"spillage" poems
"sly wordplay, it glows, feels like a shimmering address, half warning and half blessing, really alive with cadence"
read Kiki Dresden poetry^
once more into the sea trench divide,
I dive to devise,
Your provoking comment,
demands my full attention,
you divert me from struggling with
ginger & clay,
a contra concept
that molds and enflames,
yet strikes overtly sweet,
it does not
come so easy
as this playful notion
But
your words deserve the
attention immédiate
atenção imediata
that births this script,
tumbling forth in an instantly
instantaneously
me student, you mistress~master,
schooling me on sublimity subliminal,
capturing the capering
stylistic that bursts forth from within,
that my fingertips provide,
while my brain connives & connivers
continuously
you overlay analytics
that never are to me
revealed,
the what and wherefore
of the whom
hiding within
of the im~perpetuity impish essence of
i m p ishness
by charmingly doing me, not once,
but many times better
here a spillage:
an observational ditty,
dressed in a tux,
most formally,
to render the greatest
wordplay
ever invented
t,
the uniqueness of a simple
thank you
my favorite poem
a forever for ever,
the song that
plys and plays me
in the me
so often,
the linguists have banned the word
repeatedly
from my lexicon
so in its stead,
this all-in-one mighty steed
(verb phrase, a noun, or an adjective depending on its usage)
this phatic expression,
here disguised in
Portuguese,
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
muito obrigado!
nml 5:39am nyc 10/4, 10/4
Oct 4, 2025
Oct 4, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
The apartment hasn’t been cleaned for so long and has housed a depressive in it for the same length of time so that there is a glaze of slime-dirt on the floor, made of dried coffee, hot chocolate, maybe some **** or some spillage from a tube of steroid cream to treat an inflammation that never really goes. The rate of ooze changes?. Clean textiles are piled up on the floor, never having been folded, and mix here and there with ***** practical fatpants that make me look like a geologist and white-white cotton blankets that can be washed on HOT with lots of bleach that I purloined from some mentalhealthfacility. The inbox is full of—is bristling with—remonstrances from Programs for the Nondoer—you haven’t filed, haven’t turnstiled, haven’t had your hologram chip assessed by central CENTRAL intelligence, what is wrong with you. Upon stepping outside there is a beat during which I think maybe somewonder might swirl and buoy but no, just wethumid and ***** sidewalks cruddy and Haitians and quasi-Haitians muttering “taxitaxitaxi” in front of their Gypsy conveyances with their dubious certifications. I should go for a ride in one, a dubious passenger for a dubious palanquin. I tried the library but it was too hot and decrepit and too filled with Books For African-Americans, which always ****** me off; are only African-Americans going to read Wright or Douglass or Brooks? Everyone is overrated, anyway, movies and theater and the moribund beat of commerce, and as the dangerous autos pass, sometimes not running you over, you can see morechange in the pockets of the shareholders of BeePee and Iacocca Coach-Wirx. Any friendliness exhibited seems to contain an underovertone of You’re Not Included Whiteboy White ****** Ghost ***** all archaic names I’ve been almost astounded to be called usually while balancing on tiptoe on some lurching, roaring dieselbus, grinding past off-off-off brand groceries that do a dubious business. While making my police report I wink at a sevenyearold boy and I get a lustrous wink back butalas this is not enough to beat back those slurrycolored brainfazes.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.
I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.
You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.
The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?
Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches
Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings
The world does not understand love
nor the poets that create it.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
It is harder to my overcome my feelings for you
than it is to *** in a bucket with a dog trying to lick my face
Either way there's a lot of spillage
but neither the *** nor the bucket nor the ground nor the dog care
Like I do
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 2:27 AM UTC
“What can a poem do?”
—————————-
***”A poem
is a not a tourniquet
when you’re bleeding.
It’s not water when you’re thirsty
or food when you’re hungry.
A poem can’t protect you from an airstrike,
or from abduction, or from hate.
It’s hard to write when our words feel
like they’re not enough—they can’t do
the real, tangible work of saving lives,
or making people safer.”***
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
<~>
as is my wont,
I write,
as is my Natted~inhabited,
retiring to the local watering holes of
Cerebrum & Cerebellum,
them regular haunts,
where all requests are mailed, processed, satisfied & marked;
‘return & render to the sender, who’s on a cerebral ******
and that request?
‘give me the words’ (2)
those ‘to do’ words, floaters, direct to top of list,
those ‘can do’ words, that can effect the affect,
spare the despair, realize the fungible, concretize cures,
soften hard waters, giving a worsening worn life fabric a
curated baby blanket feel, a 4-ply human tissue of
‘words that tell me everything’ (2)
salve solution verbs that bounty-wipe spills in entirety,
vacuum up spillage spoiling of 17 days of terrible nouns,
uncovered-unknown rages caused by inflicting prepositions
released a hatred rising,
safety rebury it deeper, drug & destruct the sleeper agents,
and let me start over again with
‘telling me everything by saying nothing’ (2)
the pausal silence, the quieted spaces tween the heartbeats,
where ‘reflection,’
the noun,
and its world of alternations,
reflection,
the noun,
look inwards, but shining outward,
this, this!
is where the poem goes to do!
enervating & arresting
its contradictory powers
rock you into wild docility,
possessive and submissive,
contradictory interferences,
smoothing the roughness,
closing the gaps it opens,
healing the caused truthful cuts,
with words that tell you
everything and nothing,
open the holes, filling the gaps,
that is what a
poem do,
in and by
the manner it is spoken…
<~>
“Sometimes a poem is the stone you carry in your pocket—the one you rub when you’re worried. Let’s fill our pockets with poems.”
(see (1) Maggie Smith)
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
Today,it rained.
I sat down at my piano,
And composed her an apology.
The patter of rain.
I looked outside,
And saw a tempestuous spillage of emotions,
And an unambiguous uttering of poetic truth;
That I never could discover on my own–
I saw the trees tell me explicitly.
God has His ways.
It was one.
I never would have guided,
My ever-so-guarded heart–
To yield with all honor retained,
And accept this silent insatiable feeling–
Love.
It always had been love;
That defeated time,
In the want of immortality,
In the pursuit of eternity;
That was abundant in scarcity,
And that sat like one timid angel,
In the abyss of my heart,
And lit it up.
Today, it rained.
I sat down at my paino,
And felt eternal in the silence between the notes.
Tomorrow, it will rain.
I will sit down at my piano,
And sing a song to the moments of eternity,
That God makes us experience,
Wearing this mortal suit;
In the name of love.
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 7:55 AM UTC
viewing naked body in mirror
as if, its not my own; at my
age I sometimes wonder, am
I still desirable in his eyes?
breast are firm, buttocks
tight, shapely legs; thigh
to ankle toned to wrap
around his sinewy waist.
belly flat, waist trim, he
sneaks up behind; warm lips
to nape, his subtle bait to
taste me, it's never to late.
tongue between breast, I
know now as I gaze into
those baby browns, I've
found my answer.
*** appeal is still renown,
it shows in his eyes; as I
sigh from his touch, ummm!!
his lovings never too much.
******* taut from his touch,
tongue upon belly and navel;
laying on the table, flickers
my jewel; making me mewl.
purring like a kitten, lapping
up my milk; tongue feels like
silk, in and out licking; love
how he keeps me ticking...yes!!!
parting lips; warmly I dip, lightly
I sip upon blooming mushroom;
pulsating in reddened abloom,
spillage slowly from his plume...sweet
finger tracing veins poppin',
allowing throb to easily drop in;
nice and slow watching manhood
grow like a framed Van Gogh...he flows
****** self-confidence I'm convinced
watching him grow long and dense;
taking in every inch, winching in
delicious pleasure; his desired
measure...sexually self-confident
soaped and lathered in wetness
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
**zero context shifts
*multitasking is multi~asking your brain
to do what does not come naturally,
the enthused poem starts up, lion roaring,
a muscle car, brain throbs organic pulses
semi~orgasmic of a near-completion in
your neuronic ***** exciting and ****
all you-writ so far is:
your name, some crazed, minimal
two fingers of words with
no context, no preconceived word lotion to
balm-spread over the enflamed areas of
your brain skin
except that it’s
6:47 am, coffee in hand,
your woman slumber rumbles a left over dream,
speechifying, and room, cool conditioned cold,
ignoring notifications of overnight elections,
and a reminder-by-photo where you were this
day seven years ago today, all put asided,
permission ungranted to any distractions,
there will be zero context shifts* til the
spillage of your morn squeaking meager is fully
pillage~d here, it be within my it-takes-no-
village,
@ 6:56 and Whitman is tsk-tsking at the low poetry of my scripting, Hafiz says “hey!
nothing about god or love, what good is that?”
but it’s ok for i’ve emptied the early morning
brain bowels,
defused fusses and asides, tossed asided & there is yet some coffee
remaining but the expiation for having been
reborn this newly birthed day has earned me atonement
for taking up space in this planet
and as of yet, I’ve not stated yet to any, no. all
humans, I hate you ~ but the day is infantile
and opportunity plentiful
@7:03AM
nyc
morning
Wed Nov 8,
in the year of hatred,
a/k/a twenty twenty three.
Nov 8, 2023
Nov 8, 2023 at 7:33 AM UTC
Filling up, wide eyed, breathing deep
Avoiding the spillage, the jerking motion
Rowers giving elbow grease to churn out sobs
Of substance, grandiose design to sorrow
Bold, emblazoned tears of texture, relay
Racing to the jawline finish, backup tissue
Business flourishing, mopping up the fast flow
Red eye fostering their talents with expertise
Glooping globules on rain dance alert, dancing
The tango, the rumba, the belly dance parade
Of unchained dam busting, snot ravaging
Sodden and damp, choking its route outta here
All cryed out, on empty, exhaustion reigns, eyelids
Closing the stop tap to the off position, rearranging
Priorities to sleep mode, sinking down into sprung
Heaven, resting heavy lashes to bed, curling up
To while away the hours, silencing the alarm
Of solitude and inner turmoil, resting the think
Tank, cells charmed habitat of hybernation
Booked and paid for, down payment secured
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
How do I unfurl a truth with the lights out?
You confessed the bean spillage
This tale is arduous when you are as blind as a bat.
It maybe toilsome but I know it is crucial,
for your maladroit ways have brought me here.
I feel like a duck egg because you have been a **** head
Your declaring a newborn heart in past tense
This doesn't cure this quandary of trust
I don't want to adopt eagle eyes!!
I am not a lover of Pandora's box nor any hornets nest
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
Marble black bark grow bed sheets of parchment attached by
strings. Spillage of pink arises from the abdomen. Fused clothing fibers substitute layers of bark.........
The vivid aroma of rot and feasting maggots harmonize...............
A cadaver drilled by burrowing insects. Beetles, flies, pismires, and parallels. A carcass crammed with 200 seeds. Bulbous seeds in the nose. Deposited bulbs rooted in brain tissue. Thick specks of white nuzzle into flesh emerge. Squirm out of the cubicles. Insects feasting simultaneously............
A figure emerges from the edge of perception. Routinely gorging the cadavers vital delicacies. Amid spouts of fainting spells.......................
Grabbing lumps of brain matter. Shoveling it towards his gaping hole. Ravenously consuming the bland ashen chunks. Gripping the cranium and sipping the diluted ***
Sliding two slippery marbles into his gullet. Then suddenly publicizing his medals amid his fangs. Deteriorating into slush immediately........
Piercing the stationary ticker with talons. Shortly guzzling the dense scarlet metallic droplets. Promptly the sticky liquid cerise matter slithered into his craw. Hurling the white speckled rims simultaneously in glee. Than consuming the exterior synthetic.........
The corpse is convulsing..wheezing..........chest withering in pain. Man devours his own living corpse, neglecting to swallow his toes. A daily phenomenon……to devour yourself.
What of the toes? Looted by a motivated businessman the next day. “Oh the painstaking horror of humanities hunger,” the motivated businessman then asserted into thin air.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
upon pedestal of love's
intimacy, gently we merge;
pulsating, entangled lips
and tongue taste me
kissed...
seduced in stillness;
echoes crescendo, his
touch awakens; curving
into maleness
breathless...
whispers dangle in
moments of words
uttered in want, breathing
his name hungered
trembling...
pressing ache against
masculinity; etched in
savored weep
besotted...
hands embrace hips
rhythm; sliding in out
of silk folds
wet...
unbottoning me in
momentum, tasted;
swallowed in release,
ecstasy written in moans
swirling...
drowned within each
plunge; thighs widen
spillage trickles,
blossoming in throb
shimmering..
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
Shall I take my life away
Strip the essence of disgust
From a beautiful aroma of life
Shall I envy no longer
The tears that seem foreign
To vacant hollow depths
Soulless windowpanes that echo
The pain of a thousand voices
Yet I seem to struggle
With these tornado winds
Ripping through my heart
Desecrating the holy lands
That once flourished with Love and Innocence
Now Godforsaken
Shot down in the middle of night
Crashing burning into hallowed grounds
Aerial assault bombarding
Leaving ruins and corpses
Thirsty for the spillage of my blood
Carving rivers into my wrist
Breaking dams in my veins
Letting the ****** tsunami rage
Drowning myself in its depth
Godforsaken
Now I shall die
Simply because I'm pathetic
Always thinking I can save the world
With six lines or outstretched arms
All I'm doing is setting it up
For its inevitable failure
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 8:36 PM UTC
*furious as the sun,
vibrant as the moon*
dancing tantric motions
through a swift magnetic swoon.
our cups are overflowing,
now the spillage will ensue
but ive become alright
with spilling myself into you
penetrating my flesh with your gaze,
soaked into the earth
as the suns brightest rays,
a quite brilliant display
of the spectrum of light
you engulf every day.
and once passes the light of the late afternoon
you still cut through the dark
as the light of the moon,
your heart shines on strongly
and the night ends so soon,
the hours are only as moments with you.
*furious as the sun,
vibrant as the moon,*
now I'm lost for words
as once again it came so soon
we've come here searching the same thing,
the fearless conquerers of truths.
and when even the constants
start changing themselves,
our nature is
clearly
unmoved.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
Like an animal of the night, my wolf spirit chases,
An exquisite insanity, one in which I revel,
A slow prey with poisonous blood and sweat, with three faces
That, when caught, it whispers to me frailly, in hope to bedevil.
One face spits drunk and boiled spillage,
This one barks passionately without end.
The stock face of an accepted devilry, an advantage,
And an addictive **** that it lets out, a disadvantageous blend.
The other two look normal, but they rarely make sounds,
The deranged smoker is a thinker, a dying fool,
While the one in charge listens, teaches and knows,
While it fights with the other two.
The prey never runs away, but it sickly comes back to taunt my soul.
It tries to enthrall me with its black art, knowing my weaknesses by heart,
Sometimes I catch the prey, to which I whisper: “Feel my spit, black like a coal,
Never come back, you better hide, you haven’t seen yet my crazy part.”
And with a magical schism the prey splits
And hungry for adrenaline, my spirit chases them
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC
I met him at an audition; he kept staring at me,
I walked over introduced myself; he said he's
a musician, told him I could help with is dickion
and he whispered; I want to sip the fluency of your
elegance, in which, I smiled all giddy inside; pulled
him close and said are you wanting to luxuriate in
lips pout, he said; yes and his eyes engraved me
in his soul
he stepped back; licked my lips and flushed,
embraced love's fidgeting, bestirred in gasped
hunger he held me like a lover in a dream;
clinging to the edge of silent beggary's urgency,
I touched his heat, knew immediately I wanted
him pendulating above femininities heat
so, I coaxed him with an aubade; whispering moist
in want; his euphony he'd written upon parchment
of my heart, without thought I wanted to give in to
masculinities desire to taste and sip as he pleased
but, I held him off for awhile wanting to get to know
more of him, not wanting just a physical allurement,
eyeing him in my mind to take in the scope of his
aura; weeks passed before I would allow him to do
more than just kiss me, the physical attraction was
too strong to wait for entanglements pleasure, the
want to linger in the delicacy of us; on one of those
misty balmy still of night's; I just grasped at passion's
threshold; to drown in our muted moans
as he'd explore pout of silken lips; tasting me
as I'd taste him we savored each other's hunger
taking our time, enjoying each nook and cranny of
him and I, tongue traced my trembles from its
eruptive point between wet thighs; I had to flip our
script so, I could taste his milky spillage as well; like
fingerprints upon thigh, we glided in out, back and
front of our hungered want of one another; sighing
in unison laying paused and breathless, our rhythm
leaves us arched in each other's curve, tasting;
losing control
frenzied, breathless in softness of sigh's every
stroke of ecstasy, lost in the rapture of love; each
kiss from head to toe told a story of love lust and
hunger, hopefully for eternity; as the days grew long
and nights got shorter, we couldn't do without one
another; one day out of the blue he popped the
question and without a doubt I said; yes!
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Poems
1706 published / 43 drafts / 14 hidden
no matter how much spillage of
inspired words are perspired
into poetic
existence,
new ideas push themselves
to the top of the line,
with every eyelash
flutter to falling,
so there seems
always a restless but consistent cohort of
43 draftees
in my lipstadt persona
(one among so many)
inescapably
demanding,
like a dentist happiest
when commencing to
drill you in to submission
but smiling since
the novocaine
hasn’t fully…
that when
a poem,
even a new tooth
is c r e a t ed
in the gum of you,
seed~ed but not fully form~ed,
somehow
a new title is
auto~entitled,
whisked into
a never cold cup of
“what’s next.”
a laundry line
of the great
washed
but needy
for drying out,
not yet ready
for prime time
thus this
never endingness
is one more
perpetual eternal,
a cousin to
gravity
a direct order to be
born/resolved/loved/
only to be sent away
with a firm loving
push
with
no word of
farewell
(and not forgetting
to mention the thousand
of half breeds,
started, left
writ incomplete,
in my official
cemetery
a/ka
my actual draft file)
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 1:11 PM UTC
I will love you because I promised it was real
and true love isn't conditional
so I'll pretend we aren't falling apart
and that disappointment isn't my new best friend
I'll pretend it does not hurt
and maybe I'll start believing it
but excuse me if I trip a little on this journey of lies
sorry if i explode every now and then because it become to much
I will clean up any spillage from my heart
and like a good girlfriend
I will tell you
I
Love
You.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
my fingers slip out of yours
and wander the crests
of your knuckles
for the _nth time
and i apologize for the spillage
of words from my mouth
whenever our eyes meet
because i built a faulty dam
of sarcasm and forced humor
that just gives way every time
you look at me like that
the pad of my thumb has memorized
the curves of your left hand
and i'm sure you noticed how
my hand curves around your wrist
in silence, in pleas
and i want you to stay
i want you to stay:
where the crook of my shoulder
has forgotten its first form,
where my arms encircle air
that held you moments before,
where my heart wants you around
because with you, it's being heard
i want to apologize for my sweaty palms
because they're not used to handling treasures--
i would have trained them sooner
had i known i was going to meet you.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Some nights
I stand on stage
And read lines I have written
Lend my soul to strangers
And hope they enjoy it for the hour
I look out from blackness
To a crowd of many faces
But none of them
Are for me
Afterwards
I step out to greeting hands on shoulders
Smiling patrons with admiring words
But none of them
Are familiar
None of them
Are for me
I do not invite
Those I love
And the ones I do invite
Never come
Because they don't really love me at all
I do not invite
Those who do
To come watch me dissolve
Underneath these bright lights
I do not spill myself out
To those who already know what lays inside
My poetry is a blanket for everything ugly
And there is no need
To place it on those who have already seen what is underneath
Some nights
I am saddened by this
By entertaining a crowd that knows nothing more
Than my name and writing
Yes they have seen me bleed
And to them,
It is nothing more
Than an act
But there is no clotting after the show
No army of white blood cells to end the spillage
It is just me
Along with the remnants of what I've poured out that day
What people often forget
Is that my words follow me home
Some nights
I share them with others
But most nights
I keep them to myself
And every night
They stay with me
Sleep in my bed
The only good is in the reassurance
Of knowing they will be there
In the morning
Unlike every other
Who has left after the ******
Everyone
Always leaves
And I am afraid
That if I wring myself empty
To those who already love me
They will do the same
I do not know
How to clean up my mess with pride
I only know
How to sweep it aside
So for now
I will continue
To stand on stage
And read lines I have written
Lend my soul to strangers
And hope they enjoy it for the hour
I know they will
My performance
Is their escape.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
she broke a glass
in the kitchen
at the moment of rupture
an earthquake somewhere else
in her stomach
he’s not writing any longer
a crush
she didn’t know that he had her
he didn't know she didn't know
nor intuitively
nor pragmatically
a spillage of warm expectations
and wedding plans
in sharp pieces
lying in the floor
a broken glass
an open door.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
portraiture.
sweet tooth.
rotting away my teeth.
bitter aftertaste.
indulgence. indulge me.
inhale decadence.
exhale toxins.
cleanse deep.
she knows. she knows. he does too.
but he always did.
new to the game.
red lipstick razor blade.
cut you open. let you spill your guts to me.
incorrect patchworks.
inaccurate intricacies.
spillage on highway 505
where we left our beating, ****** hearts.
lit up with gasoline wine.
fast ignition on a mission.
for your neck.
failed wreck.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
The gentle chug of your heart challenged the tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock
- I heard it - and I became aware
that the blacks of your eyes, with intense revolutions, saw me as past tense.
In response, the cave of my head opened up wider than ever before in an attempt to make you smile.
What was accomplished was an awful spillage of cream cheese which fell right in front of your feet.
You did smile though, it was an awkward smile but you smiled wider than ever before.
Y ahi tu sin ningun miedo recogistes y comistes mis palabras como si fueran forever-scented strawberries.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC