"scrabble" poems
The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,
Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –
Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,
And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.
I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –
I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,
I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through
I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
I want to be your abacus baby,Oh you can count on me.
I wont say that i love you, or i heart you, I less than 3 you.
Your molecules must be moving fast,girl. Cause your really hot.
Are you igneous sedimentary or metamorphic? All i know is baby you rock.
And if god existed I'd thank him for you, but I'm rational and read a lot of Sam Harris.
Your beautiful like the font garamad,but i want to see you sandarac, take your pants off.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,
And i observe your quirks oscillating, and I'm formulating, a g-string theory..
Like an archeologist,I'm gonna try and compute your age. cause i really want to date you.
You make me feel like a male giraffe. I want to nudge your **** and make you urinate,and mate you.
Scientific fact,thats what they do.
The value of my love for you cannot be expressed exactly. More rational then Pi.
Hey **** is a legitimate word in scrabble, just FYI
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
You can **** me into your super massive black hole, the center of your galaxy. Im talkin ******
I may not be the strongest or the prettiest, but my knowledge of grammar shines.
I know how to use the words further and farther..correctly. Every fricken time.
Example:farther indicates physical distance
and further a depth or degree
example: the moon is getting farther from the earth
about 4 centimeters annually. Fun factoid,take it home with ya.
You just keep getting further into my heart.
You just keep getting farther into my heart.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,and if the situation is ambiguous, further and farther can be used interchangeably. Just a fun factoid.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
Baby i less than 3 you.
So please take off your pants.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
“You are the leaders of tomorrow”
They told us over and over
Right from the tender age of three
Through childhood and adolescence.
We have outgrown our youth
We are now mature men
We have come of age to lead
Just as promised decades ago.
At a recent gathering
Our leaders of yesterday
Stricken with age and power
And long overdue for retirement
Addressed us, saying,
“Bla bla bla, bla bla, bla bla bla…”
“You are the leaders of tomorrow”
That last statement jolted me awake
From his uninspiring, boring speech.
Then it dawned on me
We are a sleeping generation
We have long been waiting- sleeping!
When we should be leading
*Our greedy, power-drunk leaders,
Will die in active service!
They will NOT hand over to us!
Not if we sit and wait for them*.
I had a revelation that the “tomorrow”,
We were promised “yesterday”
Is fast becoming yesterday, today!
And while the Nigerian youth sleeps
His chance is being usurped by his fathers
Yesterday we heard this promise
Today we hear the same promise
But come tomorrow, we will be too old to lead
And our children’s turn, it will be.
We have been scammed of our future
By the very ones we entrusted them with
And like turns in a game of scrabble,
We have missed ours- forever!
Our leaders are old men
Who have no faith in youths
And come tomorrow, our children,
Will have graves to look up to
Because we would have no experience
From which to advise them…
And like an unwanted track on a CD
Our generation would have been skipped
By the geriatric push of a ⇒ button!
© Raphael Uzor
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Sun swollen
reddening as it sank
that brutal ****** disc
scored by church steeples
and chimney stacks
almost lost in the drifting haze
of sulphurous yellow
and char-black smoke.
Duck boards dip
into the sodden earth
as men ***** along in conga lines
holding tight the pack of the man
in front, lest they should slip
lose quick their footing
be ****** down and smothered
by mud.
The walls of the tunnels
are packed earth
rich with blood and bone
bits and pieces of human
anatomy dangle and hang
as if posed by an artist
with a strange and cruel eye
for detail.
The scrabble for fox holes
and rough scraped ditches,
anywhere, below the line of fire.
The ting and whiz-bang
of a night of action
The whistle, the dash
and the forward push
counted more in men
than metres.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
I've learned my ABCs at one,
learned to read by four,
constructed my paragraphs at six,
a know-it-all reciting parts of speech by seven.
Letters assembled themselves ready for scrabble.
Rocks, paper, scissors,
I never learned to let go of the paper.
And grew up with dry fingers caressing books.
Breathing in language and literature.
They say you can only love something so much
until it leaves you empty.
But I've only ever truly loved a few things about life,
and first was how words strung empathy.
The way I wrote about tying yellow ribbons on trees for a hero at eleven,
wrote about anything that won me passports to a passion I had to sacrifice a few years later after fourteen,
wrote about the boy who broke my heart at seventeen,
wrote about the monsters in my head at nineteen.
I don't know how words always found me
whenever I tried to run away from the world;
how they kept my sanity along with melodies for as long as I can remember,
and made countless others feel less alone.
What I love is a weapon
that has sparked revolutions, waged wars.
What I love is art that built acropolises from embers
and most the world's wonders.
It rushes euphoriant through my veins as much as it does through yours,
yet it is neither blood nor oxygen.
It is all the words burning as we keep them hidden,
dying for us to give them meaning.
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC
Do you know how many times my mother coughs so hard in an hour that it still surprises me she hasn’t lost a lung?
I wonder if all the money that she spends at the gas station on that tiny cardboard box was saved instead of spent, if she could manage to pay the bills before the late notice arrived in the mail.
How many times do you think she tries to quiet the change being pushed around the tabletop as she counts out the quarters, the dimes, the nickels, the pennies before she has enough to slide the coins across the counter at the station?
How many times is her anger thrown at me because nicotine is absent from the house?
I can only imagine the color inside her chest, protecting her lungs with a black tar after too many years of flicking a flame to a thin white candlestick stuck between her lips.
The house smells of smoke and the yellow filter lines the walls, around the frames that hang themselves by nails.
I clean the mirror and see the paper towel golden from the lingering tobacco. My clothes reek of a stench so strong no amount of perfume seems to be enough.
I’m paranoid that every time I’m in a room of people and someone mentions that it smells like smoke, if they know I harbor such a scent that I pour it off second handedly as if I inhale the drug too.
I open the mailbox and the temptation to “lose” the coupon booklet addressed to her grows stronger.
The business cards labeled with a barcode on the back subtracting a dollar off when you buy two packs strengthens the urge to scrabble up the silver coins or summons the question, “do you have five dollars? I’ll pay you back when I get paid on Friday.”
Friday never comes.
I often think about how much longer it will be until all the money spent on tiny cardboard boxes will be split between tobacco and medical bills.
How long can you smoke a pack a day and still be cancer-free?
And I wonder how it’s fair to watch your mother gamble with her life each time she places a thin cigarette between her lips.
Russian roulette with cancer is a game she’s become too good at.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Need adventure Helicopter not included
I mentioned before California is like cereal it is full of fruits nuts and flakes well add Larry to the list he
Found himself out in the yard in a lawn chair and the unthinkable happened he come to the conclusion
He was bored now that just won’t do not in Los Angeles so to solve the problem he dashed down to the
Army surplus store bought a bunch of weather balloons stopped along the way got a tank of helium
Brought them home filled and tied the balloons to the lawn chair then tied the rope to his jeep went in
Got his pellet pistol sat down in the chair so with figuring at release he would float up thirty feet one or
Two ways to get down use the pellet gun shoot a couple of balloons float easily to the ground or if not
That you’re just about even with the top of the house surly you can get the house underneath you to
Jump Off on the roof now Larry wasn’t mechanical so anything to do with engineering was out what was
Is that wonderful feeling of being up there so he pulled the rope there was a slight difference in the
Expected feet not thirty but he shot up and leveled off at sixteen thousand feet ever feel your rope
Might be missing some length well if the thought ever crossed his mind about the pellet gun idea two
Things he was certain about he wasn’t bored and he didn’t want to shoot any balloons deceleration the
Other Way was not an option so what’s a not to bright Californian to do well besides holding on for dear
Life and freezing you added yourself into nature mixed bag nothing left to do but let nature do her thing
So eight hours later he drifts into the Los Angeles airport corridor of all people you would meet a pilot
Trying to land three hundred people calls the tower with this message I passed a man setting in a lawn
Chair with weather balloons and by the way he is at sixteen thousand feet and he has a gun to scrabble
F-16 would be too much even for California so good news for Larry they sent out just a Helicopter and
Brought the lame duck back to safety just another day in the state it’s hard to be surprised in but some
Still succeed
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
I mentioned before California is like cereal it is full of fruits nuts and flakes well add Larry to the list he
Found himself out in the yard in a lawn chair and the unthinkable happened he come to the conclusion
He was bored now that just won’t do not in Los Angeles so to solve the problem he dashed down to the
Army surplus store bought a bunch of weather balloons stopped along the way got a tank of helium
Brought them home filled and tied the balloons to the lawn chair then tied the rope to his jeep went in
Got his pellet pistol sat down in the chair so with figuring at release he would float up thirty feet one or
Two ways to get down use the pellet gun shoot a couple of balloons float easily to the ground or if not
That you’re just about even with the top of the house surly you can get the house underneath you to
Jump Off on the roof now Larry wasn’t mechanical so anything to do with engineering was out what was
Is that wonderful feeling of being up there so he pulled the rope there was a slight difference in the
Expected feet not thirty but he shot up and leveled off at sixteen thousand feet ever feel your rope
Might be missing some length well if the thought ever crossed his mind about the pellet gun idea two
Things he was certain about he wasn’t bored and he didn’t want to shoot any balloons deceleration the
Other Way was not an option so what’s a not to bright Californian to do well besides holding on for dear
Life and freezing you added yourself into nature mixed bag nothing left to do but let nature do her thing
So eight hours later he drifts into the Los Angeles airport corridor of all people you would meet a pilot
Trying to land three hundred people calls the tower with this message I passed a man setting in a lawn
Chair with weather balloons and by the way he is at sixteen thousand feet and he has a gun to scrabble
F-16 would be too much even for California so good news for Larry they sent out just a Helicopter and
Brought the lame duck back to safety just another day in the state it’s hard to be surprised in but some
Still succeed
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 6:31 PM UTC
When you talk to me
I can only smile
Your voice, it gives me chills.
But for every word
That your mouth forms
My mind receives scrabble pieces
Shaken in a bottle.
You laugh and shine
Like summer time.
But I can only smile
Your meaning evades me,
But I adore you so.
For now I'll watch you.
Lift my heart up,
And send me more riddles
As I try to decode
This message in a bottle.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 7:26 PM UTC
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
I.
There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)
II.
I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)
III.
Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.
IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
Over the blank pages
She dotted down the words
She had not courage to speak
She drew her feelings
On the empty sheet of her notebook.
One day she ran out of pages
So she drew along her hands
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
The doodles of how it used to be
While the breeze gently touched her hair
The beat of a song flowing through her ears.
And then one day she ran out of hands.
So she wrote daily encouragements along her arms and legs
Her mama yelled and told her she was silly, she would get poisoned.
And she just kept writing.
Until one day she ran out of arms and legs.
So she started to doodle down her chest and on her face.
But then she realized she was doing it all wrong.
Scribble Scrabble Scratch.
She washed her hands, and her arms, and legs, and chest, and face.
She then picked up a phone and started calling various companies.
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
There she was, at her autobiography book signing.
She put down her pen she got from her father at the age of 4,
And held up the book that had her face plastered across it.
She smiled and held her book up I'm triumph.
Scribble Scrabble Dot.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I am the void left by hope.
I am the frantic scrabble,
the gasp for a mirage.
I am the empty box,
the joke with no punchline.
I am the end of the road.
I am the face you thought you knew,
the parcel for someone else.
the missing last page.
I am the second,
after the second,
that you knew it was over.
I am the coup leader
shot at dawn
I am redundancy
bankruptcy, lonely
I am the king
with blood on my arms
From the nails
I am the logo on the trainers
on the heels
of the one in front
I am the vibrating molecules
Of the sound
Of the door closing
I am the dawning realisation
That you are not
as good as you thought you were.
I am disappointment.
I am the sun reflected
The gleam of polished brass
I am the lace of frost on leaves
I am the newborn laugh
The vibrant flowerbed
I am the happy child
chasing the rainbow
of a bubble on the breeze
I am more than the sum
of the gaps between dreams
I am the strength
In the arms
That hold you
I am the other side
where mysteries are plain
I am the miracle
the rank outsider,
the last to be picked,
who scored the winner,
I am fresh hope.
I am unwavering joy.
I am the rock.
I am.
And I choose you.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
In just seven steps, you can find out:
• How to make the best scrambled eggs
[pepper ‘n love]
• How to improve Scrabble scores
[suffixes are our friends]
• How to buy a house
[budget before sealing the deal]
• How to think like Leonardo Da Vinci
[infectious curiosity and commitment]
But despite the obscene amount of time,
I spend scouring and scrolling,
I can’t seem to stumble upon,
The part of the Internet,
That has the instructions,
To keep your heart happy,
While keeping my mind sane.
Perhaps the sadness and insanity,
Will be a welcome change,
Allowing us to rediscover each other,
In the most honest light.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
This is my street
An old street,
In an old Irish town
The people come
And then they go
In the soft rain
Of a short Irish summer
When the mood is on me
I let my feet walk
And they always
Seem to bring me here
The cafe at the end of the street
And sure,
Where else would they go?
Many is a time
I had a hearty steak sandwich
Or fishcakes with potatos
Or just a coffee and scuffin
To beat the cold outside
And it's many the friend
I found in there
Aye, and lovers too.
It's face is green and black
Milanese style
So the owners tell me
With a striped green and white awning
And simple tables and chairs
And all the love in the world
Music has been had there
And poetry, and just craic
Long Scrabble saturdays
Taken very seriously
We even bought the dictionary
To stop the heated
Word exchanges
So I know most of the people
There is always a smile
Headed in my direction
When I am blue
It brings me to life
Somewhat
And needless to say
The food is always good
It is funny, how
Friends and family
Merge sometimes
As happens
In the cafe at the end of the street
Where friends are family
And family are friends
They told me
They are closing in September
A loss like a family bereavement
I can only hope that
I find another place to go
Or maybe a new street to live on
Where I can
Walk out my door, and feel
Home
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 9:27 AM UTC
Altering my words
Just to score a few cheap points.
You're good at that game!
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
There’s plenty of flesh on her finger,
sagging, loose, folded ,
crumpled at the knuckle.
The nail is peach, white at the tip
manicured, manufactured; plastic.
She reaches out towards a musty key.
The greyish, flesh-coloured cube
awaits her touch.
She withdraws from her ******
her finger folds away with the rest.
Reassured, she begins again.
Her fat stub hovering
over the scrabble of letters
With a satisfied click
the key flattens into the board.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 6:19 PM UTC
I went to far away Bicol
And there the air was cool
I met Ate Wendy and Nanay Vicky
And there we played scrabble everyday
Oh! Nanay thought that I was sickly
So she cooked my favourite spaghetti
How I wished I could stay longer
But I am afraid of our Father Master
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Rocketship
Pistol on my hip
Quick Shooter
No Hitter
One Hitter
Quitter
Express the depress
in your chest
scribble scrabble
blither blather
doesn't matter.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
dimble dumble,
caught a, thimble thumble
of precious morning dew.
dimble dumble, took his thumble thimble,
full up to rimful.
on his nimble rambull
wooly stu,
careful not to lose,
a drippity drop
of the delicious dew.
they flimble, flambled,
up and overed,
down and undered,
till dimble dumble,
with his thimble thumble, filled to rimful,
on the wooly rambull... came to stumble.
his face a crumble,
as the rimful,
roamed and overflew,
the thimble thumble walls.
a dribble drabble did scribble scrabble,
down the rambulls hide.
dimble dumble
chewed his bottom lip
and cried.
"do not fret my little pet, look there is still enough inside"
wooly stu decried.
"i'll be more staid,as we ride our fortunes, soon will be made."
so,dimble dumble
and his rambull crew,
with thimble thumble recovered,
from the tumble.
on they skedoodledaddled. being careful to protect the remaining morning petal's dew.
after a while, time,
flew with dove like grace and dimble dumble,
with his dudes came
to the the very place, of the rimble romble rumble
and royal rapture rap parade
dimble dumble
and rambull stu on bended knee
and really humble
presented their
thimble thumble
not quiet full to rim still
but delicious and felitious morning dew
to the king awaiting
his purchase and perview.
before its spoiling,
it was boiling,
his kettle singing,
songs a ringing,
to the beauteous,
but not so bountious, morning dew.
dimble dumble
watched the
thimble thumble steam
and bubble blip away.
hands flipping flapping
nose jinkling wrinkling
as the fog blew,
his way boiling dew,
tea leaves darjeeling
with daphne blossoms
was the flavour of the day.
dimble dumble
with thimble thumble
empty now
and too, wooly stu
caught a peek of teacups platinum
holding royal blossom brew before the butler,
with a silly stutter,
sent them on their way,
with dimble dumble
all a fumble,
with a thimble thumble
of goldenboldens,
as his hard work's
reward that day.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
I am selling away these board games,
The Sorries, the Troubles, and the Twisters
On which I struggled competitively with you.
My yard sale stifles the lawn,
Pours over my patio and infiltrates my porch swing.
I am selling each game piece, each memory,
Each pair of dice and their two-sided arguments.
They are thrown from my mind once they are carried
Away by strangers who thought them a bargain.
I am selling our immature conflicts,
The jail in my Monopoly
And the alarm clock in Don’t Wake Daddy.
Even Candy Land for me is age appropriate no longer,
As you continue to barely meet its mental requirements –
“for ages 3 and up.”
So I am selling away these amusements
Stacked firmly upon cheap plastic tables,
Feeding my palms with the richness of your absence.
Perhaps your game of Life will entertain one of my buyers,
Taking your cardboard words of wisdom
With an appreciation that I no longer have.
I wish them luck with their future mind-Scrabble,
As their pursuits will be a Risk yet unknown.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
If you want to play,
Lets play Scrabble,
We can mix up our letters,
And make fun with our words.
Let's play Monopoly,
We can pretend we have fancy cars
And spend money like we own it.
Oh, I got it...
Lets play Life!
We can pick our own jobs
And buy temporary houses.
If you want to play,
Let's do this.
Please, just don't play with my heart.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
But rocks are hard
And buttocks are soft
And the two do not
Good bedfellows make
And I cannot remain here,
And so I climb,
Again,
Scrabble painfully up the scarp,
Again,
Towards the light
Of a sun which seems
So very far
And unfeeling
In an azure sky that
Holds little hope
But each painful inch
Is one less in the shade,
Every focused lever against the
Gravity of pain and loss
Removes me from its grasp
A little more,
Until eventually the suns rays
Start to penetrate the cloak
Of my depressed state
And even my wracked muscles
Start to warm and,
At the cliff top from whence I fell,
I spy that rock which my back
Missed still stood in place
Where it always was
Did I lean the wrong way
Or did it wobble?
Or was it a bit of both?
Either way it feels stable now
A rock
On which I pause to lean
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 7:43 AM UTC
Darling, when I try
and write to you, all format
flies from my grasp. Haiku and ten
always too little, and prose
I would have to fill with beauty-
words I do not have to describe us
anymore. You see, unlike the family tradition, I was
never a good Scrabble player. Always
only 100 tiles and short, obscure
words never enough to tell a
story that should be rich, not sparsely
populated with only 1 Z, or
2 Ys or 2 Cs. With you I feel
I am playing scrabble with my words. As always,
my darling, (with) you I am losing.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC