"stubby" poems
We All have Flaws,
Stubby nose,
Bushy Brows,
Crooked smile,
Whichever it maybe
But those are the types of things
That make us UNIQUE,
The details to our grand design,
"There is no one like Me"
Take pride in that,
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
To prejudge based off of one's appearance,
Now that is what you call UGLY
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
My younger brother and I heard strange noises coming from the beach again…
We looked up at the ceiling and then the window…
As the voices from outside, in a lively allegro…
Grew softer and louder in repeating crescendos…
We skittered out the door and stared in fascination…
For what we saw must have been our imagination…
The door closed with a creak as our feet hit the grass…
It was at that moment we got a look at the mass…
Of stubby foot, hunchback creatures from which the sounds had amassed…
There was about six of them chanting like a choir…
They danced and paraded around our burnt out fire…
As we looked on, we saw our fire raise…
It got brighter as they lifted their hands in waves…
As light betook the blue beach night…
A crowd of colorfully masked gremlins caught us in their sights!
Their feet slowed to a stop and they quieted down…
They stood still as the fire flickered off their weird wooden frowns…
One reached out his hand in a come-here motion…
They seemed to stand and wait with an encouraging notion…
As the fire crackled and the waves tumbled onto the beach…
All I can remember, is for the rest of that summer…
My younger brother and I served as the drummers…
For that quirky marching band of lake sprites…
With which our burnt out fire we’d reignite…
At an unknown time of night at our cottage in northern Michigan…
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Thin waist, long legs
Smooth hair, big chest
Angel eyes, full lips
Pink cheeks, wide hips
Tall but not too high
With a gap between her thighs
And long lashes on her eyes
Hourglass figure
Sweatpants & scarred legs
Damaged hair, flat chest
****** eyes, dry lips
Pimpled cheeks, no hips
Short and stubby
No thigh gap, just chubby
And eyebrows? Shrubby
Me
A
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
Stubby fingers, in a world where you seek long, artsy hands;
With the thumb that still looks like that of a child.
No, it isn't something that should be envied.
Put my palm to yours and it will not hesitate in feeling small, insignificant, giving you that ego boost you so desperately seek.
But it holds the power to support. It holds within it, the power of perseverance, hard work, and creating.
It does not flinch while it works like yours does. It doesn't shy away. Instead it makes the grip firm, steady. Unwilling to give up so easy.
Hello, hands. I accept you.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Angie works the alleys that reek of greasy sausages and ****
where beer-bellied men appear
and vanish into doorway varnish of invisible rooms,
spitting on their own doorsteps, stubby fingers
running over stained vests and wire wool guts.
Harry lives out yonder where plastic bags’ ballet shoes are made of glue;
he is sharing a hit
with a dreadlocked kid, just another invisible face,
a phantom-surfer nurse, to assist him in
chasing the ultimate high on highway number twenty-two.
Invisible, hairy hands hold her down; Angie has to swallow,
she can feel the pulsating vein
of a softening **** over her tongue and swollen lips –
she gives it a good old slap against her cheek,
grabs the package, and makes sure no one follows.
Harry’s clawing at a face in that place where reality floats
between the tip of the needle
and the desperate edge of chemical dependency -
his little angel taps him on the shoulder;
he turns around, and stabs her in the throat.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 11:32 PM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Not a happy lass
Stubby little wings
Superfluous mass
Four long stringy legs
Twirly-whirly tongue
Moo-Cow-Butterfly
Highly strung
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Fifty shades of fur
Quite the oddest vertebrate
To naturally occur
Burrows in the jungle
Terrified of heights
Weasel-Emu-Rangutan
Restless nights
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Slimy furry blob
Genetic Engineering
**** poor job
Moping on the seabed
Can’t fetch sticks
Labra-Hippo-Jellyfish
Sink like bricks
Chameleon-Begonias
Origin unknown
Disappear rapidly
As soon as they are sown
Neither here or thereabouts
But somewhere in between
Chameleon-Begonias
Seldom Seen
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Saturday,
A blank slate placed in front of an adventurous child
My imagination took me across the globe,
While my feet danced across my backyard.
Freshly cut grass grew into a weeded jungle,
Only a six year old could appreciate.
The sun was only a summersault away,
And I reached up to the sky with my stubby fingers
To form marshmallow clouds into pirate ships, and circus animals
Back when the moon was made of swiss cheese and superheroes really could fly
No one dared to whisper the word ‘impossible’
To a boy who feared nothing
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
before i go to sleep i look at you
in a myopic view, thanking a higher power
that i'm seeing someone so beautiful
i never want to lose
looking at you always feels like the first time
when i never had an inkling of how gentle
the light of this love could be
and waking up next to you
would be something that i'd look forward to
i belong to you, even after yelling
i belong to you, even after crying
i belong to your chest as i sleep
and my hands belong to yours
as i weep
and honey, your soft skin
your stubby fingers
and your tiny eyes
will forever be my home
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
I live at the bottom of a lake
I am a fish
There are gills in my ears
‘Cause there are things my blood needs to hear
I have fins in my mouth and they propel me so far
The only way to stop is to bite down real hard
Sometimes I miss the air, even though I’ve never breathed
I drive around the lake bottom in my little moving machine
I call it a Notcar
I try to find my way to the other side
It’s blue out there or maybe grey
I died at the bottom of a lake today
I ran all out of imaginary air
I fell asleep at the wheel of my Notcar
And drove right into a telephone Notpole
My friends all gathered round my little fish-shaped grave and I learned something
They don’t tell you in books or movies,
That Dead speaks a different language than Alive
So I couldn’t understand a word my fishy friends said
It sounded like this:
I’d always hoped my death would have some meaning
Or that at least my life would
But mostly I just tried to understand things
Like all the different rooms in my brain and why underwater never smelled like rain
I loved a few boy fish, had some very fishy affairs
I loved my friends the most, they were such pretty colors
(Dead sees colors differently than Alive, so now they look like this: )
The day I died was special like every other day which is to say
That it was not Notaverage
And I died in a pretty Notspecial way
And because I can’t hear Alivewords, or see Alivecolors
I’ll never be sure if I left any mark
I live at the bottom of a lake
Most days I think that I’m an alien
On Tuesdays I feel pretty human
The lake I live in died
It left behind little shells in the sand at the playground
And pretty rocks with ripples
It left rings on the mountains but not like rings inside trees
These rings mark a countdown to death, rather than a count out from birth
The lake is a ghost
It sings to me in my sleep, but I don’t speak Dead
At least not yet
And furthermore, I don’t speak lake
I speak a language called Notdeadnotlake
And so do all my friends
Sometimes I wonder why the ocean was so thirsty that it called my lake back home
And I wonder if I’m part of Something Bigger too,
Whether Something Bigger is feeling thirsty
I think I might be part of a big strange creature made out of all the things I sometimes feel like:
Lakesludge and matches and sunshine and fish with sharp little teeth
Notgoods and notbads and spiders and bats
Sadhappys and angryfucks
Starsparkles and earthworms and fairywings and dinosaur bones,
It has really big ears and stubby toes
And all it needs is some alien or Tuesdayhuman to feel complete
Or maybe it’s made of lakeghosts and fishghosts
And wants nothing to do with me
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
What does a painter do? A painter paints.
Of paintings inspired by the universe;
Of legends luminous as pious saints.
But people like me work to fill my purse.
Not artisan by trade nor rich merchant,
With rough and stubby fingers callused palms,
I'll starve if I were the master's servant
And soon to take the streets to beg for alms.
I paint for sake of commerce not for art;
I paint all kinds of buildings, houses, schools.
None enters, jobs can't start till I depart;
Scrappers, ladders, paints, brushes are my tools.
Do what I'm commissioned to do. To paint.
But Leonardo or Angelo I ain't.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC
High above the Canyon’s edge,
Far above the ancient clay,
The helicopter hovers there
Like a dragonfly at play.
With my jet pack on my back
I coolly, calmly step away.
Gain separation from the blades,
Freefall starts my epic day.
On stubby wings the jet packs fire
I’m Daedalus in the morning light.
I soar across the canyon’s rim.
Laughing like some hell born sprite
One hundred eighty miles an hour,
The wind whips cold despite the sun
I glide toward my landing zone
The jet packs sputter and are done.
My parachute has been deployed
My guide ropes turn me for my drop.
My wings are just a dead weight now
I touch down one the Mesa top.
At Kitty Hawk that fateful day.
This must be what the brothers felt
Kindred souls who sought to fly
By using wings that wouldn’t melt..
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
Look in the mirror
What do you see?
Imperfection
As you reach left for
The tan crumbs to cover your uneven skin
And reaching right for
The black
Toxic
Goo
To give the impression that your stubby eyelashes
Aren't incapable of growing
You step back and look at yourself once more
Its not enough
You rummage for the crayon to
Smear across your eyelids
In hopes that it will make your
Dull
Brown eyes
Pop
Your face feels pounds heavier
Yet, are you really done so soon?
Aren't you forgetting something
You dig deep into the drawer
To find a
Burning
Red paint to drown your thin pale lips in
Longing for the look of that
Photoshopped
Supermodel you saw in that magazine
You come downstairs
Dad says you look like a clown
Mom says you're still a kid
Society says its not enough
What do you say
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
*this poem didn't come easy. written amidst buffeting emo's, V will not be natural flow, probably flawed. You, self-chosen people, will come along, please, to see the process, and the proceeds too.
But as usual, the poem was write before me, needing only human kindness overflowing to guide the way.*
V
V words lord, excluding all others,
phonetic juggernauts,
never met a V word
that had no personality.
victory is the one word that
my/our brains
think of first.
sure there is vortex, victuals, veer
and valor exam,
the latter,
what ever it means is a gift,
curtsy-courtesy of auto-incorrect.
but it is victory
on top,
victorious in its own way.
try it on another if you must...
what is the word that starts with a V
that first comes to mind?*
so let us talk of victories.
so oft, I write in the dark,
even as I do now.
came home soul weary,
face worn-worry,
gotta go out to meet
Peter Bogdanovich later,
to chat about his latest movie.
woman looks me over.
X-ray glance,
an MRI of my heart,
no deductible charged,
but oh yes, a co-pay due, indeed!
Peter will keep,
tonight you're-mine,
to bed I send,
right after we consume
Large Thin Mush,
cause pizza with shrooms contains
mood serotonins,
that erase the
"pain of the day"
that be a victory nonpareil.
a Waterloo, a Normandy landing,
that be a victory where
both sides hug and kiss,
and make with their long,
stubby Churchillian fingers,
V's all night long
with goofy grins,
cigars and bowler hats,
just to go along.
so here I am in the dark,
having been "put" to bed,
one mo' time,
slicing and dicing letters
into a word-salade,
instead of resting.
dreaming of the day
when I can no longer need to
pretend to be a Seuss, but truly,
can be writing poems for all my
children~friends.
one for each letter
of the alphabet,
teaching us to write
upon our faces
laugh lines thin and fine,
mine, ours, yours.
product of pizza poems,
some that come not circular,
but tonite shaped
just like a woman,
just like a
V.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
(Went out today,
Charter boat
Trinidad Bay
Limited out on rock fish
in two hours
Watching Elks Head
from the ocean,
Grandpa)
Isadore
Called him Izzy
Chewing all day
on a fat cigar
Looked at lot like Jimmy Durante
His father stowed away on a ship
Wasn't going to be a Russian military conscript
Genocidal pogroms were coming
how he knew
we'll never know.
Ended up in Philadelphia town,
Scranton Pennsylvania
Moved along to Brooklyn
Stubby Izzy
fighting it out with the Irish immigrants
Dreaming of having a chicken farm
over there in New Jersey
Izzy met Grandma Sarah at the family clothing store
they fought it out for 70 years
The 60's book
Games People Play
They were the star attraction
The friction was the glue
that kept them together
The friction was the match
that lit their passion.
Grandpa Izzy
funniest man I ever met
Drove an old 48 Ford
selling housewares in the Southern route.
In the morning far too early
Sneaking into his room
tickling his feet to the sounds
of ohhs and hoho's
At five years old
Grandpa Izzy
took me fishing
on some New Jersey pond -
Afternoon sun with yellow colors
bringing all the foliage alive
Sun setting
fish rising
a hand held in mine
defined the peace
I seek
in reoccurring dreams through out a lifetime
A troubled teen
all suicidal
the drive in the 48 Ford
with Grandpa Izzy
running down the Malibu pier
catching the half day boat before it
disappeared
Grandpa Izzy
never lived far from a race track
I don't know about those losing days
but the secret he said
Was to never lose your sense of humor
Always be able to laugh at yourself
Izzy smoked those big old chewed cigars
lived until he was 94
Ended up not knowing
Who or where he was
Maybe we all
end up
that way too
But in my memory
there is sharp focus
he remains alive in me
If heaven is there
I know I'll find
Izzy and I
on that New Jersey pond,
a fishing line
and
peace inside.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
lukewarm black coffee
in an eco friendly cup.
Profits, Profits.
Pull yourself up by boot straps and
smoke cigarettes, get cancer
die a wreck.
I can't seem to find me
I now live in a place where I speak the language,
but I liked not understanding old words much better.
I always know a person by their hands.
fingers chubby, wrinkled,stubby shaky, shaky.
hands.
Everything seems clearer over here.
Black and white.
polarized.
yellow, brown,
tan, ***** fat.
But there is no gray.
They say there is love here--
California love here--
but I can't find it.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Her voice poors out of her mouth
She is able to stand on that stage and share her talent
She is talented
That voice is thick and strong and loud enough to reach hundreds of ears
That voice is smooth and gentle and soft enough to please hundreds of hearts
What good is a second-rate piano player compared to a voice like that?
Her skirt will always be longer, more flirty
Her teeth with always be straighter, tucked further away with the pensive look she has
It is my love for Victor Hugo against her love for Victor Hugo
My love for Broadway versus her love for Broadway
But all I have is 10 stubby fingers to tickle the worn Baldwin in my living room
She has that voice in a room full of red velvet seats
It is my interest in Kristin Chenoweth against her interest in Kristin Chenoweth
We both like to read
We both like the theatre
We both like you
But what can compare to a voice like that?
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Remember it well do I ~
Third eclipse of second moon
on Wrote-Clishhen Five
Saw your eyes; full of the force, did I
But full of Love ~ they were ~ a higher power
yesss. hmmm....Delighting everyone
The Cutest nose had you ~ and ears...
Oh ! ...And smile did you
like a thousand light-sabres, was it.
But your way ~ your way, it was
~ that made me love you
Many times laughing, spend, we did
(Yo-da one that I want - joked - you did
~ the best joke ever, thinks I )
Until, intervene and consume us, the Dark Side did;
Tears replacing laughter and hate; Love
Our friendship, to die, was meant to be
But swear I do,
On my six stubby toes !
Forever love you I shall
yesss ~ swear I do...
- Forever... love you
...I shall
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
I bury into the memory foam with a
Strange boy's finger up my ****
Stubby white soldier,
Cherry ****
Phone off.
Lily- pads wind their way towards the bathroom
(pizza boxes, six pizza boxes)
"skip carefully towards the ****** stash
or else you'll sink...
they're under the sink
...uh, uhhh, come back and
sink your way in"
Welcome to the Bad Life Bingo!
Every hour is the end of the world,
There's nothing to play for
and no time to play it in...
...I am shaking off this dry truth
with a flannel that has seen better days.
My english tan is coming off
and nothing works.
He tries to light a joint in my bed
the zippo strikes three -
click - fzzzz
click - fzzzz
click - fzzzz
and you're out .
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I used to live with these two friends—
A long-haired Navajo guy that was into Satan & Death Metal,
and an average white guy into Star Wars & Metallica.
This one night
we were going to see Danzig in concert.
Before we went to the show
we had to get a money order and mail it to our landlord
for rent.
The three of us went inside the Circle K,
got the money order, cigarettes, and some water.
On the way out,
back to the car,
there was an old, crusty, homeless Native guy
his neck draped in rosaries,
like Mr. T is in gold.
As we walked by, he said,
“Can you guys spare some change?”
“Sure,” my Navajo friend said, digging his pocket for change.
He was just about to drop a handful of coins
into the bum’s hand
when the old guy said,
“Oh thank you. God bless you …”
A smile came over my Navajo friend’s face
as he put the change back into his pocket.
“Nope. You shouldn’t have said that. You just HAD to bring God into it, didnt you?”
“Ohhh **** you,” the old guy yelled.
“Why don’t you ask God for some money then?"
We all laughed getting in the car.
The old *** kept talking.
“Just get outta here. Something bad is gonna happen to you boys. Go, get away from me. Something bad is gonna happen to you …”
My Navajo friend didn't miss a beat,
“Yeah? Well, if you don’t shut the **** up, something bad is gonna happen to YOU ************
The old man looked down to his rosaries and began to pray.
We drove across the street to the post office
to mail the money order for the rent.
The boys stayed in the car while I got out to mail it.
The post office was already closed
and all they had were those stubby little pencils.
It had to be signed in ink.
I went back outside
“You guys have a pen?”
“Nope.”
****
“Just ask somebody. And hurry up, we're gonna be late!”
Just then I saw a plump, middle-aged woman getting out of a minivan.
I approached her.
“Excuse me? Ma’am? Do you happen to have a pen I could use? I have to send off a money order for rent and I just realized I don’t have one …?
The lady sighed heavily, sounding annoyed, she turned back around
and began walking back to her minivan.
“I’m sorry to put you out, I just HAVE TO send this out…”
Getting into her van, she turned around and screamed at me,
“I don’t have any money for you to take from me. I WILL NOT BE ACCOSTED!”
She started the minivan and made a quick getaway.
“What the hell happened?”
“That crazy broad thought I was trying to rob her.”
We all laughed our ***** off at her choice of words:
ACCOSTED.
As we drove off, I remembered the old man’s words
“something bad is gonna happen.”
It coulda been worse.
So we said **** it and mailed it the next day.
The late fee was $15.00.
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:12 PM UTC
Her hands are neither soft
nor attractive.
They are a white fish belly from too
little time in the sun.
Her nails are stubby and unadorned.
Her fingers are tentacles projecting
unnaturally from undersized palms,
tips rough and calloused.
I must stare
I cannot help myself
Then it begins.
The movement.
The tentacles scamper here and there.
They reach
They touch
They pound and poke
and stretch and crawl
and in their grotesque fury
teach me to love.
Mozart and Chopin
Prokofiev and Bach
The piano is a time machine
transforming the tiny practice room
into the mighty concert halls
of Vienna and Prague.
From the gallery I am
entranced by rhapsodies
seduced by nocturnes
and consumed by symphonies.
I murmur,
does the music stir your soul?
She glances up
briefly
and returns to work.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
It starts
in the quiet
itching in the fingers
like new skin knitting under blistered burns.
I have always written.
Before I had my letters
(before the lessons
with stubby pencils
curving sense out of the air)
I would scrawl nonsense waves
folding and boiling
in a crash of senseless surf
onto pages meant for pictures
I scribbled a whole Atlantic
before sense and sound
delivered the waves to reason.
I still find it hard,
when writing,
not to let the rolling sea
scatter into fragment waves
that whisper into the breeze of my fingers.
I have tried many addictions,
I have spent people like money.
I have tied my hands
to stop from fussing at the leaves.
If I ever loved I left it still spinning,
but I have never lost the itch
a pen to scratch its bleed of ink
into a sweet clean ****** page.
To scrawl my feint history
in every broken harbour
of her yielding skin.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Babushka doll, you're an acid vase
Empty as church mornings
Devoid of all feelings;
You unravel your sullen smiles,
Ill-bred and unclean.
You are not complete.
You lost your babies.
Now you're alone.
Darling, darling, darling, how does it feel?
To feel the root of brute in the stubby heel,
Your silly scarves lost in the wheel.
Just peel off the cabbage roses
Petal by Petal,
Dismember yourself.
What a laugh!
The air has asthma,
The sun gives it T.B.
Oh dearie me!
It wheezes kisses heavier than a lecher.
Saboteur of my days,
Why must you hurt what you can?
Because you hate me, hate me.
You are an acid vase full of hate.
I can see your ruddy heart like an X-ray.
Unstick yourself from me.
I don't want you,
Your scarlet lips
Lake Baikal eyes,
or Eastern European knits.
The rings shed their gold.
Knock knock,
Dead at 30.
The last twist of the knife.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Dear potential lover
When you fall in love with me
Make sure to love the way,
my face dulls on gloomy days;
like a rose in autumn.
And fall for my muddy brown eyes,
that take you to worlds with distant skies;
eyes like fields of adventure.
My stretch marks, scattered simultaneously,
like strokes of a brush set wild and free;
their colour of clouds with silver lining.
Fall for my unpainted nails, the plain sort
stubby, and cut almost too short;
nails made for playing in the soil.
Love my tummy, un-flat and not so lean,
the kind you don’t see in magazines;
a tummy with gentle hills.
Admire the way I look,
lost, snuggled up in a book;
the way I stare at the trees,
my fine hair playing with the breeze;
love my excessive day-dreaming
and my serenity on afternoon walks.
Dear potential lover:
Love all of me;
My perfections
and my imperfections
and my perfect imperfections.
Shayma. .
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
I will only ever remember
stubby thumbs or your stubborn head,
and coconut-carved ridges in your paper-white teeth;
laser lights;
my pencil
covering the cliche of a hand hovering over my body;
of those breaths with a depth too recognizable
and the inflated patches so perfect under your eyes;
just to float in a revery of reconciliation,
sitting on the concrete as I cry with a shake in my body like the break of a wave
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC