"straddles" poems
She frequents here most weekend nights,Big **** long kegs, freaky appetite,Her eyes scan every inch of the club,Wet *** all hard and ***** to hell with love.She licks her lips, and warmly, her other lips respond,She sees her prey and grins at knowing this night will be long,They stroll towards her knowingly, they are the lucky ones,She straddles one, while the other mouth makes her come.Moaning ***** words, and writhing, her **** are bouncing freely,Two on one's her favourite, it makes her come so gleely,Her wet tongue finds something hard and veiny, she takes it in her mouth,Her stroking slips and slides make both guys moan and pant out loud.His ball sack dangles over her, she's begging for a suck,The other's fingers enter her, she loves a finger fuck,Her mouth fills up with pleasure juice, she comes onto his fingers,She licks it off, but takes her time,intent to make it linger...
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
He lives in a time of plague.
The tag team of cholera and dedication killed his father, for all Dr. Juvenal Urbino knows, his father was faithful to both work and love.
The good doctor knew from an early age that his work would be his love, and from a slightly less tender age he discovered that his love of flesh and the body ran deeper than mere science could take him.
He met Fermina Daza in the doorway between clinical curiosity and obsession over her doe’s gait, and as he walked through his heart made room for a new kind of dedication.
He thought his devotion would be equally as precise as his practice.
Fifteen or so years of marriage, between years in Paris they bled together like a Van Gogh after a rainshower, the intricacies of their companionship were jointly held in a contractual cradle, but neither of them felt obligated.
Dr. Urbino was before my time, but my story will know the life of Carlos Mucharraz, Pre-Med major, they both dedicate themselves to their love. I’ve never seen her, but I can imagine Carlos likens her gait to that of a doe. He fawns over her from 17 hours away, for nearly a year.
Like a Texas dust devil, he sends his love through the air to Minneapolis to brighten her phone screen and her day.
They’ve only ever spent time together twice.
I’d like to think of his devotion like a boulder, immovable, but twisters slither across prairies as wicked winds push them towards seas of lust, but I’d like to think his love flew above turbulent skies.
I thought Dr. Urbino as a rock.
He must have thought of his fidelity as a disease. His father died fighting cholera, and Urbino would not let his affliction of faithfulness **** him. He thought himself ill, and the mantra of his practice taught him one thing only: cure.
In a slum of San Juan de la Cienaga, pants around his ankles, holding a mulatto girl’s legs around his waist, he crumbled like stale bread as he plunged himself into infidelity.
This man of granite broke and fragmented, his sin etched a crooked cobweb of fractures into his back, I wonder if the beads of sweat stung his spine, or dulled the pain.
But maybe I should put my faith in dust devils.
Humans may be able to shatter the hardest stone, but no one commands the sky, for it straddles North and South, East and West, Fort Worth and Minneapolis.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
pulling hair, mounting the scathed creature — feelingfulness straddles
the lovelorn fringe of shadows coming
to a feint.
under the canopy of the guava tree
i reminisce dissonance of claims
drunken recall or some ill fortitude
and borderless as it seems,
capturing the eye.
mirage dazzled, writhing on the
darling loam, fisticuff of birds
swarming ecliptic passages
finding a hidden codex somewhere
in archaea — women pulled from ribs
and men wrought out of tears.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
*it is true
when we give our blood too much
we aid in disempowerment*
1.
constant giving in love and providing can set unhealthy-precedent
and when it falters in its expected-rhythm
ugly-tantrums get thrown, bordering on disrespect
2.
demands kick in hard upon trod-floor of insidious-hooks
there's always a rider for the other party on tightrope-theatre
some or other condition to feed the monster of excitement
while health straddles some jarring regions
in hostile-spitting strong enough to lance startling-injury
shoelaces dripped in hazard-oil over a generational-canyon
provides unwanted-fodder for establishing long-term slippage
**(no! you weren't raised this way.. where does this stem from?)
there has been no failure to show how humans act and speak
this is unacceptable)**
oh............you want / you want / you want..... all.. the.. time
then kick up unholy-storms when there's a break in rhyme
*get ye, lad.. go practise your ire on a field
go throw a stick on the prairie
go find your path, you're old enough
yer insolence plain *****
(I could tell you .. you're rude.. go home,
but you already are!)
S T - 10 dec 13
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
The Equestrian
When we met
We could and would
Have a sunday brunch
We ate **** word appetizers
Before eruptions of love for our main course
We conversed about ecstasy
And drank tall glasses of progeny
And picked morsels of fantasy
Passed on the dessert
Enough sweetness in wetness
Salivate like rabid wolves
Over the thought that
your body brings me deepness
I guess I'm in depth
She straddles my imagination
I saddled her provocation
Learn the speed at which her mind gallops
While
We share our addictions
Compare our afflictions
Only to conclude we're of the same breed
An option I could of
If only I would of
But knowing I should of
Cause the timing is never right
Not all heros ride into the sunset
Not all villains would meet there demise
Xin
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
POLAND, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle's cork.
"Won't you come and play wiz me" she sang ... and "I just can't make my eyes behave."
"Higgeldy-Piggeldy," "Papa's Wife," "Follow Me" were plays.
Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.
Twenty years old ... thirty ... forty ...
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France.
A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw ... legs, torso, head ... on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.
She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.
Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.
2.1k
*for R.A.
our northern friend*
~
one foot in two countries,
she is enjambment symbolic,
running a single stanza
without a syntactical break,
by standing simultaneous
in two neighboring cultures
causing her dear readers
from near and far,
some, like me,
from across the borderline,
considerable multifarious symptoms
of
well considered verbal confusion
this,
a gifted special talent
from
she
who straddles
all kinds of borders
that divide
her
and
unite
her,
that
can be understood/revealed tho,
when observing the northernmost night skies
eh?
expert in modulating
extreme snowed under bay
winterized temperatures,
counterpointed by
drivingopen highways
on summer plains
where the dotted line is
all there is to see
for miles, thousandths wide
she-poet
oft goes quiet,
expelling her breath
between word roarings,
gentlest of periodic
verbal sweets
genteel
my word version for her
gentle so,
in a way that
makes gentility
deserve the nobility
inherent
that is the
work word
that always comes first
when we need to place her,
another star
in the night
flying frying
firmament
enjambment - her word
means I am
all in,
with both hands,
resting on both jambs
of an arched window
that she architects,
peering in,
Making Sure,
I have come to the right place
where she-poet
builds skylights of
northern lights,
igniting
adore her sweet
confusion,
but better yet,
her poems
of clarification
that explain all in,
why when,
we
all look up,
thru her
window exquisite
that she
meant
for us
we always first
turn our glacé glance
northwards
strangely, seeking, illogically,
but not really,
warmth
in the she-poets
northern way
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:00 AM UTC
Sweet scent dripping as hot beads of sweat from her skin
She straddles and grinds as she begins to commit her sin
Succulent lips pressed against mine
Rubbing my fingers down the points of her spine
She giggles with glee, followed by her succubus stare
As she leans back over and nibbles the lobe of my ear
Such ******** traits, in my heart come to confide
As I flip her over and make my way from her neck to her thigh
Her hands clawing my shoulders as I kiss my way down
Her body begins quaking as she tries not make a sound
Gasping for air from such an ****** display
I kiss my way up then she pushes me away
She pounces suddenly, unable to resist
As she gives in to her desires, sensations of tryst
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:25 PM UTC
Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress
All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia
It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks
See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed
The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters
Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand
Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action
The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials
Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise
Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome
The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress
They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good ********
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
Tonight would not bridge
Two ordinary days.
Her idea would ignite
His imagination and mould
From the raw clay a vision
Through the churning heavens.
The ballet crafting their bodies
Scene through scene,
She whispers,
He listens,
They lay, as spoons often do.
A last glance over
The flowers and the candle,
Out the window through
The rain, wind, and thunder
Lighting their creation’s sight.
Chasing her through the forest,
She lets him, almost catch her.
Dancing themselves into vines
In a canopy hidden from the wind’s
Muffled thunder.
There, in their haven lush,
Ensnaring so deeply, too soon.
And away he turns himself to stone.
Twisting too tight around
The indifferent mountainous statue,
She snaps herself
And by the time he’s felt it,
Soft enough to turn and see-
See another statue’s backside,
Cold clay remolding into stone.
He stretches himself thin to reach,
Her sepulchral touch lays him out.
She sits, straddles, stares him down,
The lightning cracks behind her eyes,
Splitting her stone heart
Clean through flame,
Incinerating their quiet canopy,
Rising into the storm.
Chasing her through the fire,
She lets him, fan the flames.
Two dancers' violent rhythm
Raging with every touch, until
A tear, or two,
Undo the flames,
Dropping with the rain all in everything,
They fall, fall, fall
Flooding down the mountain
Rushing through the cracks
Left behind in the stone,
Flowing together a river
Through the trees, out to sea.
As two make one body their own,
The currents churning through.
A spiral sparks the children’s learning,
The whirlpool to the maelstrom
Surging their liquid body up
The column that would
This time reach the storm.
The lightning cracks behind their smiles-
Their love undoes gravity’s condensation.
Drifting,
Through the clouds,
Stars,
In each other’s arms,
The ballet crafting their bodies,
They lay, as spoons often do.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
The weight of the wisdom we seek eludes
us as we stagger into dark dens of knowledge
suffused and selected, stored in gigantic libraries
of the mind by those
who know
yet wont divulge the details to those
who wait
arms outstretched
for the yearning.
In between lie wannabes
who seek the sun of comments
to glorify themselves as a birth right
unwilling to accept the acid pen
or pain of knowing how falsehoods
lie like wounds exposed to inspection.
Writing poetry in plain language is better
than compromised with complexity.
Just the words and visuals singing on the same note
should suffice to stir the minds magic
to ecstasy.
The crush of wisdom dispels us from climbing
over the boundaries of decency
to sizzle a comment with depressing ease.
You can hear the ego deflate and flatten
akin to a robust balloon descending
to earth like a flightless fancy
with no wingpower.
Not every poem straddles and sparks
in sheer finery
Lots and lots of them refuse to take off
and surrender to the minds star burst
of meaning.
In a days reading maybe
of a hundred, just one line would light up
a dark sky like a comet racing across the page
leaving behind its fairy dust
for us to ponder upon. One diamond
in the dust of lifeless energies
is worth mining for!
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
*white birds fly out
ur sweet mouth
as
hesitation straddles
a deadly no-go zone*
1.
The silhouette of a small child sitting atop a stone ledge
Slowly picking the butterfly wings off his perfect eyes
I will follow your sunken steps in the soft snow
Lead(ing) the way
Eagle flies lone over lime-hued cemetery
2.
Hope to find a more quiet place
not to think
to breathe
to be
(personne n'est esclave)
*to let go
some day*...
S T, 24 July 2013
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:46 PM UTC
These road signs point to where you’d be
if you weren’t kneeled over in constant apology
you tell me sometimes you can hear
Aidan’s laughter at night,
as if someone’s strung them around
street lamps like fairy lights
your lungs collapse at the mention of his name
and your chest heaves with trembling shame
but you never told anyone else about the way
guilt straddles your shoulders every morning
as it leans towards his mother’s ears screaming
ears now turned deaf with grief
You tell me about the nights so dark
you can’t tell it apart from the hollow in your chest
most days you find it too hard to breathe
because the guilt hugs you so tight
it forces itself in your lungs
where these organs can’t contain
your feeling of sin
so you keel over and ***** by the road
where you last held Aidan
There are footprints in the mud
where he was last standing
but the imprints have hardened and Aidan has grown since
there was a much colder instance
when his sister flung a picture frame at you
so it shattered and you picked up a shard
to scratch out unforgivings in the mud by the road
where you watched your best friend die
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
The excitement builds before the show
Appearance anticipated, let's go
Out comes 2llen with applause galore
Crowd won't quiet, stoked for what's in store
Must say Ellen is such a **** dude
Whoops, oh...she's a she, I'm extremely rude
Ellen dresses with such casual care
Not a piece out of line, her fancy hair
Ellen completely involves her crowd
The silly shenanigans make them loud
She dances to the music everywhere
Famous for her moves, she then heads for the chair
She straddles the table with practiced skill for her advanced age and without a pill
She moves on to a famous brilliant guest
Uncommon talent to bring out their best
Music for the show picked eloquently
Ellen and staff almost always agree
The gifts she gives, the audience adore
Generosity leaves them wanting more
Cute that her mom's at every taping
Even stays awake and keeps from gaping
Ellen is actually my favorite host
Please forgive me, this little roast
If you're in the mood for a real good time
Tune to Ellen at three, on channel nine
You won't be disappointed, far from IT!
It's world wide known that Ellen's the ****
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
A hand around a cold, dead, arm
waning fragile and thin
Impressions of fingers on flesh,
twisted, crooked, bent
Across railroad tracks this sack is
dragged, heaved, yanked-
Like saddlebags;
you walk with dead bodies attached to your hips
You still have yet to question this
I wonder though, if you did,
would you see how much dead is attached to me?
Everyone has a Past
and like Death, it asks to stay
Asks you to hold it's hand along the way
To help it across mountain peaks and swamp trenches
This thing, it even asks to sit with you on park benches
There are a thousand empty wooden pews, but still,
you let it sit, and this,
this is where it will not quit
-Yanking still, across garbage piles and sidewalk cracks,
it even begins to ride piggyback
Again, you don't question
What do you see?
Nothing, darkness, it's numbed you,
blinded you physically
It builds it's palace atop your spine,
and evermore straddles between lines of harm and lie
Breathing in pure battle cry
DDD
(11/26/2013)
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
streetlight spews in across my floor
makes its way to my closed door
over my head it comes and I stare
oh death below, oh wait... you don't care
this light is demonic, beautiful to me
hell has gifted me with a she-demon you see
taking her time, she straddles me here
am I dreaming? she whispers in my ear:
let me show you what a demon can do,
**** a man with pleasure, yes you.
I've never been more entranced
never before had our lips danced
give me more, I wrap arms around
don't beg for mercy, demons don't give it
evil little succubus, oh god I love it
my heart races, my blood starts to flow
oh dear death, my true form will show
no, no. torture is sweet, within a demon.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
I've found a wonderful man,
everything I could have wanted--
one who listens, who tells me I'm still
pretty, even if I forego makeup and
revealing clothing.
One who straddles the fine line
of being chivalrous and never sexist,
protective but never possessive.
I cannot help but wonder,
what some recluse like me
could have ever done to deserve him.
Down to the details, even--
his shiny black hair, his innocent smile
(And I've always had a thing for foreign men...)
While I stumble as I walk, shrivel under the sunlight
and stutter on my words.
I've likely grown spoiled by him, and when I tell him
how much of a catch he truly is, he only says,
"There are plenty of other nice guys out there,
I'm nothing special."
Oh, Saleh, I could only smile, and
repress the memory
of what other 'nice guys' before you
have done to me.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC
he lies bloodied.
his idiot legs standing *****
he's roadkill on cruel pavement.
and the rest of the world straddles
what's left,
between their perpetual tires.
Jun 1, 2010
Jun 1, 2010 at 10:21 AM UTC
my daughter is almost 5
and my son is nearly 2
I could simply say they're one and four
but when the number's higher it sounds a little better
they're less babies and more childlike
you know, bigger and more wise
I'm more wise
my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
they're in our yard with twig berrets
and mud stained smiles posing for a postcard to make the hose drinking generation proud.
he straddles the ground, chest bare like he's Tarzan and howls at the blue sky
challenging the sun
I look at him like he's made of stone
she's a daisy pedal I crush in my hand and compress into a diamond
the toxins dripping from the curling edges of my lips burn the dirt from her face
the shine of the light washes out the blood on my knuckles.
a ring on my finger and my hands look clean
my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
their muddy fingers comb their feral hair
and their green feet clip the grass till they find jagged rocks
they weep over skinned kneecaps and with one arm I pull her close
with the other I slug his shoulder, "buck up kiddo, you'll be alright"
I hold a stone in each hand, and call one a precious gem while I build my house out of the other
my skin has washed against those stones since they were none and none
built into the houses of a thousand graveyards I've watched daisies pile over golden sarcophaguses
watched them wilt at the bottom of alters built on stone
I won't carve epitaphs into these hearts I hold
my daughter is almost five
and my son is nearly two
we drag fallen branches to our firepit and dance to music next to the flames
like weightless stone his strength surges to his tippytoes
she powders his nose with ash and pretends she's a cheetah
her game isn't to **** she just wants to chase
princes have their feet welded to pedestals and the sport's no fun for her
my children aren't rocks, they're stardust
I won't make kings or queens I've no providence over their future
so I'll **** the venom from the sky and watch them walk back to the stars
I may not be a champion but I'll be their father
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 9:20 PM UTC
Spirit of the age.
Which age?
Indifferent?
Explicit?
Aesthetics?
Art
Beauty
Film
Music
Literature
Modern
Classical
Ancient
Medieval
Contemporary
Greek
Chinese
Arabic
African
Indian
Limelight
Sunlight
Moonlight
Twilight
Candlelight
My spirit straddles two ages
20th and 21st
Can it be that I've surpassed my
own time?
Alas,
Goodnight from this plebiscite
Sleep tight
Don't let the zeitgeist bite.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
As the day draws on
She strikes a fire
Pink and red candles
Project her desires
Flickering flames
Smoke in our lungs
Her dresser's an alter
Unto the Sun
Passion her offering
She straddles my lap
No need for instructions
Ancient writing, nor map
No day can be darkened
In the temples of her soul
Witches of the northern land
The place I call home...
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
Condensed vibrational frequencies
Seeing themselves as masters of their own destiny
But tell me this,does a piece of music choose its own tempo and direction?or is it down to the creator of the sounds?
As we live in a sound based reality ( & I use the term reality loosely) we can summerise that the elation we experience from a series of rhythmic sound can be found in all other things,if we just choose to feel the vibe.
The obvious penatration of our being stood in front of the base bins at a free party,the feeling of sunlight to warm the skin and a zepher to cool it,the feeling of nirvana as a wild young temptress straddles your face and squirts moments of bliss into the oral cavity.
Its all vibrations,all of it,like a giant orchestra of being and everyone and everything has a front row seat.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
Beneath the barricades of lotus fronds
and flowers, lurks beauty, brains
all watching the goddess of shadows
seeking respite from the burning sun
and banter of imagery that clings
delicately to the fabric of questions
seeking anonymity.
Once in a while the curtains draw
and a face appears. smiling, seeking
showing a glimpse of magical moments
tempting, teasing, wonderful
carved in a flash of inner beauty
that straddles the page
and withdraws back into the
folds of wonder.
" I bet the suspense is killing you!"
Who am I?" She said sweetly.
I searched through all the pages of poetry
and people columns, ears to the ground
surging through swords and diamantes,
villanelles and wonders
swords and acrostics, aquatics
and wooded forests near tempered lakes
picnics and parks
and I watched the sunset settle
in a twilight sky of burgundy
and roses. All.
I did not find you heart beating
against my chest
or my words echoing its hypnotic
trance against your ears!
Anonymous it will be.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial.
yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself
there, not here, my body straddles two nations
yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks
i don’t know which language I dream in any more
yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed
my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river
my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation
between her bleeding legs
most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes
yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself
We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC