"stuttered" poems
My parrot is emerald green,
His tail feathers, marine.
He bears an orange half-moon
Over his ivory beak.
He must be believed to be seen,
This bird from a Rousseau wood.
When the urge is on him to speak,
He becomes too true to be good.
He uses his beak like a hook
To lift himself up with or break
Open a sunflower seed,
And his eye, in a bold white ring,
Has a lapidary look.
What a most astonishing bird,
Whose voice when he chooses to sing
Must be believed to be heard.
That stuttered staccato scream
Must be believed not to seem
The shriek of a witch in the room.
But he murmurs some muffled words
(Like someone who talks through a dream)
When he sits in the window and sees
The to-and-fro wings of wild birds
In the leafless improbable trees.
12.7k
the words used to flow like silk through my fingertips
i used to know exactly how to weave them
make them fall into tapestries, hang them from walls
emblazoned with unadulterated innocence.
it wasn't until you asked to look at my creations
that i realised sunlight could be so damaging
my words felt frivolous under your scathing gaze
and they stuttered, crumbled. my tapestries fell.
now they're dust and i'm on my knees, crawling
grasping fistfuls that seep through my hands
you can't write about something you can't feel
and now i can't feel anything.
this is the last poem i'll write about you.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
Droplets tap the dusty windows
Tipping pleasure on the pane
Dribbles every time the wind blows
Prophesize a hurricane
Kisses linger on the backseat
Desperate to delight in more
Suffocated by the heat, but
When it rains, it starts to pour
Panic storm that quickly closes
Smashing waves upon the sand
Tension tearing up the roses
Stuttered poems, shaking hands
Though the pressure keeps you floating
And the ocean licks its shore
There's no way of sugarcoating
Once it rains, it has to pour
Stick a finger in your ceiling
Let the plants hang onto youth
Sunday jazz, petrichor feeling
Hear it tripping on the roof
Smell it shifting all around you
Leaking through your drying veins
Leave your stagnant dragonfly blue
Open up into the rain
When it rains, it pours
I'll blossom being yours
Downpour cleans the ***** traffic
Rippling madly down the drain
Paints the artist something graphic
While he's waiting for the train
Laughter echoes in the morning
Licking soil and clouds to raw
From the vision that's been dawning
Once you rain, it has to pour
Spitting bombshells pelt your raincoat
Tears in quiet pools of green
Holes inside your getaway boat
Water's sweet but can be mean
You've avoided all the warfare
But the stars rampage for more
Douse the thin comfort you still wear
Once it rains, it starts to pour
Stick a finger in your ceiling
Give the plants a thirsty truth
Fairy lights and freedom feeling
Tunes of our torrential youth
Smell it changing all around you
Bursting through the shrivelled veins
Leave your crippled summertime hue
Open up into the rain
When it rains, it pours,
I'll bloom so much being yours
We're a perfect storm, I guess
Fire has been stopped with less
When it rains it has to pour.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
There’s a scurrying sound of something, burrowing,
Down in the depths of the dungeons, hurrying,
Skittering, pittering-pattering, scattering
When there’s a footstep, hear them chattering:
‘Here come the lords, and here comes the vassal,
Tripping their way through Cockroach Castle.’
Here come the ladies, all in their finery
Tripping and sipping the wine from the winery,
Trailing their silks, their satins and bustling,
Up in the ballroom, while the rustling
Army beneath the sounds of their razzle
Is down in the depths of Cockroach Castle.
Spilling their millions up in the glooming
Out from the flagstones, terror is looming,
Up on the awnings, hung from the ceiling
Under the swish of the skirts they’re stealing,
Dropping in hair, and burrowing faster,
Cockroach Castle is set for disaster.
Suddenly all of the room is screaming
Flapping of hands, the roaches are teeming,
Myriad hordes in the Carbonara,
Candles are tipped from the candelabra,
Choking smoke from the candles guttered,
Flames leap up from the ones that stuttered.
Clothing and flags and the awnings razing
Silks and satins flare up, and blazing,
Roaches in eyes and ears, they’re rasping
Clogging their throats, to leave them gasping,
There isn’t a lady or lord, or vassal
To come out alive from Cockroach Castle!
David Lewis Paget
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
"Oh, hey Emily, will you be on our team?"
It was the very bad ending to a very bad day.
Three tests, forgotten homework, stuttered lines,
And this is what got me in the end.
Those girls,
The ones with the
Perfect long blonde beautiful hair
And the pencil skirts
And uggs,
The girls who even manage to make gym clothes look good.
We had lined up for
Captain ball
Which is really just
A mix of
Soccer and basketball.
And we had to line up,
Every inch of back touching the wall,
And the first seven people from each side would play, and then the next seven.
But of course
Those girls
The ones who can't bear to be
Seperated
For two minutes and forty-seven seconds
Had to have the perfect team.
No.
Just no.
I won't "be on your team."
There are no teams.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:08 PM UTC
I have never stuttered in pen
misspoken in ink
or choked in my writing
the way I do
whenever I speak
my fingertips always know
the right words to say
my tongue is still learning
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 8:02 PM UTC
A man came to my door late last night.
It was about 8pm if my guessing is right
He seemed shaken and overcome with fright
He stuttered and stammered as I turned on the porch light
Timothy he said
Timothy he begged
Please listen to me he pled
I must save you his tongue shed
Flabbergasted at the sight,
my thoughts abstracted despite
his quadratic explanation of my plight.
We connected like an arc light.
Hold on I demanded
Wait a second I commanded
He could tell by my look I was stranded
in the immensity of the situation so he spoke candid
So your here to save my life? What do I say to something like that?
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child.
We screamed Taylor bridges,
tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred.
A single candle in the bathroom
danced warm sighs through open windows,
and all felt calm.
I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle,
sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket,
sometimes throwing my weight into the wind.
The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic,
but along the coast
he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized.
I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go.
I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon,
swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices
from the temple next door.
I did not dream of dragons.
I only learned to breathe fire.
At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar,
kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine,
burning full sticks of incense,
and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights.
This is how the year turns over safely.
Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity.
The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits.
It hissed that suffering could be scripture
until letters slithered free from the page
and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist.
I didn’t make it for Tết that year
no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big
for a body that learned shrinking
before it learned staying.
That was the shedding.
Salt water peeling old skin away,
songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache,
poems that did not start tragic,
nights when my body finally kept time with the moon.
At home the water did not move.
At home the dog’s teeth found my hope.
A terrified mouth rerouted rivers
through my soft parts.
A jewel carved from my nose.
Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars.
In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water
to claim whoever dares the bank.
I wonder if I was chosen the moment
I opened my mouth in those bars,
when I leaned into the bike’s curve
as if danger could be a swan song.
Now I lie awake at hours unnamed,
tracing scars that hiss answers back.
Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me,
the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve,
voices braided into salt and night,
and I cannot tell if they are echoes
or fangs testing the dark.
They say snakes shed to grow,
but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels,
how everything burns against it,
how you mistake survival for prophecy.
I touch the scar and wonder
if I am still that girl clinging to the bike,
or if the snake has already swallowed me,
patient, sleepless,
feeding on my own venom.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC
once my parents said
that we had to move
away from my home town,
my birth place,
my comfort zone.
I found myself
in Paris then,
hardly not speaking any french,
missing the beaches of Cali
and thinking of better times
Sitting in a little cafe
near Rue Bonaparte
sharing a cigarette
with a gray-haired stranger
philosophizing about life
and feeling the sand of
Santa Monica Beach
on my skin
Suddenly a stranger asked me
something I didn't understand
so I stuttered
menez-moi à la maison,
à l'endroit auquel j'appartiens
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
The fans rattling again.
It's not the only thing shaking in the darkness.
But it's making such a loud racket.
I keep it on anyway.
I'm afraid the silence will **** me.
I fight sleep like it's tangible.
You're always waiting there.
Just past consciousness,
standing in the shadows.
It's always the same.
Your backs to me and it will stay that way.
We're standing in a light rain,
the sun just faded.
I know every second that's about to happen,
yet every time it's like a new cut, over and over.
I say all the same words.
I say all different ones.
It never matters.
This story has unfolded a thousand times.
But it's different every time.
Sometimes I chase you.
Sometimes I scream.
Sometimes I beg. And curse.
Sometimes it's you instead.
You won't look at me
because hope is a deadly thing to give.
You know I'll always tell myself its there.
We all see what we want.
Especially when we don't want what we see.
Back in the dream, it's coming.
The part that will sit in the bottom of my soul.
Gathering weight, gathering dust.
You're in front of me,
but you couldn't be further away.
I'm on my knees.
A promise on my lips.
A disaster in my heart.
You step away.
One step, two, four.
Someone has been hammering my chest.
I'm awake.
Stuttered whirs of a broken fan.
The long length of the night stretched out in front of me.
It's only been an hour.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
Shy girl
Hiding behind
Thick lenses
Dark frames
Shy girl
Hiding behind
Thick books
Long pages
A boy
Across the room
Fruitful glances
Stuttered glances
The boy
Across the room
Likes her back
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
The legends won't tell
of Arthur when he fell in love
when he swooned for the arm that held Excalibur
extended out to him
how he did a double take
and stuttered and gawked
at the simple beauty of her flawless freckled skin.
And in this moment
I behold the Lady of the Lake
her divine completeness:
holy and whole.
Elegant sloping shoulders
a regal neckline pleading to be united
with loving lips
in an everlasting caress.
Water droplets dripping from her form--
reluctant,
wishing they could reverse the laws of nature
fall up from the surface
to bead and cling to skin again--
desiring to be as close as we
as she entrances me with emerald eyes
rivers of red hair
enchanting lips that know no equal.
She's won me over
and she drags me under
below the water
beneath the lapping waves.
The ripples on the surface
echo my farewell to the world.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
You left bruises on my wrists and I wore them like bracelets
The slurred and stuttered words
I'm sorry and Never again
Always spilled from your intoxicated mouth
But your sober attacks on me and wrecking ball-like-fists
Always spoke louder than your drunken words
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
He asked me some typical housekeeping things.
Like whether or not to put his shoes at the door,
if there was anywhere he could change,
and if I had any tea that wasn't decaf.
They were easy questions,
but I stuttered through them
like a car engine underwater.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC
If I were an opened can of pop,
You know what I'd be right now?
Flat.
That,
Is a horrible thing to be,
Cause you see,
I am up and bubbly fresh,
Now down,
Gloomy doomy death.
I am moss on crack,
Growing out of floor,
Covering the world,
And wanting more.
Cause you see,
When a blind man falls,
I like to laugh,
Because he doesn't know when the ground
Is going to hit him in the face,
And when it does,
He's so surprised
Like "How the hell did you get all the way to my face?"
Then I, come up to him
Laughing,
And say,
"You met it halfway!"
And run like a *****
But I'm flat,
And that,
*****
Like a straw set in a frosty milkshake,
Set between two starry eyed lovebirds,
And as they are about to indulge in the yumminess
Of the creamy bounty before them,
The eye of the guy,
Catches the sight of the girl,
Who's not sitting in front of him,
Passing on the by,
Catching his eye,
And his girl is soon by his side,
With a look on her face,
That could stop a race,
Dead in it's place,
For the fear of the world coming apart at the seems,
And he, knows, it.
She knows what he thought
When he saw what he saw,
And when he stuttered and sputtered,
She had heard it all,
Just not in so many words,
So much for these lovebirds.
She said what she felt,
He heard every word,
Then she turned and sped out,
He went quickly after,
And every one heard what he tried to shout.
And bursted into tears,
At the humor that was there,
Far less did his attempts,
Even try to fare.
It was told through the day,
From ear to ear,
"You had to be there"
They said with tears.
"But baby wait,
This is too much,
Come on, let's go back,
Our milkshake hasn't even been touched!"
And guess what?
I feel like that straw,
Feeling so lonely,
Nerves getting raw,
Listening to the fight,
Knowing this ain't right,
I should be cold,
But with the heat of lips,
Caught between sweet nothings,
And sweeter sips.
So you see,
What I see?
Feel,
What I felt?
How it just stood there,
While the milkshake,
It melt.
Leaving it in a puddle,
No one would drink,
And being wasted like that,
Poured down the sink.
Makes you think.
That,
It must be horrible,
To be,
Flat.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 10:45 PM UTC
Here lies a continuation of being.
View it as scenery indifferent to the weather channel.
A silent, exponential inverted sunshine euphoria
Warming the deepest letters of the soul:
U and I swaying outside linear cubic conventions corroded-
We sway like flowering Earth Resonance blooming as foreign
[Sensations]
A toe-curling in the chest stretched intimate at the highest hour
[Movement]
An unconditional syncopation of the heart and mind echoing a
Design as Liquid Resonance - I am that which you are.
“I could cry solid tears. Where have I been all these years,” says
You to reflected I rippling
[Perception]
Never spoken, only written as an abstract entity aware of vibrations
Tethered to timeless stories never read, only felt as I and U in
Reflected them, the missing strangers with a need to be found
[Immortalized]
Twisted eyes, encumbered lips, everflowing knitted letters stuttered. Kissed. Growing from itself a rehearsed mantra embroidered pattern discord. Mythical. The murmuration of a serenade’s evil dermis that feigns thick to tooth and claw, but silences to love as the overture.
Wide-eyed, you and I are a nascent reprise of words cloaked in inked pages turning in the billowing wind.
"Read them to me."
So I read in heavy rain.
From Monday to Sunday.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
All edge and divides
Frightening truths, severed lies
You don’t walk through a crowd
For fear of taking their lives
Serpent tongue, serpent teeth
Rattles between lips, sealed
Spoke of many, far too many
Nonconformities
Cyclic reveries
The start and end don’t
Repeat
Just an infinite line
Parallel in
Retreat
Cyclic history
Stalled and stuttered to
Death
Just to rise once again
All mistakes and
Regrets
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Different strokes for different folks, but if I stuttered when I spoke, there is a reason why I wrote, and if you think that I'm a joke, then stroke me, stroke me...
Empirical lyrically virile and viral a warrior reborn like he's gone out of style,
a rage unabated both non-syncopated and internal/external no meter's abated!
You wanted an anthem?
You wanted a cause?
You wanted a figure to even the odds?
You thought I was kidding
but now you're admitting that
I am the chosen whose broken the clause!
Rising in status, my main apparatus, the attitude: platitudes lack the finesse!
I'm searching for perfect not anything less!
I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!
Melding the milieus of millions and millions of masses who clash for the chance for the cash,
when all that was needed was truth to believe in, significance outed, you puppet let's dance!
No bragging, no lagging, and no more sandbagging, the hustle is over, your tussle is weak!
For soon we will savor the end of your flavor, fifteen minutes over, your outlook is bleak.
I'm nobody's pigeon hole, nobody's fool, I've seen quite my share of arrogant tools,
but here are the statements that lead me to greatness:
love me or hate me, go on instigate me, ignore me and gasp when you hear of my rule!
I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!
Now join me in raising a fist to the sky,
and pound upon pressure to powers that lie.
Make diamonds of rhyme-ends and squelter your silence
to pierce through the casket that left us so quiet.
Their reign is run dry, and nobody buys it, let's hit this at home so they cannot supply it.
Prepare the artillery pack in your fire, you're gonna need it , if the bars get any higher,
now hear from the jokee, I dare you provoke me, you still talking **** well stroke me, stroke me.
I'm raring to stage an incredible coup, there just ain't a limit to what I can do!
**I'm willing to take it for me and for you, THERE'S NO ******* LIMIT TO WHAT WE CAN DO!**
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
Between us and this dying world
Are conversations and stuttered words
That we left in the hands of midnight breeze
I float in your laughter, too light
to be weighed down by my fears
We lay under this sea of stars
Pointing into the sky
Casting nets into this galaxy of dreams
Calloused hands caress this wind
As stories pour out of our limbs
And we wash away yesterday's storm
Waiting for the sun to rise
Basking in the terracotta sky
Asleep against the coolness of the ground
Smiles still remnant on our face
And in all this was a heavy heart
That you pulled out from my chest
Held it in your palm as you slept
And I existed in your ease
Apr 21, 2022
Apr 21, 2022 at 4:37 PM UTC
I didn’t hand it over
I neglected to sign a consent
I never said you could yet you did anyway
a cavity within my chest
anatomical rather than cliché
the mask told me it’s a ventricle then I stuttered okay
hollowed inside thick walls
it gathers substance productively
like a strawberry picker but the berries are smashed
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
we rejoiced
when the sign on the parking meter said we could park for free.
your kind hand
in clumsy mind,
we strolled.
we were caught between the arts and business district,
so the shops and eateries weren't
sure if they should be cool or classy.
we strolled.
we passed an army of delis now abandoned.
a greek place,
a gelato,
a couple of hotel diners,
we rounded the block,
came back close to our start,
decided on the only restaurant
that was open.
as we were seated,
the already present patrons
stared ceaselessly, with no blinking.
people always stare at us.
i think they have trouble
categorizing us.
we aren't fat.
i don't wear affliction t-shirts,
you don't dress ******
we are caught somewhere
between the summer of '72 and indie rock brats.
our waiter was uneasy,
he had black hair, a beard,
a voice that squeaked and stuttered
as he boasted the organic and local support
the restaurant waved as their prideful flag.
order taken, people still throwing quick glances,
the music was right up our alley.
we took turns saying the names of the bands.
Cake, The Strokes, Spoon (the setlist's favorite), a deep cut from Bowie's Low, and a multitude of indie darlings that i can't remember.
i fell in love with you again.
i guess that makes the fifth or sixth time.
your child's eyes,
warm laughter,
and noble concern for the ****** state of the world.
it was good conversation,
it was good food,
it was a pleasant warm-up
for the remainder of our
getaway weekend.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 10:10 AM UTC
severed ******** joke be
fore it was even stated
in the basketball court
prior to the game.. he
stuttered and it came
out 'c-cl-c-c-clit-o-ress
ss neverm-m-mind.'
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC
Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.
One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.
I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.
She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.
My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!
I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...
As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Lately I have been hanging your voice on my wall.
It came in ten different frames,
and I spent hours adjusting them
until they hugged the wall at the perfect angle,
their gilded bodies pressing against painted emptiness,
whitewashed space.
And when I feel nostalgia
twining around my veins like wild ivy,
I only need to reach out and –
“Hello. My name is –“
“Hello. My name –“
“Hello. (Stop.) My. (Stop.) Name. (Stop.) Is. (Stop.)”
“Hellomynameis –“
Do you remember that?
Did you know my hands shook,
that I tripped over words like I do
with miniscule cracks in the sidewalk,
that my heart stuttered
thumpthump thu thump thuuump thumpthumpthump
and how it hasn’t quite been the same ever since?
“I love you.”
“I love (rewind) – love (rewind) – I love (rewind)– love (rewind)– I love you.”
“I love –“
“Iloveyou.”
You thought you could pry me open
and tear down my walls
and then suddenly you did.
It only took three words to start a hurricane in my heart.
Did you ever notice the aftermath,
the broken homes and homeless souls?
I am still rebuilding.
I hammered this one into my soul,
can still feel the echo of your words
pounding away in my bones:
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.”
“Good…(clickclickclick)… bye.”
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC