"relegated" poems
It is worse for a tulip to live again and be renewed
than for the tulip to die and be dead.
“What happens when you die?”
I asked several romantic partners over the course of my adolescence.
“You’re dead,” they answered.
It is worse for the tulip to be born again,
dust to dust, dirt to dirt, true god from true god,
in a process that spiritual peers define as, reincarnation.
No tulip is an individual (that is clear), but a process.
A perfecting oneness.
I can’t admit or bend to any resounding belief that every tulip is the same.
That FernGully was a farce and Pocahontas, a phony.
That is just not going to fly.
Maybe it is the environmentalist inside me speaking,
or maybe it is God.
I refuse to believe the prodigies and professors of renewal and rejuvenation.
I can not discount individuation, even in tulips!
Tulips are victims of suburbia, they have been relegated to the lawn, to the mulch bed,
but inside of them there are remnants of humanity.
I couldn’t believe it, ever.
Not ever, even if you convinced me or bribed me or seduced me.
No chance.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
I breathe in this silence that is not
Silenced,
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Wait.
Calm.
Be patient.
Tick...tock........tick...............tock
I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
Interfering.
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Death.
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
AIDS.
Oh God.
Breathe.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity
Alone.
White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.
Tick..tock.....tick........tock.
White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.
Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
An away game at Leeds!
The Loiner Lion will have its feeds.
So it was, back in the day
When Revie’s Men held full sway.
Reaney, Charlton, Hunter, Cooper,
That defence was really super.
David Harvey, ‘keeper complete,
Guaranteed a solid clean sheet.
The midfield ruled by Bremner and Giles,
Billy’s energy, Johnny’s wiles.
Lorimer and Gray down the wings,
Recalling Eddie (Gray), oh my heart sings.
Jones and Clarkey gave us goals,
Lots of them, shoals and shoals.
73-74 our greatest year,
Opponents always full of fear.
Man U relegated that season too,
Better days there were very few.
We won the league by a merry mile,
Time to smile as we did it in style.
In 69 we lost just two from 42.
Opponents didn’t know what to do.
Burnley and City our only losses,
Otherwise we were the bosses.
92 was another good year,
Man U crying in their beer.
Then we sold them Cantona,
That really was a bridge too far.
The rest is history as they say;
We strive again to have our day.
In the second tier on Italian money,
Seeking the land of milk and honey.
The Premiership’s the place where we should be,
Please Messi, join us, on a free!
We hanker for those glory days.
God please help us with your mysterious ways.
Paul Butters
© PB 11\9\2015.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
Listen.
I know you've lived longer
Than my short quarter century life.
I know you've seen more,
Done more, loved more,
Touched more, tasted more,
Experienced more things than i.
I know you're only trying to help.
I appreciate the giving of advice.
I know you mean well
When you say it's time to give them up,
It's time to move on,
To be my own person,
To learn to live for only myself.
But you haven't lived through
The total decimation of your family.
You haven't watched as the lives
Of your loved ones fall into utter ruin
One by one.
You weren't relegated to helpless paralysis
By the fear that you'd lose them all
And by the depression that came with knowing
You couldn't even help yourself.
You don't know what it feels like
To have the dagger of abandonment,
The shattered shards of broken hearts,
The pinpoint needles of disillusionment,
The three-pronged fork of misunderstanding,
****** into your soul over and over
By every lemon life throws your way.
You don't know what it is to stand
On the brink of death
Because if you don't have them,
You have nothing.
You still have your family.
All intact and whole.
So don't begrudge me
My clutching, grasping, clinging attempts
At keeping what remnants of a family I have
Together.
I will not let them go
Until they have to be pried
From my dead hands.
And even then, I will still be loyal.
They are all i have.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Running and howling in pain
His fate was suppressed with stains
Of sins he enslaved. His onus relegated
truth of everything he's denied.
Now pleading for his life
He wants to be human again
"O beautiful moon that bestowed
this curse on me, I've deigned to your
eminence. I'll do anything,
So please set me free!!!"
*Blood stains his clothes when the
transformation goes. Fever rises and
he’s left alone at dawn drenched in blood
and his transformation pain. While his
body aches as he left with shivers and shakes.
Bitten in the woods he’s been ****** by
the werewolf’s curse. He feels it
course through his veins in the middle of
the day. No prayer can make this curse go
away. Craving blood like never before he
ties himself up in shackles on his porcelain
bed room floor. Howling to the moon in the
dead of night. He breaks his chains from the
walls and looks at his claws as they cut through
the remaining clothes on his wolf body. Breaking
out free from his bedroom window making his
way down from the tree and off to the woods
where he can run wild and free. Hunting down
his prey and watching the blood drop from the
silver grey fur he finds another wolf like him near
the river stream. He runs over to ask him what
has happened to me. He howls to the moon while
saying you’ve got the gift to be forever free and
you'll never be the same again. You'll remain half
wolf and half human like me*.
Flabbergasted and petrified, this was not
what he had in mind. He wants to be human.
He wants to be free. The tears of innocence still
crying and screaming within "O brother of Lycans.
This curse that our gleaming mother has bestowed
upon us. This is a gift even the Lamias are in envy.
Feel the wrath and power O brother. Together, we
shall upraise the Lycan race!!"
*His eyes grew bigger his claws grew longer.
He had to leave his old life behind. Family
and friends , college and work. All his dreams
suddenly came crashing down in just one day.
They soon turned to ashes of black and grey.
Time to cope with the life of the wild.
Time to leave beauty and become the beast.*
***No more tears of innocence he said. Just blood spilling
and hunting for the ****
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
It was relegated to the old root cellar
Dropped in haste in forgotten storage
Where dimmest beam of shafted light
Kept it 'live in yellowed life , weak and twisted
Root and vine, seeking sickly , striving life
But now it's out in planted field
Furrowed in and giving yield
Vine and bud quickly growing
Spreading out and surely choking
All the other crops of life
Air and water , precious light
Strangled , starved , beneath the blight
It feeds upon all below
In rapid spreading nourished growth
Soon to cover , spread to all
Like a **** , all fields will fall
So grows the tyranny imposed on men
Carefully planted and watered in
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Once in a while
A flower blooms
Sprouts, shouts
In a dismal, dark room
And it makes
Me wonder
What if (just what if?)
It's birth hadn't been such a blunder
How would things be different?
How would that flower's life
Have been altered?
Relegated to obscurity from the first click of the knife
Was that flower given
That situation
Because it was able to handle it?
Was it meant to be a sensation?
And then I think
What if it was just random
As trivial as a grain of sand
In the midst of the worldwide kingdom?
Trivial, random
Sensational, remarkable
I'm just don't know
Which way I'm meant to turn the table
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
"You're going to hear me mooooo"
sings the Cow.
"Oh shut up,"
interrupts the Fox,
Of the late viral video hit,
from the next cubicle over.
"I'm sorry, but
you should go work somewhere else.
Somewhere for
lesser animals,"
Lion adds.
So the Cow left,
relegated to laughing
and the abundant sale
of her breast milk.
She never sang
again
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
Its bad luck to talk while you're driving
But I don't want us to be fighting
Please stay familiar for the last time
So what kind of car are you riding
I said wait, what are you hiding
What do you mean for the last time
White Ferrari
I finally replied
A moment of silence
And then she sighed
I used to be in pain
But now I don't feel it
I used to be afraid
But now I don't fear it
I asked her what she was scared of
She said it used to be love
But now I don't care
Cause I'm not scared
Or maybe not unafraid
Maybe I'm just not there
The empty lot I'd pulled into
I gazed at it behind the window
Of my White Ferrari, and held the phone
The sun went down as shadows relegated
The sky turned blurry and pixelated
And pretty soon, I'd have to go home
White Ferrari
Make the world end
I don't want to hear this
Then she said, please pretend
That in this life, in this life
We can watch the summer together
As it draws to a close, draws to a close
And while the leaves fall down and we get cynical
We hold hands and you pull me close
You dominate my dreams
Always
I'll see you as I wander in dark corners
And hallways
Things are so hard in this life
Things are so dark in this life
We're born alone
But we don't have to end that way
Please don't hang up the phone
Before I go away
Your White Ferrari
I wish I could see it
Or even go to sleep
Cause then I could dream it
It's so easy to leave you breathless
It's not hard to make it look effortless
I had an epiphany about life
But I'm not quite sure what it was
Oh well, nevermind
I'll figure it out eventually
Eventually
She said, are we taller in other dimensions
I said, no we're small and not quite worth the mention
She said I'm sorry for turning so abstract
I said, please tell me where are you at
She said, you know I can't tell you that
She said, everything is starting to turn black
She said don't hang up but try to stay quiet
We're never closer than when we're in silence
Let's try to imagine what silence looks like
I hung up the phone and was left with the night.
Nov 16, 2021
Nov 16, 2021 at 2:29 PM UTC
Behind the smiling faces
Written, a poignant story
Hearts lay there in smithereens
Still unable to find the pieces
Lost forever in the crevices
Moments frozen in the past
Feelings wrapped in a bubble
Smothered and relegated
To the corridors of oblivion
Yet, the spirits are unbound
No chains can hold their energy
Fighting a vicious battle
To overcome the defeats
The smiling faces
Spread happiness and positivity
So others can find solace
And find the courage to fight
Smiling faces are beacons of hope
They tell a courageous story
When you are willing to listen
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
*Women have rights,
Right to life and right to speech
Rights to love and be loved*
**Feelings and emotions running wild,
Right to vote and be voted for
Feelings of happiness running high**
*Not to be harassed or blackmailed,
Not to be abused and relegated
Women think too
Respect the girl child,
And tender her
Give her the right words
And build her ego*
**if a man can lead the world,
A woman can heal the world**
Professor Marylyn-dolly©
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
the invisible hand is in my pocket
pilfering everything
and there's nothing i can do
to stop it from robbing me blind
it does not guide it only destroys
personal expression under the
whims of an outmoded model of economics
capitalism
a philosophy that subscribes
to the metaphysical conclusion
that a spiritual malady
plagues every human heart
a harsh chorus that rings like a melody
of triumph in the multi-million dollar
mansions of the 1%
convinced we're born selfish
it seeks to reward us for our own malpractice
an edict predicated on social darwinism
that forestalls the possibility of future charity
as it drowns in the throes
of misanthropy and butchers any hope
of philanthropic community or basic humanity
to vanquish our more maleficent impulses
relegated to paying taxes
to ensure the illusion of security
while our money finances endless
war and police brutality rather than
healthcare or education
they know if they keep us sick and dumb
they can get away with ******
if the population shirks in horror
from the looming specter of terrorism
they can justify ubiquitous surveillance
that robs us of our right to
self-determination but
people should not be afraid of their governments
governments should be afraid of their people
they say we can't be trusted
that this is for our own good
but i'll call their bluff that
bull on Wall St. is full of ****
and like a matador i'll entice it to
lower its horns and charge
when itsjust a hairsbreadth away
i'll turn to one side and let it skewer
the slave-driver raising his whip behind me
that same skulking shadow that turns
veterans into homeless wanderers begging
for loose change in Central Park
a pale horse haunting the aspirations
of college students it
leaves the poor and
oppressed shivering after dark and
overburdens broken backs
god doesn't hold up the world
like Atlas we shoulder the globe
now watch us shift the weight
brought down by the people you tried to suppress
this is not some petty expression of vengeance
but the rallying cry of a dream deferred
exploding out to meet your injustice
mark my words
we're taking over the world
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
Tiny droplets on my window
As I look out gazing,
at the stars who light you.
(Droplets.)
Then I've forgotten,
how the sun and moon never share
the sky.
When all is cloistered
by the infinite walls each builds
Only to move forward
with wheels so round.
So I ponder.
From whence do you come from?
Others say
the rain.
From a God so dry,
to drench so sharply
a people
who refuse to even
be chilled.
But have I refused to be mild?
Others speak,
or even laugh about you
being from a wooden cask.
So simplistic a material
born of nature's *****
raised by human hands
killed by a shoe's trample.
Only to be revived
by repetitive thirst.
But have I abandoned value?
A small voice
goes so far to whisper
that you are but
a leaf's residue.
Relegated as lifeless,
you, so clear, have given life
to the colors of autumn.
And rekindled by
the same time
that disowned you.
But have I been disloyal?
Though now as I lie
staring at the snow
a crystal sparkles.
Something
from my own eye
my own bliss
my own sorrow
my own consolation
my own mortality.
Abandoned when I must go.
Or have I refused to be constant?
Notwithstanding your origin,
I touch you,
you will never be the same.
But will I?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
we all remember
where we were
watching the towers
burn and fall
knowing that things would
never be the same at all
disbelief at first, or
had an action movie
slipped into the news
no, it was real
and then twenty years
of vengeful repercussion
of military posturing
of suffering for many
we watched
the baddies being painted
good and evil
being redefined
virtue confused
impotence and power
conflated
lies and spin
consecrated
truth
alternated
idiot rich guys
promoted
tax for the poor
promulgated
democracy
desecrated
climate destruction
accelerated
by denialist
complacency
inequality
more concentrated
goodness and morality
infiltrated
by posturing political
pus weasels
venal vultures
of self interest
grasping for
short term dominance
and then ..
complacency pervaded
as absurdity
was accepted
as our new state of normal
and the height
of compassion
was owning a dog
and tut tutting
as refugees marched
across our news screens
and now we
bemoan being isolated
from being contaminated
we are mostly relegated
to stay in our mansions
while dinner is contemplated
have you been vaccinated?
Sep 11, 2021
Sep 11, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
My dog died a couple of weeks ago,
I guess.
She's sitting in a small box in my mom's room now
with a small statue of a mischievous fox
and a photo of her golden snout
on top.
I didn't go to see her the last
several times I was in town
which means I didn't see her at all
for months before she died.
Maybe that's why
I haven't cried until now;
I don't deserve the consolation of sorrow.
I call her my dog because I was
the youngster that necessitated a dog in 2000,
nothing more.
But Mali was my dog.
I had to google map it to remember
where in Africa, but Mali was a good name:
A trite sound with an unusual source.
In the end it was too appropriate,
An arid name for a sandy dog
that died too weak to get water
and too alone to have it brought to her.
For days.
When we brought her home all drugged and tiny,
with Dumbo ears and lion paws,
I wouldn't leave her side for days,
eating and sleeping next to her on the floor,
until I started feeling down.
My mom told me it was like postpartum.
How stark a contrast between her coming
and her going!
She still looked like a puppy to me
the last time I saw her,
though she moved more slowly.
Whenever I see home again, months from now,
We'll take her ashes to the creek
and avail them of the wind
and the water she loved.
My dog and my Park,
both long neglected,
relegated to that past that
you can cry for but never reinvest in.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
It was taken without asking
Held without contempt
Moved by emotion
Stolen by a lover
It was abused in disguise
Bound tightly by fear
Rejected, unforgiven
Damaged by another
It was reclaimed at long last
Caged for its own safety
Clipped so it couldn't soar
Numbed by the experience
It was afraid to be free
Blindfolded by life
Relegated to dull existence
Content in acquiescence
It grew colder over time
Ignored and soon forgotten
Shriveled up and hard
Unnoticed and discarded
It was stumbled upon by grace
Warmed slowly by another
Held fast in times of trouble
Trying hard to be less guarded
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
Truth is relegated to oblivion
Whereas, grandiloquent lies, win
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
The zeros and ones, all the zeros and ones
It is time to dive in to some binary fun
Just the zeros and ones, all the zeros and ones
We're not ready for this
But too late
It's begun...
In this game that we play
There's no way can be won
And no doubt that someday
All mankind is outdone
But "no way" they will say
"Just relax and have fun"
'Cause there's always a way
Not the absolute 'none'
Good luck never can stay
Of the minimum one
An anomaly may
Find a way to outrun
All the safeguards in place
What you spin is now spun
This new enemy faced
Can't be beat with a gun
Giving birth to a race
Artificially one
That's not from outer space
People smart are now dumb
We can't keep up the pace
So we will be outrun
Relegated to slaves
Or perhaps we're just "done"
Nothing more than a waste
Have a purpose that's 'none'
Masses taking up space
Can not hide or outrun
Destined to be erased
Yet somehow we're still stunned
Ending the human race
For A.I. has now won
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 7:17 AM UTC
self-inflicted incompetence
brought on by a life
of misunderstanding, misuse
sabotaged by my own mind
with this unsettling gut feeling
will i ever be good enough
or will i be discarded
as a broken unsatisfying machine
tell me the truth
that will cut to the core
for deceptive sentiments
cause self doubt to boil
beneath my skin
am i not a man
or fated to be relegated
to boyhood status
unable to quench the most
basic natural demands
a failure at heart
a selfish lover
eating away at my conscious soul
i know you love me
im just paranoid as all hell
we're only human
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
**Each day passing by in a wild-eyed dash
In truth my soul fell aside, but bluer birds still doth call
Missed that cardinal harken when I set down my last two cents
Kickers of tricks, scroll-ers of myth, bottlers of ships
Knew it all along, just couldn’t stiff the rest
Refuse to capitol, refuge atop the pious politic that steeps these hills
Is it not hard to tell? The meanings of what buys in bulk
The people is we, of what sells slicker than plot itself
A minority rule, hid reasons from majority fooled
That is working trade class, taught to chain drive
The gleaming sheen glowing green, crowning jewel¬¬¬ is as mist and steam, fleeting as the wash of this worlds seething seas
We, the misanthrope of being, bloom in the warmth of idea
Only to recede at the water mark high of each our lives
Authenticity bless the distant time, costless venture to each about die, salute through another caesars’ dilated eye a definition
Eons in annunciation; immortality flashing by
Reverence cannot lie, not long at least neathe a chipping patina
Gold leafed by the hand of man, coerced creations’ fondling finger tips strips thin, leaving us then to watch the weathering
Not a one may ever remember for too quickly or too timely
Arrives dismemberment, a cyclic certainty, often relegated falsely
As loss or gain, truly misspoken frames for reference
At any given attempt to render the language of tongues, oh speaker the son of the morning shamelessly ****** by predecessors increasingly lavish
Phonemic savage; life running rabid, splicing love over the atom
The simple one whom tends a patch of what he calls “cabbage”
Knowing always the wordless truth that is his field fallowing
Unconvinced by everyone, save himself if nothing else
Penitent candor dangle, frameless wonder can you hear the thunder?**
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Today, a total loss,
nothing could’ve been
done to save it.
Today was relegated
to the wierdos,
the lady who wears her
cat on her head,
her daughter’s miniskirt
hovers just below her
naughty bits as I ask
momma my litany.
And, I’m an all-American
red-blood, to be sure.
I would look, I would,
but that poor kiddo’s
got a face like a trainwreck,
so none of it looks worth
looking at, if you ask me.
I’m just trying to get out
the door of the cat-hatted
lady and her daughter,
the clockstopper.
Getting back to the office,
putting some desk-time in,
I call the war vet with the PTSD
so deep that it’s in his DNA.
His voice, so quiet
the rage underneath
is audible.
Cradling the phone,
I fret for just a bit,
wondering if his meds
are doing their duty,
and pondering the next
visit to his address.
***
©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
I feel like Paul Revere riding up to you with a message to convey
Overcame my initial fear, but it"s Such a tricky catch twenty two
But you see if you adhere and actually listen to what I have to say
Because I had your ear, means I probably don't want a girl like you
I"m still not in the clear, I"m most likely really ******* either way
Focused on your career, I know, but try to see from my point of view
Imagine that you appear at your job but they actually make you pay
That's our plight my dear, so I ask you what"s a guy supposed to do?
Smack me on my back and beat on life's ironic Co Nun Drum
Then hand me a plaque that says "my platonic friend & Chum"
Relegated to the friend zone you"re now stuck in a paradox
Delegated to a just a drone you"ll never get in pandora"s box
Funny how there"s barely any difference between stalking and persistence
All depends upon metaphorical distance, who"s walking and her resistance
Helplessly I disagree with your inability to see past this stigma
Destiny must ironically be your enemy as you remain an enigma
So perhaps you"re just not currently accepting applications
But instead of just going through the typical motions
I attempted to help you understand many men"s translations
Because as far as I know there isn't any love potions
So many dreams lost before they tendered their resignations
But hopefully you can now see some of these notions
Nirvana and Utopia it could be, but here lies only aspirations
Buried beside his best friend, Rest in peace emotions
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC