor
i took up drawing, graphite stained hands
and red eyes in the light of morning's sun
through the cracked window
of my old apartment-turned-studio
it was that morning i realized
the faces on paper would never
come to life
or serve a greater purpose than
good looks and candy-to-the-eye
it was that moment, i realized,
there was much more than re-creation
remixing and redoing
redundant copies of someone else's idea
and in that moment, when i realized,
talent is subjective and in the general eyes
of the artistic world, i was **** on the side
of the street where van gogh and picasso
strutted their dead-man's artistic *****
and now i know that there's got to be something
more than staying up all night drawing from a
photograph a classmate gave to my sight
and earning ten dollars for every hour spent
dragging pencils across leaf-thin skeletons of
plants that could have grown to serve better.
and now i know i was made for something more
than sitting on my **** cold bedroom floor
and replicating the eyes of a sixteen-year-old
spanish self portrait photographer.
in the western world, the people want me as
an artist making prints of their faces and loved ones
but for the rest? my hands are needed to build homes
for those who have not had the privilege of holding a
pencil or seeing their faces on a mere piece of paper.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
half-feigning a convenient drowsiness,
half-closed eyes and half words shot at
a bedroom wall illuminated by early sunshine,
and it happens to be quite bright.
happened again, redoing, recurring,
an ordinary oration, a silent sermon
the same words again, a slightly different version
every morning, inside out in eversion
the wrong things again, waking up
getting out of bed, out of my head, growing up,
getting old, aging fast, coming to terms with the fact that
one’s life is only as long as one’s past
all this future-talk’s got it feeling a lot longer
And vacancy is at least not my mistake
Filling in a bubble blindly of multiple choices
Splaying multiple regrets for something’s sake.
I will wake up and grow up
But if childhood is living in the sun’s light
then what’s staying up all night to watch its rise?
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 3:47 AM UTC
Restless eyes,
The luminaries winking,
The night, as if were
The Moon's stage of solitude
Shines vast in the nocturnal glory,
Revealing silken flattery,
The gentle light caresses.
There is a connection
Of the luminal glow
To the eyes whose mind is
Trapped in a cavernous shadow
While fathoming uselessly
Unto the revolving clockwork
Of living,
Like a trance between
An unknown familiarity.
Thoughts carve out timelines
In jigsaw's grip,
The Moon is a portal
In deafening silence,
Faceless memories guided
By forgotten constellations and
One realises the depth of life
And the race of time,
And come sweet soul searching
In the needs of the spirit while
Trembling from regret.
The solitude is an ocean
Keeping one afloat in a
Suspended profile,
Crystalline clarity like a mirror
In polyhedrons,
So much reflection in restlessness.
And we can drown
In this ocean bathed in the Moon,
Like reliving or redoing
All the past making it so
Pure only our souls know
The life lived in another version.
When the thoughts calm
Into the the minds realignment,
The light becomes forgotten
And the nocturnally calm of the spirit
Flies to live another life;
All that remains is the solitude.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
Once, I told him that I was not hysterical and he could call me
he answered what's up kid as if his voice had dropped, but it
hadn't. I replied submissively and he told me that it would not
work even though I did not truly want it to in the first place. It
was so silent on the other end I could hear his car running. Here
to stop on the hill to talk, the cul-de-sac with no cars where I once
sat between his legs and did unspeakable things on the porch of
someone's summer house. He wasn't sorry even though he said
it twice, I made sure to count. I could probably account for all his
apologies on one hand, the entirety of our two year relationship
was one. They say you lose them the way you gain them, so I
must have fought too hard both ways coming. He said goodbye
twice and meant it, where my mom found me curled up on the
swing by our old house. Drenched in sweat, it must of been 80
outside, I smelled like paint, we were redoing my room. Summer
is so hard now, Maroon 5 on a Chelan boat. The memories are messy.
What was that, three years ago, now? I am still startled by your name
in my phone, by the notes I still find in boxes. I've kissed a few since you
anyway, but I still remember the way your neck felt.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
My soul is free like a butterfly
Flapping its wings in the clear blue sky
Head is clear
Lots of room and space to create
Opportunities lay clear in my path
I choose the road less traveled by
Racing toward my future
Stitching the pieces together like my favorite craft
There’s always a roadblock disturbing my flow
Constantly recounting
Constantly redoing
Ready to sew up any cuts, rips, tears from any major blow
Running steady but quickly picking up the pace
Breeze cool
Sun in my face
Turn to the left
Swerve right…
Don’t hit that tree!!!
Make a right at the light.
Red means stop
Green means go
Yellow means slow down and decide which way to go
Running to fast
Blowing through traffic signs
It’s a dead end coming up ahead
Going to fast to make up my mind
CRASH!!!
Life shattered into tiny little pieces
Glass is everywhere….
Everything is a mess
My hopes and dreams have turned into despair
Trying to pick up the pieces off the ground
My fingers are slicing from trying to gather the glass mound
My feet are planted in the ground
I can’t move…I’m stuck
Waiting to be found
Alive…
Breathing…
Thump…Thump…Thump…Heart Beating…
Blood Streaming…
The air reeks of failure
The ground cringes at my presence
RUMBLE!!!
My feet planted like a tree
The roots uprooting underneath me
CRACK!!! BOOM!!!
Branches falling
Leaves cascading down all around me
My future is tarnished
No money… wages garnished
My soul is bleeding like a dead squirrel in the street
My heart aches…
No butterfly wings to fly me away
Battered and torn
Raggedy
Worn
Head held down
I can’t make a sound
Drowning and I can’t breathe
Weight of the world pushing me down
Further and further
Vision blurring… I can’t see
My mind captured
My soul no longer free
Nothing left to define me
Butterflies take flight
I have no strength to continue this fight
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
~~~
"Fact about me: You design me"
line from a poem published here on Nov. 30, 2013
part I of a trilogy
nml
~~~
6:33am
9 minutes left
in the AM hour of my tribulation,
the re-design time,
redoing my outer shell
legs pounding,
towel sodden soggy,
soon return to home
do my morning ablutions
followed by a frosty walk
to the multiple screens
for trading things
makeover, do-over,
but you can only easy
shed and cleanse
exterior surfaces,
shape and appearance,
the inside stuff,
that's the gut wrencher
don't be so hard on yourself
kid!
nah ain't gonna
kid
myself
too old, too much a wise guy
to show much forgiveness to self,
of untruly yours,
whose design was only 50% mine
someone is dying,^
my cocktail of
words and emotions
more muddled than my
usual abnormal,
while sweating off
the golden baddies
to the golden oldies
so where exactly is the
truth burden?^^
somewhere between sad
and a curt "no cares"
my physical reformation,
is part and parceled,
of my regeneration,
the one who gave me
the desire to die before my time,
is dead before her time,
and I don't know the clear water truth
of my variable emotions
design me?
she is deigning to
design me still
with her untimely death
so I cycle even harder
to release the anxiety of
mis-everything
regretting what was lost,
now missed,
that too was, and is,
part of my design,
part of
burden of truths
that design who we
were, are, and yet
may be
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
I do not feel like myself
I am not my own
I am no longer on the inside nor the outside
I'm just.. here
Or maybe there
My skin does not feel like how I remember
Am I a boy or girl
Does it even matter
Gender is an illusion that was pushed on us by our founding fathers
Oh how great they were
They brought us together from chaos
And we could never repay them
Do we need to?
Is that what is meant when they say to not sin?
What if God isn't just one person but an idea
An entity of a group
A feeling that exists in each of us
Today is a new day
And it's still gloomy as ever
The rain drips down my window
I blow out to see my breath crack against the glass
What is the point of redoing everyday
To grow old?
To get married?
Have a wife, kids, a family?
Grow old and wither away
I think that's the answer
We are all part of the cycle
Reincarnate into something entirely new but yet just the same
There is a point to all of this
And with these tears in my eyes
I'm yelling it to the skies
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
I tried to imagine leaving,
And all I could think of was coming back.
It’s not so much that the idea of departure frightens me,
I can easily imagine existing somewhere else,
I just cannot picture my home existing without me,
Call me self centered if you will.
Just answer me this,
What would become of my room?
There is so much of me in there,
Permanent fixtures that would annoy anyone.
My friends painted on the walls,
Ink staining my carpet,
The broken power outlets, used to such extent that all cords must be at a certain angle to work,
To me these things mean home,
To anyone else they would be annoyance in need of repair.
I think of all the effort it would take to expel my presence from my room,
The repainting, recarpeting, redoing, just to get me out,
Would it be worth the effort?
Then I think of the holes I’ll leave behind me.
The books I’ll have to take with me,
Because leaving even one dog-eared whether worn volume is an utter impossibility.
That alone will leave my room nearly empty.
What about the smell of a freshly baked dessert
Will my pie tins be forced into early retirement?
Or even worse,
Will my lovely dishes be sold?
Given to someone who doesn’t appreciate their scorch marks and abundant cracks.
Will my parents try to fill my rickety bookshelf with their own alien tombs?
The thought disgust me, like if someone else were to use my toothbrush.
But worse than the holes I’ll leave are the things I cannot take with me,
The view from my window,
The prodigal richness of my meadow in spring,
The sledding hill in winter.
For every season, very month, practically everyday there is some joy,
Will I ever be able to recover from the loss?
Yet the core of my being seems to call me away,
Begs me to ascend beyond this cluttered and twisted reminiscence of childhood,
This broken version of a shrinking paradise, to small, to old, to painfully familiar.
Is that what home really,
Somewhere so lived in you cannot bear to leave,
or comprehend staying?
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 2:17 AM UTC
sometimes people move away
move on
move forward, backward, side to side
some people just move in place
the heartbeat of being in love with a person is different than that of falling in love with their heart
ever notice how people say your name?
probably just based on the emotion they feel towards the syllables of your great unknown
self-medicating themselves to the touch of your skin
kissing someone with so much passion that the tips of their noses go completely numb
spin a globe and watch it land on the location of your beloved
a lightbulb of everlasting amazement
the continuation of someone with OCD
constantly unbuttoning and redoing their jacket
being a stranger in your own mind
moving sideways in time
the dimensions that you create all on your own
something complex and with strong opinion
a place that you reside but do not wish to
a setting of great intelligent wisdom and sometimes also fortune
your mind
where you can't ever move from
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
My sister sat with me in her car,
taking dollar bills out of my purse
because she wasn’t getting paid until next week.
Dollars going through the parking meter,
each beep reminding me of the news she couldn’t wait to tell me.
As she’s redoing her salmon lipstick
and making sure her right eyelash stays put,
she can’t help but let the words slip
I’m starting fresh. This is my new life.
She already has her mom fooled, this one’s the one.
I stare at my phone, nodding that I’m happy for her,
careful not to say
Is this your third new life this year?
She talks about his money, the daughter from a former marriage
how he called her pajamas Grandma,
picked her out some rouge lingerie for the ***** deed.
A few ***** deeds and he wants to move out and buy her a house.
I’m never quite sure what to say, all that comes out is nervous laughter.
Well, boys will be boys.
The one in Vegas comes to mind first, he also promised her forever.
What about the dealer in California? It wasn’t even his house.
I told her that I hope she’s happy this time,
each ring coming from her phone,
a fang severing more freckled skin.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
When I was down, I got high
When life got in the way, I still got by
There was nothing going ‘round that I didn’t go through
But what you left undone between us, isn’t something that I want to do.
Seems we spend most our lives gettin’ out of the way
Of a sun that’s meant to shine on our darkest of days
Chased by our own shadows straight into the night
Lookin’ back at what won’t work, when the future still might… (whatever)
Friends say I’ve mastered falling down to an art,
Building pretty little piles from what’s been torn apart.
But the pieces that you left are as much as you took,
And no one gets the whole story from reading half of the book.
So when you were up, you put me down
When I got in your way, you ran around
I reaped hope from the furrows, where nothing ever grew
but fixin’ what you’re doin-is more than any man would want to do.
When I think back now what I wish I’d know then,
The same people fool me again and again.
They say hindsight’s 20/20, but to tell you the truth
While I can see through your lies, I’m still blind to the proof.
Yeh, your ghost seems to leap from one girl to the next
And while they keep gettin’ better, I know what’s better ain’t best
If my senses come to find me, they’ll know where I am
I’m just one idea behind, where the thought of you ends.
And when I get down, I still get high.
When life gets in the way, well, I’ll get by.
In fact, there’s nothing [that] comes to mind, that I wouldn’t do
So stop redoing what you undid, so it’s done, and I’ll be over you….
Till then I’m chasing you down, ’
cause when I’m down, at least I’m close to you.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
I write and the words are empty. I try to fill the page but the meaning is not there. It is as if I am repeating myself and redoing what has been done. The well of ideas has gone empty and the water of creativity will not flow from my soul to my pen. I can only mimic what I see and not truly put my emotions into the work. What can be done when the passion has faded and the words have become hollow?
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
Woke up from my dreaming to a nightmare, she was screaming
Got back to the car the radio sang about my demons
I hate heathens, singing along for no reason
As she slams the door behind me
Revenge is open season
5 days in I look like you
Broken glass back pain
*** stains on my shoes
Redoing old never feels new
Only see myself in a car mirror view
I want her in my windshield
I want her name on my screen
Any source of affection puts worth into screams
A honk has no emotion
My notions are bleeding
Feeding on desire, I hit the gas
Before my house catches fire
Her words were knives, dipped in lies
I realize theres no easy way
I "Take a break from all my sinning"
But God made me gay
Screams turned to silence
Caution escaped violence
My bed never felt so wrong
When I left my demons in song
I long for my steering wheel
I feel I have to stop admitting
Can't help that I'm forgiving
I named my car twister
I call this twisted living
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
I want to know the blidness that kept his hands sliding and moving as if two scences were bundled and expelled from the already darkening white shade, pearling infront of his paintngs, There he found the secrets of golden asps and seductive tones
that manipulated Antonys weakness for powerful women. But now the blank verses of god and poet live to the imposible idea of finding secrecy and sharing the myth that his scribe would have to live with. The hardest process of sinking your open thoughts in hot salt. The painful scars of reliving and redoing to go out into the night hoping it wasnt your last.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Listen to me for once
You listen but you don't understand
I don't want to go back to the past
There were flaws in the past
The bad was horrible
The good was sometimes flawed
Why can't you see
See the truth in my words
You read them but you don't comprehend them
It's like I'm writing in a language you can't read
And all you see are my ****** expressions
And the tone of my voice and you're all like
Yeah, I understand.
But I can't go back to that.
Like you answered
The opposite of what I'm asking
Because even the poems you reference
Signify changes from the past
Even the rebooting poem
Because it's about a clean slate
Not redoing everything we ****** up.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
I.
switching my hands with yours in the dark wetness of night
the burn is worth it
let me tell you
cold hard marble
a solid hand to hold
until the crumble ****
you are not one to trust
II.
my grandmother told me it's good to get your heart broken/////to open it up
to bring out your truth
you need to be broken to find yourself raw
are you the grenade for my undoing and
redoing?
a tool that’s it
undo redo undo redo i know this
III.
where is my bed
IV.
last night i got dolled up
i went out
i stayed out late
i wanted to be a bad girl you know
i saw you coming out of smoke
your knuckles like marble like ones i knew
i wanted to kneel down and kiss them and beg
for you to punch me in the face
but instead i took you home
pressed your body against my body to make sure mine was still there
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
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Majesty's Thereupon
COUCH ALLENS
Apr 10
to j_blayze2002
Majesty’s Thereupon
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PORTAL MADE INSURANCE GAZETTE ' SPEAR EARNS...'
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Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
Some days,
I feel lonely
In the dark,
In the quiet,
Seeking
To create
A moment
Or two
Of just being
By redoing
And redoing
With Intention.
Other days,
Though -
Other days,
Everyone
I’ve ever loved
Or hurt
Or been seen by
Shows up
In the alleys
Between
Being
And doing
And I
Recognize
Us.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
the only time I thought this
possible was not yet here
but yet the feelings prevailed
i wanted none of it
but still the heart persisted
the wound though still raw
wanted so badly to heal
and couldn't find
a better doctor still
them all are the same
my head would say
and them all can change
my heart would say
caught in the battle
of logic and loving
didn't know where
to really side
guess it happened again
the course of history redoing
itself, guess walls are down
again and this time
they seem to really want to,
guess i will side with the heart
for now, and wait for
its crying sounds again,
soon i can tell
i just met my future x
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC