"scraggly" poems
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?
How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged
Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?
The Arrivals Board flashes:
une poétesse est arrivé
eine Dichterin ist angekomme
a poetess has arrived
una poetisa ha llegado
Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?
**Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout**
Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother
Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming
Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:
Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria
But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address
Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking
This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land
Is there any other way?
------------------------------
Postscipt
**Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...**
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Dog in a bush.
Dog lights a smoke.
Dog has long scraggly hair.
Dog sleeping on streets.
Dog scratching her face.
Dog picks at her skin.
Dog lights up again.
Dogs hair is in tangles and messy.
Dogs skin is ashy and broken out.
Dog cries at nights.
Dog wonders how to get her hands on the monster.
Dogs skin is becoming more flawed with every run up with the monster.
Dog hears wispers at night.
Dog still wanders ally ways.
Dog lets people do stuff with her in order to get in contact with the monster.
Sometimes the monster is laced with one of its friends.
The dog never really does pure stuff anymore.
Dog told herself she would never get addicted.
Dog is addicted to the monster.
Crank
Monster
Crystal ****
Oh yes!
Dog does ****
And dog loves her ****
Dog signed a contract with the monster the very first time it enter her system.
Dog has a life long relationship with ****
Dog ****** up.
Now her life is uncontrollable.
Dog isn't stupid.
The monster controlled her.
Dog was smart loving and sweet.
Monster was controlling addicting and very very
Very
Very
Veryyyyyyy
Persuasive.
Dog holds hands with the monster now.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Scraggly curl hair bounces in the air
wagging with whisky eyes breezy pleasing the eclectic electric hectic now mind
like finding a papaya inside an oyster
battery powered like a pomegranate passionfruit flower growing and glowing
around my trinity heart with the noise of a sphere's galactic ******
Crystal Citrine Mountains provide water fountains of sunlight
as so tye-dye t-shirt hip-cat hippos smokin' coconut shisha bathe in barrels
of bourbon.
Lion snakes spit words of worlds hurling nebulous timeline's spiraling
and crashing and splashing baptism ripples together painting Pollack Splatters
with the aroma of Byrd Jazz Jam on rye-whisky bread.
Fractal Berries served by the Far Out Faerrie Ferryman Skeletan with bejeweled emerald eyes
winks while I read in the reeds panting in pan-flutes while water rabbits scamper
into clay enclaves to bathe in pinecone designed sand-tubs.
The hieroglyphic phoenix twists and skip-scats neon green vinyl
turning the wind inside out to x-ray flames of fireworks.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
Shimmer and flow
Wood Lake at sunset seems to emit a soft glow.
Waves like edges move and dip
Feathering out, tumble and flip.
I hear the giggling of happy little girls
Dunking heads underwater and wetting their curls.
Scraggly young boys jump off a long pier
Showing their bravado that they have no fear.
Mallard ducks and tan little birds soar and float.
Passing patient people fishing off docks, or in a boat.
As I watch natures glory a gentle breeze caresses my sleeve.
I am at peace with myself with nothing to grieve.
I am very grateful for the time I spent here.
It gave me the chance to think with a mind that is crystal clear.
I was in my own world relaxing on my inflatable chair
With the sunshine as my companion floating here and there.
This quaint little lakehouse is a Godsend to friends
Who need some time to heal, make changes or amends.
The owners are loving in spirit, generous and kind.
They open their home as a haven for the heart, soul and mind.
Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Cindy1128
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
###
today
I went to the beach in search of epiphany.
I was hoping to find her among the clouds,
witnessing her morph into an ivory shape that would
probe my unconscious into fashioning
some big epiphany
out of her silver linings,
relentless against the beating winds.
or perhaps
unearth him beneath the patterns of cracks in rocks; and
he would weave a veiny trial to
lead my psyche into navigating
the big epiphany
after testing his infallible focus,
relentless against the beating waves.
instead
I felt the sea spray tease my toes
the maritime breeze whip my face
the scraggly sand stab my heels
the roaring waves crash against the jagged cliff
I did not find epiphany.
all I found
was that again
I felt small.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
When I look in the mirror in the morning,
I feel fine.
I brush my hair.
I am fine.
I brush my teeth,
And I am fine.
Then I notice how my teeth aren’t as white as they could be.
But I'm still fine.
Then I put on my clothes and I notice how I spill over the sides.
But I am fine.
Then I notice how my hips jut out
And my jeans are never long enough in the ankles.
Then I spend ten minutes thinking of changing my jeans,
Because this shirt is too tight
But I opt for a hoodie instead.
Then I am lost in the hoodie.
I feel like a blob of fabric.
And then just a blob.
I get in my car and look in the mirror to adjust
And notice how dark under my eyes are.
When I’m pretty sure they weren’t that dark earlier.
As I drive to school, I notice my hands on the steering wheel
And ponder how they can be both fat and scraggly at the same time.
I get to school and notice people staring at me at the red lights
While I begin to cross the road.
I pass windows and with each one,
I notice my thighs grow larger with each step.
I notice how wide I am when I pass other girls
Then I think about my ankles and I swear I can feel them swell.
By the time it is twelve o’clock,
I have convinced myself that I am a
Bulging,
Suffocating,
Beast
Who tramples everyone in the room.
And the Earth is suddenly too small for someone as big as I am.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
"speak quietly"
ah, but how would the people
living on the scraggly edge
of the mountain cliff
ever hear us if we did?
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Meet me where the rising sun won't glow on our faces
When the hour strikes time aghast as hurried hands tie laces
Meet me at the scraggly wharf by the river
Where lips whisper on each others breath and trembling tongues quiver
Take me in the darkest corner of the the old abandoned shed
Love me like no other man or I shall have your head
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
choo choo
next stop.....perdition
(no, not really...no-one believes this Stygian opacity)
1.
look how Time doth ravage thee
look what it did to thy visage
in smithereens, lies youth
it so artfully takes away
what is held so dear
rivers and streams
valleys and hills
arching to ecstatic heights
plunging to abysmal lows
into the ravine of chance
stirred by the spoon of Time
slowly around the cauldron
brews the self-same mixture
then poured into chasms of forgetfulness
using the eternal sledgehammer
it
smashes the foundation of thought
grinds the nutmeg of speed
pulps the fruit of mentality
slows the pulse of sensation
and pardons none.
2.
what was once sensuous and voluptuous lips
now are merely two dry slits on your face
once stared-into eyeballs, now glass over
vitreous cataracts steadily grow, weed-like
toned into lithe elastic bands now stretch
away into forever, a pale platform to walk on
life's morn is encompassed by years' slanting
clouded and bedimmed by mists of age
butterfly's existence outweighs a man's
by mere night-veiled windowpane of true sight
draw the curtains; close the shutters; screen the eyes
the time has come to shed all blinkers and face the sun.
3.
crimp
sag
limp
drag
mud cracks down a dipping dale
scalding pain sears sore half-foot
yes, time is but a disease
ravaging all
without fear or favour
sunken eyes
slower reflexes
tardier mind
scraggly body
hides not
condescends not
forgets not
the glimmer of ....
a time of ...
4.
cathedral invites the walker in
cool and calm recesses
sit silent
wait....
then they walk in, carrying
one who had but a lucky half-score lot
clear soprano note becomes a rudderless bleat
announcing the folly of stifling ego
now shorn of burning frost of circuitous fervour
beams of mercy cast a final look-see
jump the barriers of
time
to
carry thee off.
pipe organ-stops are pulled out
(art thee ready? platform number 5)
S T, 9 May 2013
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC
Call delicate sirens of the working class!
half-bum minimum wage poverty line
subsidy sages hollow of materialism devils,
devoid of darkness internal fire strike rage
and hellion god bowels light flickering shallow men.
The rich men.
The truly poor men living in clouded manors on
Ignorance Avenue.
Delicate sirens not so poor after all,
not so empty or so full.
God is the prayer call
and siren droll
and *** roll-in-sleep afternoon shore-breeze faint of hope
approaching winter-fall showering divinity flowers the same material as Peter's scraggly beard while he coughs his angelic bronchitis wheezes, purifying the western air.
Peter is apostle
his snores are their own gospel
the doves in his dreams
will always be there.
The battle goes on
the bottle goes up
the rattle hollers out
the chatter not without.
Sirens call! Call with short breaths as
the world cyclones through universal woe.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
*** starved and aging badly
Too many cigarettes and 'dank *** weed'
Bad tattoos and ****** hair so scraggly
He's called in sick to work all week
He set his high score four years ago
But she broke his heart last June
Now he's stuck in his parents basement
Doing speed runs on Halo 2
She has no cash to feed her cats
But she bought two wigs on Monday
She dresses up like anime girls
And thinks she'll be famous someday
She'll tell you she's just keeping it real
While dressed like someone from science fiction
She meets the boy at some comic con
And they go to her hotel room to make friction
...
Edgelords and meme queens
Addicted to the obscene
Spewing hateful words
With no care for what they mean
It seems that even the regals
Are doing their kegels
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 1:06 AM UTC
you had two tattoos,
long brown hair
and brown eyes that had green flecks in the sunlight
you had big dreams
and a scraggly beard
and a love for me that I didn't understand
you had an acoustic guitar
and calloused fingers
and strong shoulders
you had a love for poetry
and a hate for your dad
and a strong nicotine addiction
you had my heart in your hand
and my secrets in your mind
and my fingers intertwined in yours
you had a lot of hopes
but they were never enough
because you took them
and shot them down
with silver bullets
using the same gun
your mother used
to escape
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
*I feel like river water.
And I don’t belong to stagnancy,
yet I’m caught in a lake.
•••
*I’m destined
to move silt and sediment.
And overturn
submerged pebbles
so they won’t see
the green of moss.
I’m meant to surge
and eat into banks
so I could be split -
to make more of me...
My reach would extend
far and wide -
like scraggly fingers
grabbing at the
face of the earth.
My energy channelling
through careless forks
and into slimmer branches.*
•••
My soul is river water....
And my heart renounces
the throne to idleness.
Yet I am,
but a lake.*
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
I see you daily
and I've come to realize
that nothing of you is flawed.
These past years
I have been privileged
to see you:
receive letters from division I athletics
blossom from the flower of puberty
and live in a gorgeous home.
But as I broke through your flawless facade,
I saw hurt and vulnerability,
I no longer saw perfection.
Your mother- lost to cancer,
your father- an angry man,
your siblings- hateful.
I have been puzzled
to see you:
deny admissions to division I schools
let your hair grow scraggly, your face become oily
and your house be foreclosed.
You are not what I thought you were.
You are like me
you are weak
hurt
abandoned.
You, like me, are not perfect.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
Cracked pavement stretching ever on,
Rolling hills no longer majestic,
Scraggly plain bushes all the same,
clooudless sky a dull dull blue,
and that stupid song on the fuzzy radio for the millionth time.
God this is boring.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
"Bring your gumboots and rain coat, we're going on an adventure"
Lost, going around in circles; embarrassing.
Rainy, sick, "Let's go".
Pizza! Closed... cue more embarrassment.
Car rides along the main street, soft music playing
"Can I borrow that towel for my hair?"
Picks place to eat.
"Let's become humans again"
Dry hair, deodorant, changing shoes.
Struggle...
Horn blaring.
"This looks weird. Windows fogging, horn going, scraggly hair"
Awkward belly laughs.
Best avocado burger and aioli chips ever.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
THE BRIDGE says: Come across, try me; see how good I am.
The big rock in the river says: Look at me; learn how to stand up.
The white water says: I go on; around, under, over, I go on.
A kneeling, scraggly pine says: I am here yet; they nearly got me last year.
A sliver of moon slides by on a high wind calling: I know why; I'll see you to-morrow; I'll tell you everything to-morrow.
1.4k
for Drumhound,
whose poems make me weep in the early morn.
Which drop in the salt sea can say
I am better, I am the best,
only the visceral,
vis-a-real,
truth from the vision.
This drop we cherish,
this drop is serious,
this drop, we keep.
No man is a poet
to his wife and child.
First Foremost,
he is just theirs,
Then the world can have him
as just a poet,
after they are done,
loving him for his totality.
Drumhound has no definition in the dictionary.
So I wrote this, my own, my visceral, my virtual one,
my vision real and realized,
his word vise on me, surreal.
Plain among poets,
a salt sea drop I keep.
Once anything is defined, it exists forever.
like a single scraggly blade of grass
of a poem I once memorized,
about a child I did not know,
but know so well,
a human-memory survives perennial,
once defined, forever lives.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
Hekyl and Jyde
Dr Hekyll was a strange old sort
dabbled in physics and reform of tort
took things serious as a heart attack
never smiled much hardly ever a crack
he worked every day from dawn to dusk
research from rhino horn to sweet corn husk
when he sipped on his brew stumbling in a haze
colors flashing everywhere fell into a daze
his hair bouffant and his collar flipped
behind the wheel of his corvette he slipped
checking his pretty face in the rear view mirror
Yes he was cool Mr Jyde couldn't get any clearer
down to the nite clubs he would saunter in
order himself a tall boy of tonic and gin
the ladies would flock all seeking his attention
checking his supply of disaster prevention
by two a.m. his reserves running thin
time to get back to his laboratory again
before his hair and good looks disappeared
they would all get a look at his scraggly beard
as the sun arose he staggered to his feet
dressed in his fancy suit Italian shoes on his feet
rubbed his eyes and in the mirror he winked
threw himself a kiss and never even blinked
yes he was a contrast of demeanor and style
his somber face covering up his smile
back to his dreary life of barely alive
he was Dr. Hekyll and Mr. Jyde
Gomer LePoet....
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
When you hear stalls emanating sobs
In cracked, ***** bathrooms, in between jobs
Drunk, gritting his teeth and getting buttfucked
By black men, grunting, as you stand dumbstruck,
Do you wonder how a man could be so down on his luck?
In a truck-stop graffiti-tiled bathroom in his white frock,
Trying to ignore the incessant crow of the ****
Gagging between unforgiving ticks from the clock.
Sipping on beer, the **** bleeds from the cell
Spreading dollar bills over the ghost where he fell.
Pale-white, scraggly, he bends down for his cash
Using mental math to make the conversion from bills to crack.
Rope still dangling between his teeth, he drops the syringe,
Dragging a cigarette and counting his next binge.
Do you wonder if on the way to help, he just lost
His way? But he looks up to ask "the **** you want?
Are you throwing out an ad hominum argument?
Slipping into something like aluminum garments.
Throw me face down into the edge of a tar pit,
What are friends for?"
Kaysea, turn back, you don't want to touch it
Your lungs will turn black and your soul will be rusted
Over by doubt, self-deprecation and shame
You'll realize everyone else is exactly the same
Only you've changed. You don't need the shot
Lie sprawled, get sick naked in one spot (and rot)
Lest we forget the chains of superstitious fear,
The two of us would be lending bleeding ears.
Gotta wait for the grenadier to return
With the test results
What have we learned?
Gotta find the truth from within the turntables
What have you earned?
Misery loves company, and this is your catch.
You desire the freedom of looking at mirrors to retch
But it's not lucidity (you'll forget that a lot),
Just impulses revealing that which is not.
Your father'd die twice if that was your insight.
Do we all have the right to be in hell for a night?
There is a never ending layer of nicotine in my throat
And nostril scabs, and that's all she wrote, I hope.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 1:38 PM UTC
Such a short time
in which this feeling of fear
has grown enough
to control my life.
I "woke" each morning,
eager for the day,
eager for that class.
Acceptance,
and laughter-
a place where
we all look like fools
and our problems are left
on the coatrack outside the room.
I thought,
maybe I can do this,
maybe,
I can be happy,
just for a little bit.
I went so far as to socialize.
I thought this could be the year
to turn things around,
to finally be happy,
but then I made a mistake.
Socializing with someone
whom I would see in class,
outside,
and online.
Talking to me out of pity
or to make a fool of me
I know not which,
but I know now it was a mistake.
I was so happy,
just for a little bit,
and he made me happier,
but now fills me with fear
and an uncontrollable
nervous shake as we talk.
Chill, relaxed,
lucky for him as
he makes my heart beat fast
and not in a good way,
in a way that makes me self conscience
and close to tears.
Carefree personality,
but the way he speaks of women,
When he speaks,
like males often do,
of the petite sort of girl.
Bouncy and bubbly,
with short dyed hair
flowery skirts,
and spunky
with a perfect figure.
She's perfect!
He'll exclaim,
as his sort always do,
and I have to then hide my tears.
I go home and fall to the ground
curled in a ball
of my own pathetic tears.
Body overrun with the knowledge
that no man will ever lay back
at the end of a day and think
"I'm glad she's in my life"
"She makes me smile"
"I can't wait to see her again"
"How beautiful she is"
I'll never know that feeling.
I'll finish my starved
and shaky day
by confronting
my plain,
fat self
in that cracked mirror.
Now I "wake",
dreading the one class
I really liked.
Fearful of the irrational self loathing he causes.
Looking around to see a terrifying standard
of what is desirable.
Observing those beautiful girls
who know how to match their clothes
and style their hair
who leave school to live their lives,
while my mismatched cloth
and scraggly hair
goes home
to read books on how to fix a speech impediment,
on how to socialize,
on how not to be me.
How pathetic I am.
I'm not even sure why I'm scared,
or why his words hurt,
I just know that being there
kills me.
It rips me apart
and leaves my lifeless body
broken on the floor,
begging for death.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 2:39 AM UTC
Shave your hair
Grow your beard
Make it scraggly
Stop riding your bike
So you put on 10kg
Drink more coffee
And whisky
Change your cologne
And stop showering
Take up smoking
Don't brush your teeth
Thanks, much easier now
Yours Sincerely
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
It came from deep
In the Florida swamp
Draped in unknown covering
The gray of southern moss
Its hair was said
Long and scraggly
The deep green of cypress trees
Moving through the fetid water
Tall cutting saw grass
Brushed tops of its knees
Some say they have seen
The elusive giant creature
On warm tropical nights
Striding slowly into watery woods
Cautiously
Golden eyes shining bright
Frightened hunters
Upon encountering the huge shadow
Run in panic
Left and right
Shivering with fear and terror
Told exaggerated stories of pursuit and flight
Now and then on an orange moon
His massive foot prints can be seen
So of course the tales grow
Of the moss covered monster
That lives in the world of black water
With gleaming eyes of gold
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC