"sketchbook" poems
It's almost 10:30 pm and I am thinking about the woman on the radio
who sang about how she's made of "dirt and stardust"
and, sleepily, I wrote those lyrics on the back of my sketchbook
And about how I wish I had an
accent,
every word drenched with butter
or spices
the flavor of my country
but instead I just have
grease.
As I'm writing this the flashlight's
spot of light
is half-spilling onto my wall,
"Helena Beat" is stuck in my
head, and has to stay there because
I wrote it down.
I know tomorrow I will wake up
with a cramped hand
and remember that I wrote.
look back on it, and think that it is
stupider
than I
thought.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
into the pewter,
a sprinkle of lavender lent
each dusk
of ages past--will my love
outlast such sacrifice
~~
(C)2010/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony
..first in Sketchbook 5-5 SepOct 2010
~~
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
Here I lye with you-
you don't listen, so my words
write reversed haikus
I don’t need your drugs,
but I do need you to know
no one deserves this.
I choose to let you
treat me like I’m blindfolded;
Still, I gift to you-
Graphite and color
a blank sketchbook (with this piece)
Inscribed in the front.
Art is all I know
so this opportunity.
to express it all-
Has such strong power,
you might never truly know…
Still- I hope you do.
Oct 24, 2022
Oct 24, 2022 at 11:39 PM UTC
I'm still waiting for you to kiss me
With those crimson lips so smooth.
And I'm still waiting for us to be alone
When the pain in your bright eyes can be soothed.
I'm still waiting for you to get help
For the carmine rivers that you trace.
And I'm still waiting for a reason why
You broke the promise you put in place.
I'm still waiting for my head to stop spinning
The rose hairclip means I see you down the hall.
And I'm still waiting to tell when my stomach flips
If it's good or not at all.
I'm still waiting for my logic to return
But love gives an alazarin tint to every drama.
And I'm still waiting for a chance to talk to you
But I seem to have bad karma.
I'm still waiting for that hug you owe me
My ruby hair shoelace flopping in my eyes
And I'm still waiting to be the tall one of the pair
As I try to move on, part of me dies.
I'm still waiting for that movie date we planned
And the ketchup coloured earring you wear in the left ear
And I'm still waiting to dance and twirl you round
In my arms I could hold you near.
I'm still waiting for when you blush
Vermillion as insults are thrown across the street
And I'm still waiting for the chance to set that right
Remmembering you defending me in the stifling heat.
I'm still waiting for the time to tell you
How much you're in my thoughts
And I'm still waiting for your birthday so I can gift
The cadmium sketchbook that I bought
I'm still waiting for the coral pain to stop in my heart
It's there for you, of that I have no doubt
And I'm still waiting for the laughter to return
To my life when we sort this out
I'm still waiting for the trip to the coast
The bergundy viking boat alight
And I'm still waiting for what will never be
But then again, it might.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
I am from the towering oak and pine trees
That sway on the old forest’s edge,
Coyotes howling in the shadows
A haunting lamentation
I am from the creaky stairs and floorboards
At the house on Liberty Street,
From the ancient gas heater and its tendrils of flame
That never seemed to be quite hot enough
I am from the sound of my father’s voice
Heavy with sleep as he whispers to us
A late night bedtime story,
Scaring away the monsters under our beds
I am from Sunday mornings
Bursting with rays of golden light and
Filtering through glimmering church windows
Lingering on familiar faces
I am from ‘make good choices’
'Be a peacemaker’
‘You are greatness’ and
‘Oiaue!’
I am from the scent of Mom’s cookies
Chocolate chip and butterscotch
Melting away winters and
Warming cold hearts
I am from acrylic paint,
Graphite, ink and canvas
From smudged hands, stained clothes,
And a sketchbook full of scribblings
I am from the crisp chill of autumn
In the mountains of Vermont,
Staring into a sea of stars
As dazzling sparks float skyward in the distance
I am from the cool sea breeze
And the salty mist over the water
Waves crashing fiercely in the haze
Of Newport’s rocky shores
I am from the quiet peace
That can only come from the words
“I love you” and the warm embrace
That often follows
I am from endless words
Written with shaking, ink-stained hands
On crumpled bone white paper
Hoping to be good enough to keep
I am from weak muscles and fragile bones
From hesitant first steps and training wheels
From stubborn no’s and penitent yes’s
From late nights and shadowy eyes
I am from the past
I am from the present
I am from the trembling, changing
Pathway to my future
I am from this house
This family and
This home
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 8:08 AM UTC
i fell into oblivion,
from the shores of Beyond Death
its waters were vermillion
a thousand colors under black
i fell into oblivion
and held the seawaves in my arms
but even as the fog came in,
and my mind was slipping away
there was a catch- an infernal life vest
and my lungs still struggled for air.
i fell into oblivion, my sketchbook held me up
my pencil my oars,
the spine my rest
grey and white drawings held me in their hands
oblivion, they said, it's not as it seems
it's not what you want
stay here with me
don't let go of the pencil, it's keeping you sane
each stroke that you touch pencil to page
you're drawing your heartbeats
in monochrome grey
i fell into oblivion, and washed on the shores
of black sand and grey sand-
Life at its Worst
but i managed to crawl a little farther up the shore
the sand turned to white, the clouds swept away
but still back behind me
oblivion tugged on its rope
and collapsing, i gasped
my heart tugged out of my throat
i saw my own heart lying red on the sand
soon followed my lungs
still taking in air
and i died on the beach, my bones scattered bout
but still i resisted,
dying wasn't for me yet
so i picked up my pencil
sand stuck to the tip
it made little furrows in the shining bright sand
and when i couldn't hold my pencil at all
that's when i really died-
my soul was no more
but i didn't swim back into the black sea
i drifted away on a cloud made for me
left behind my body, my organs, my bones
around them the words, carved into the sand
-the world is my sketchbook-
-i shall not be destroyed-
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
Kind,
Shy, funny man,
Did the best that he can,
To raise me to be what I am,
Beautiful baby girl,
Smiling every second,
What everyone wants in the world
Years pass,
Daddy always there,
Doing the best he can,
Raising me to be the way I am
Beautiful baby girl,
A baby no more,
Middle school,
Troubled;
Diminished smile,
Daddy where are you?
No reply
Daddy's soul has left his eyes
No more doing what he can to raise me how I am,
Doing what he can,
To stop the voices in his head
Searching for cameras,
In the walls,
Paranoia controls his all,
Delusions
President,
Police,
Mom,
Everyone out to get him,
Stumbling upon his daughters sketchbook,
Sketch unfinished;
Headless body
Voices,
Convincing to be dismembered,
Out to get him;
Dismember him,
Paranoia growing,
Irritability as well,
Mommy a victim,
Strangled, breathless,
By a body with no soul
Life flashes amongst her eyes,
Children being married,
Awakes,
Escapes,
Daddy's alone,
In a mental home
Not for long,
Returns with medicine to fix the harm
Daddy?
Void of soul replaced
Stability,
Daddy regained,
Medicine disposed,
Voices grow,
They're going to **** me,
The 9th,
Facing doom,
Departure to a highway overpass,
Aimlessly walking,
The edge
Concerned bystandards,
Authorities called,
Shouting,
Scared,
No way out,
A fall,
A crash,
Daddy,
Is dead.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:11 AM UTC
Never a fan of holding hands
I keep my fingers sewn into pockets.
As leaves turn to snow,
my toes find themselves wrapped in wool
Ever the silent observer,
I watch your lips lock with the lip of a coffee mug
I hang a dream catcher from my ear
hoping to catch all of your nightmares,
so that they may stay forever silent.
I keep your heart in my sketchbook
My fingers press into temples,
You let out a breathe you didn't know you were holding.
On my tongue, your name.
You speak in hieroglyphs,
the dead language of pharaohs.
Your love shaped like owls
**** how I want to fly.
Let my eyes skim over the pages of novels
As you store jokes in your dimples.
****
I never want it to snow.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
How does one describe something that has so much more meaning than anything there has ever been?
I am not able to have one underlying emotion for art.
I am not sure there even is one emotion that i have not faced when
I make, take in, or feel some type of art.
It is everything to me.
"Art is the only way to run away without leaving home."
When I make any piece of artwork, it takes me away,
and I have never had that feeling other than when
I have a paintbrush or pencil between my fingers.
When i need to stop my own little world and get away from everything, I make something.
Art seems to be the only form of communication
I desire to use when showing emotions.
I get anxiety when i have to show so much vulnerability as to do something as simple as /talking/ to someone about my problems.
If I could just show someone my artwork instead of speak,
I would choose that any day.
"She is delightfully chaotic;
a beautiful mess.
Loving her has been a splendid adventure."
I guess in some ways i see art as a person.
The only true love I have ever really felt would be with art.
I have been hurt many times and I have always
turned to art because of it.
Shes always been there for me,
while others have let me down time after time again.
Yet she waits there patiently everyday
until I pick up the sketchbook
and draw.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
A group show in a city church.
Nothing religious,
but selections from an evening class
occupying otherwise vacant space:
only a tomb here, an extravagant memorial there.
These are 'advanced' painters,
and decoding their statements,
examining their work,
it's possible to imagine daily lives
where art lives in the spare room.
Lewis paints you know.
After Laura died, and with the children distant,
he did this course in Norfolk - oils I think.
That large landscape in the sitting room is his,
all sky and salt marsh.
Jayne is studying the disorder of ******* dumps,
the contents of skips, what's left after a fire.
Her photographs she prints herself you know.
She says she loves to control the image,
chemically, and you can tell.
And more and others,
their 'work' holding stories,
other worlds of imagination and
depths of looking;
the silent collecting of things,
photograph after photograph,
the tidy sketchbook
(with last week's life class experiments).
And yet and yet
at the group show the finished pieces glow
in this badly-lit corner of a city church
where few visitors venture - but you must see this.
It's good, arresting in conviction and purpose.
This is art without artifice, reticent with meaning,
intense with intention, good, affecting, good
well-chosen tutor-curated;
good enough to come back to.
Consoling? Yes, consoling.
I needed consoling.
It consoled me.
I was consoled.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Breathe me in like your last cigarette,
because you swear you're going to quit,
as the smoke swirls past your head
and heads east.
Drain my cup like the last coffee
you pour yourself, even though it's 11 pm
and you really should go to bed soon
because you never sleep enough.
Color between my lines like you tried
to show your little sister, when she stole
your colored pencils and scribbled
all through your sketchbook.
Give me the kind of attention you give
sunset on the beach,
because someting about it makes time stop
and brings you peace.
Love me,
even though the only time you ever thought
love just might be more than a façade or a con
left you detached and empty.
Love me,
because I promise
I'm already trying
to love you.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
i’m standing in the middle of a museum. which one? not important. i’ve lost vision; everything is blurred and i feel like i’ve just been told i’m legally blind. i can’t decipher what is art and what isn’t. is this chair something i can sit on, or an antique sculpture? are the people walking around me real or some elaborate movie being projected with myself as the only real one there? how can i even be sure that i’m real? of course you are real. i tell myself you would never be considered art.
and then it hits me. her. when i looked at her, it’s like i had 20/20 all over again. she was so clear but somehow remained dream-like in such a natural way. she was more than art. she is more.
god how i’ve felt myself being ripped apart like pages out of a sketchbook everyday since i’ve met her (it’s not your fault; i’m the one who ends up burning them anyways).
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:06 PM UTC
To the dancer in the dark: what you do
isn't a walk in the park.
So don't be afraid to let someone
shine a light on you.
To the singer in the shower:
you know as well as anyone
how music can heal.
So let people hear your power.
To the sketchbook artist:
one person's trash is another's treasure.
So, please: don't throw something away
even if it doesn't give you pleasure.
To everyone else:
you all had dreams at some point.
If you're friends with artists, respect the hustle. Respect the passion.
Help keep the dream alive.
Because dreaming is still
how the strong survive.
But they can't do it all alone.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 7:36 PM UTC
I met a woman
with a trumpet tongue
who played her words on
paper, white as truces.
she told me through my stereo
"we've both had days
where the phoenix didn't rise".
we' have all had days
where the phoenix did not rise.
but thank goodness
my birthday was the first time
I heard your lips part
and saw your teeth spill oceans
of blue blankets across my jellyfish eyes.
I wish everyone understood the irony
of writing love poems to a lesbian,
but my hands never seemed to reach
the ends of my arms
like I want them to.
They always get stuck dancing somewhere
in the middle.
playing a tune only they can sway to
knowing all the steps
bouncing off every syllable
while others let their wrists go limp
as if the puppeteers needed strings
to tune their fiddle
for a happy song
somewhere far far away.
so take my breath again
keep it wherever it is that you keep
the gasps our ears give you
as your words pull the
heartstrings we forgot we had
that we forgot how to play
to wave our wet-noodle fingers and
conduct a life worth living
so full of blatant love
not afraid to make no sense
my chest was an rusty locket
the day before I heard you
and now I am so full of echoes
from it's tiny, timid click.
For Andrea,
you are a sketchbook muse,
something I have to guess at on my
worst days when there are no words
and the rain smells like a swan song
from the sky.
you kept me writing when there
was nothing left to draw
or sing or smell or see anymore.
when there was black smog
between my eardrums pounding out
the dying breath of clouds
you held me through tinny earbuds
and poems I etched in the moss
running over back roads in my mind
so I hope
you find peace
every time you find a microphone
and that someday, I'll play you a tune
which echoes through you,
with a tiny, timid
click
and a full breath
that resuscitates the open blue
until we are both whole beneath it
until, again, we are true.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
your spirit wrapped it's hands around me,
cold fingers with chewed on nails brushing over my collarbones
"you are certainly worth getting to know better."
"you make me realize what I am worthy of becoming."
"you see the good beneath my bloodshot eyes."
demons do not scream
they do not possess children
they do not leave trails of black on your grandmother's white carpet
they kiss you
they lean in to your ear and tell you all the ways you two could be one day
"I want a house, and three girls,"
he would say, his hot breath filling my eardrums
"I'll be a pediatrician, so I can save lives,"
he would tell you, his hand on your thigh
"I'd never leave you,"
he would yell, in between thrusts between your red and gray sheets
lies
it was all a trick
demons climb under your skin and lodge themselves beneath your bones
they seep their ethereal words into your bloodstream so that it can flow straight to you heart,
so that it'll be the first sound in the air when you take out your blades yet again, to release your demons into the atmosphere
they leave the taste of their secrets in your mouth so that they come to mind every time you speak
they break your heart and pour bleach into your eye sockets because if they don't want you then no one else should.
I remember how it felt
to sit on your bedroom floor
I see it in black and white blurs
there used to be color there
but it left with you
"you're the most intriguing girl I've seen in a long time,"
says the boy at the business conference,
he's trying to get you back to his hotel room
"you deserve so much more than this,"
whispers the baseball player,
he's trying to be polite
"I wrote you a song, since you remind me of music notes,"
tongues the musician,
he's trying to stop drinking
they're all trying
trying to be
nice
better
different
so many demons without souls
one put his hat in my locker last fall,
he wanted me to wear it,
I didn't.
one put his arm around me last spring,
he wanted me to taste his lips,
I didn't.
one put his sketchbook in my hands last winter,
he wanted me to realize I was art,
I didn't.
but sometimes you miss demons
one left me because
I wasn't loving enough
one left me because
I wasn't slutty enough
one left me because
I wasn't confident enough
I was
closed off
with closed legs
and closed lips
I missed his smile
but he missed my body
I missed his hands
and he missed where his hands went
I missed his eyes
and he missed my bed
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Your pupils are black holes
and they tug and they tug at me
like how a tornado tugs at the gutter on the side of a tin roof house
in the middle of Oklahoma.
But instead of a gutter and rain
it's blood funneled through my veins
and instead of blood,
it's liquid love.
You're broken
and I like that and how I can just
wedge myself into the valleys of your cracked up porcelain skin
because I am, I am liquid love
and its a simple fact that liquids spread to fill the space in which they are.
Even a river.
But here's a little disclaimer: I never cared much about science.
I was only really interested in our chemistry.
And here is a little exclamation: I don't know anything!
Except that your bruises are actually interstellar clouds
and that spot right under your fingernail is the most comfortable bed of all.
I like how you're covered in speckles like a knock-off Jackson *******
But instead of freckles they are constellations
and I am a quasi-astronomer artist who believes more in zodiac compatibility
than Attiyah's Sun theory.
I think this poem is unravelling
like that sweater I left in your house once
and I think and I think and I think
these last few stanzas are the loose string.
But that's okay because we're falling apart anyway
like the pages out of my old sketchbook from ninth grade.
But that doesn't stop me from pretending that
you're a Gothic cathedral and I'm a hopeless romantic
in the middle of an architectural revival.
And that doesn't stop you from getting drunk
getting drunk off that fermenting liquid love.
And that doesn't stop our hair from growing or
the universe from expanding or
people from living in the core of tornado alley or
you from lining my heart, my heart with the pages
you ripped right out of my diary.
Jun 8, 2011
Jun 8, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
I use to hope that you'd keep that
photo of me tacked by your bedside
but you took it down, (vengefully)
I know this because you tore out the portraits
of me from your sketchbook the first time around
so I hope you find bobby pins still within your clothes
catch whiffs of my old perfume on the streets and feel your
spine cinch softly, I hope a single earring rolls forward in the
desk drawer, but I really cannot hope these things anymore.
so i hope the earring stays lodged in the crack, that all stray bobby
pins find their way back and that my perfume is never worn, never worn
never worn. I hope that my perfume is never worn
around
you.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Today I got a new sketchbook with an embossed leaf on the cover-
saying-"Nature's Best."
And the inside was so white and clean
I was scared to draw in it
to mar the beautiful pages with the unforgiving
mark of a pencil.
Thinking that I wasn't worthy enough,
I didn't deserve
"Nature's Best."
The most beautiful song I've ever heard was sung by a German Choir,
and I remember thinking-
that maybe, German is a beautiful language after all
hidden only under the angry tones
of fighting and ugly
hurtful words.
Vogel im Kaff, it was called.
I'm not sure, but when I used Google translate-
it said-
"Word not found."
Maybe it wasn't in German after all.
And the people who tell me-
"Ugly."
"Fat."
"Why do you even live, anyway?
It's not like you deserve it."
I know. I know that I'm not worth anything
But sometimes, I actually catch myself in the mirror and think-
I look nice
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for thinking that. I'm sorry for hoping,
for believing.
I'm sorry.
And you know that feeling?
When you're in public
frantically searching for the right chord
on a piano song.
Sitting a spotlight undeserved
Playing for people who don't need to hear this
"music"
Like cracking open a egg and accidently mixing the yolk with the white
when you're trying to make a crème cake.
A desperate feeling that's sort of scary
because your brain knows that there's no way out.
I wish all minds had a delete button.
Throwing myself into learning different languages-
I thought that if I could speak
German, French, Italian-
then I would be exalted.
That somehow,
all of that would change my personality,
Who I was.
Guess we all have a "no refund" tag when we're born.
The type of people who-
"Belong everywhere, but don't fit in"
and the type who
"Don't belong anywhere-but fit in anyway-"
Which type am I?
A leafed page of the book,
folded over to conceal ***** words.
You know, if you look at a picture long enough,
what you once thought was beautiful will begin to peel and fade
exposing its unperfected innards.
If it's that scary to look at something already "satisfying"
what would it be like to look at something not even close to perfection?
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
A body cradled in a nightly cocoon of blankets and self-loathing.
A contact list full of numbers in which calls go straight to voicemail.
An explosive cocktail of one part perfection and three parts depression, with an overdose of cheap coffee.
A personality of anti-anxiety pills and choked down insanity, with a side order of slit wrists.
An A+ on your history test, smudged with tears and smuggled *****
A sleeping tablet.
A mind like a room with the blinds down for weeks, a smile like a gunshot in the darkness.
A broken tape recorder of one missed calls, of slammed doors, of smeared lipstick in front of a mirror sparking with tears.
A cigarette for every sin, a dollar for every broken dream.
A full wallet.
A brain like a twisted forest path, a sketchbook full of scratched pencil marks, a screaming teacher at the end of every class.
A daughter of the human manifestations of nine-to-five jobs with a pension scheme and insurance.
A carefully maintained vocabulary of whiplash sarcasm and blank stares.
A graduating member from a class of 'Congratulations on Getting the **** Over Yourself.'
A bullet.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
I sculpt you in the papers of my sketchbook
Every stroke of your outline is defined so well
To express the only way I know how
An outlet for my hidden feelings
But seeing your face in view again
Always elicits another daydream
It is never enough
You don't know that I draw you
In your most candid moments
Just to capture that memory again
You're the most beautiful when you don't try
By now I know the beauty in your every flaw
From growing up by your side
As close as we are, I want to be closer
Every canvas I see
Is another home to paint a memory
Your lips like fire, your eyes like the sea
They resemble the chaos of the waves
Showing your wild nature
They reel me in
I drown in them endlessly
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
Someone asked me if I was an artist.
If I liked to draw,
Because I had a sketchbook.
I shook my head and said, "No."
Then I said, "I'm a writer,"
"I like to imagine."
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Electric tension crackles across your lips,
tiny bolts from tiny hurricanes raging around the eyes of your pupils.
We sit where two halls meet,
parallel paths on perpendicular lines,
an x marking, a t crossed, the intersection with
our eyes playing a game of red light, green light.
A smile, possibly imposed,
a gold spot where my finger touched the blush
of rose begs rising on the hills of your cheeks,
your shyness fogging your glasses
and your passion hiding in deeper dimples.
A smile, possibly imposing,
building trenches in your face to match the
sharpness of your chin and contrasting the
charm leaking out of the corners of your mouth like faulty boxes,
packages, boxes and bags tied with ribbon in denial,
the fabric timeless tapestries torn and tied around the tree like tinsel.
You touched my hand,
drawing me back on the sketchbook tiles, shading me in
when my mind wandered off to wonder.
It sounded like the moments between the fingers of
impatience and angry clocks.
Tick tock transgressions make me a momentary monarch of mirth before I
falter and realize that you biting your levi lip
to hold the tide back
means that the hurricane is swelling.
You apologize because of secrets you hold in Roman ruins
and for sweetening the cyanide syllables.
You regret these moments, because unlike promises,
you can’t recant.
You stand and storms pass, stomachs settle and
the last jagged bolt streaks
into oblivion.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
There are few things I hate more than watercolor,
I muse to myself
As I sit watching
A rigid man
With the perfect posture, really,
Casually watercolor the coffee shop around him
As if we all are just the backdrop
To a life of routine normality
Succumbing to the occasional confrontation
With hot beats of caffeine--
A subject to be posthumously entombed
Executed marginally
Flattened and kept in a sketchbook
That will,
Most likely,
Be a dust collector given one year's breadth.
The cynic in me
Hopes he mistakes the water cup
For his coffee cup
In his feverish efforts,
Sitting slack and unaware
Right next door.
But unintentionally,
It's the bias
Creeping in.
Secretly,
I've never really been
That good
at watercolor.
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 4:12 PM UTC
My sketchbook is getting damp from the spray
It's a torrent unleashed as
thunder rolls
Midnight black stripped in hot flashes of punctuated amens
Rounds of sounds of liquid laughter shake in the atmosphere
Lyrical clapping voices arise
Millions of drops on millions of leafy palms uplifted
The canopy dances
now in a roaring delight
I hear a waterfall singing your name
because you're missed most intensely in these spaces of awe
Yes
You can
Be
with
me
You are
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:03 PM UTC