"substantially" poems
I'm on the run
And not for fun
The police are chasing
My heart is racing
When my life is at stake
My morality I'll break
The police release the hounds
I can hear their deadly sounds
They want to maim me
I want to stay me
I decide to fight the charging canines
Because I just snorted a ******* line
My judgement loses length
To my influx of strength
I break the dogs' legs
Until they beg
That's not enough
Sorry Scruff
The steel gun I fire
A furry cop retired
The police attack me
For defending myself
They refuse to see
The danger to my health
They chose to use crazy canines
So I feel the fault isn't mine
That doesn't change their decision
For me to die slowly in prison
I am in the teeth of the government
Much to my human wonderment
This is the way I'll spend the rest of my life
For the decisions I made at the end of a knife
The irony is cops **** dogs all the time
Yet they obstruct their vision of the line
Where it ceases to be man versus society
And becomes man versus nature
When a man is in peril
He must turn feral
But in a country that blindly idolizes aggression
The police don't acknowledge this discretion
They dig their teeth into our skin
While draining us financially
The only way we'll ever win
Is if things change substantially
Sadism fervently fuels the flames of conflict
With an exasperated public sick of being kicked
Cruelty is what they witness
To lose their mental fitness
How can they protect their babies
When the police have rabies?
The police relationship with the effected public will never shift
When there's a Cereberus between them maintaining the rift
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
let me begin my salutation to you
by expressing my angst about your ghastly night experience
that you go through when in the hands of the policemen
who often walk around in the name of security patrols
while in truth they bettle terror in the show of evil mighty
they swop you down and arrest you spreadeagled
asking for bribes substantially the money of your proceeds
from the ware of your trade your body the temple of christian God,
Wherever your lack money
your beauty saves you as they go on to **** you in circles among themselves
as they glorify the power of your bossom in their policeman's slang,
where beauty , tyranny of bossom and your bribe is absent
you are forlornly arrested from the streets of Nairobi and Lagos or Johannesburg
then rounded down to a dingy police cell to be charged
with heinous crimes of prostitution and vagrancy,
when the true origin of your fortune's tomfoolery
is powers that be as they glorify anti woman crude cultures
beseeching a girl child into despair and depravement,
they are these men who refused to see you as a beacon of glory
they always link you to the filthy bedrooms from which you ennoble not.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
Mark Twain to Helen Keller
“Oh, dear me, how unspeakably funny and owlishly idiotic and grotesque was that “plagiarism” farce! As if there was much of anything in any human utterance, oral or written, except plagiarism! The kernel, the soul—let us go farther and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances in plagiarism.
For substantially all ideas are second hand, consciously or unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources and daily use by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them any where except the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his temperament, which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing.”
Mark Twain
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 3:39 PM UTC
I sit in front of my dressers mirror,
Stare at the plain adequate girl staring back at me,
Is she enough?
Can she walk out this door and hold her head up high?
No.
And so I pull,
And tweak
And brush
And dry,
I look at the girl in the mirror again,
Her hair is done up,
Pretty and well kept,
But dead dry and limp because of damage,
And I can’t help but think it represents my inner self,
Though dead,
I look substantially better,
But is she enough?
This girl staring back at me?
Can she hold her head up high with the confidence of knowing what she wants?
No.
And so I apply base,
Concealer,
Try to fix my uneven complexion and blemishes,
Eye shadow,
Then eye liner,
Mascara,
Lipstick….
And again I stop to look at the girl,
She looks like women now,
As every feature is defined and highlighted,
Her complexion even,
Blemish free…
But is it enough,
This women staring back at me,
As the make up smudges and rubs off,
She’ll become the drab adequate girl underneath it all,
I can put on beautiful clothes,
Amazing jewellery,
But I remain the plain adequate girl that stares back at me,
With her sad eyes,
Set jaw,
Lips that barely ever quirk upwards with a hint of a smile,
That girl who’s cried so many eyeliner smudging tears,
That girl who fears,
Everything,
Everyone,
No matter how much I do,
To hide her away,
Keep her from the world,
No matter how many layers of,
‘Happy’,
I try to mask her with,
She will come out,
As my clothes grow rumpled,
My jewellery loses its shine,
Its glow,
As my hair turns grey,
My make up smudges,
I become her again,
And is she enough?
I stare at her long and hard,
I notice the high cheekbones,
The strong set features,
I realize this girl is only adequate,
Because she believes it,
Only plain because it’s all she’s ever been convinced to see,
With all her wear and tear,
She is beautiful.
And so I grab my make up remover,
Wipe away the mask suffocating me,
I shake my hair out to its full volume,
I remove the jewellery that’s cold against my warmth,
And I look at this plain adequate girl,
Not so plain and adequate anymore,
And I ask myself,
Is she enough?
Enough to face the world proudly as whom and what she is?
Is she?
Those sad eyes stare back at me with a new found spark,
Those set lips quirk up into a hint of a sly smile,
And she winks at me.
Yes.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
hymn to Apollo
by Michael R. Burch
something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
golden, splashed on the easel of god;
what, i thought,
could this elfin stuff be,
to, phantomlike, flit
through tall trees
on fall days, such as these?
and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice enchantedly rang
chanting “Night!” . . .
till all the bright light
retired,
expired.
This poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so it was written by age 18, but probably around age 16 or 17. That was my "cummings" period. Keywords/Tags: sun, god, sunshine, Apollo, elfin, phantom, ghostly, magical, enchanted, bright, light, brilliant, sky, golden
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 4:20 AM UTC
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchanted, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion, Romance, First Love, Dark, Dreams
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 12:31 AM UTC
Circe
by Michael R. Burch
She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Keywords/Tags: Circe, enigma, enigmatic, enchantress, siren, enchanted, witch, goddess, magic, Ulysses, pigs, sty
Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark...
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976. In addition to having similar titles, they had similar "staircase" indention styles. According to my notes, I modified "Moon Lake" two years later in 1978, at which time the poem was substantially finished. I then modified "Tomb Lake" in 1981, but must have forgotten about it, because I don't show that I ever submitted the poem for publication or did anything with it for more than 40 years. Keywords/Tags: Moon, Lake, Lakes, Water, Reflection, Reflections, Image, Imagery, Mirror, Magic, Magician, Seer, Prophet, Shaman, Spell, Spells, Enchantment, Sorcery, Bewitchment, Bewilderment, Incantation, Rhapsody, Love Talk, Love Potion
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:47 AM UTC
/
Many and
Many years later
My Poetry books
That I had lost
From the middle of the bookshelf
Within Thousands of many other books
Where I have found
Utterly Unknown
Some Pages
Yellow
Pale
Is very difficult to read
Yet quietly reading
I read with a lot of the force
Crawling.
As a Small child walking
Many years later,
Understand
Know
Become that Strange Poem
The Poem
Showed me Dreams
Told me to Love
Strikingly,
Bought all the Colors of my Canvas
Drawn your Images
That happened,
Many and
Many years before
In my Heart and the Soul
Then
You and I
Grew as a highly Sophisticated
Metaphor,
In an extreme
Cohesion,
Nice One
My Heart put on your Heart
In a Romantic Tune
Bode on a Small Boat
Toward a Tough Sea,
That happened,
Many and
Many years before
In the Song of the Sea
Then
Sudden Sea Storm Came
Made Substantially Vortex water
We Drowned
Lost you
That also happened
Many and
Many years before
In this Sea and my Soul
Today I have found you again
In a Sprung Dream
As I lost you
Many and
Many years before
As if I'm standing
On the Shore of the Sea
You as a form of Sea Angel
Come forward to me-
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
I
Tired
the long road ends
by a sea wall
The engine dies
to cries of estuary birds
to halyards’ **** and tinge
A lake of light set in night’s cloudscape
brims over the western marshland
to seaward a dense darkness
On the ferry’s step
ear close to the brown water
a part-song sings the ebb tide’s flow
II
Threading into the marshland
a braid of cloud-reflected water
of oval sedge and common reed
In amongst the brown canes perspective vanishes
only by mind’s foreshortening or body’s levitation
is there sight beyond the creeping rootstock
By the river path a leaf
pearled with glazed dew glistening
dew grabbing the photographic eye
Standing backs to the horizon
a sculpted triad of bronzed ancestors
watch over the summer rites of music
III
This ****** field
moves clamorously under the feet
waiting waiting for the sea’s kiss
Proud-coloured the boats here
resting poised on railway sleepers
beside their tractored guardians
How to know which way to turn
which view to hold for memory’s stamp
this patient sky this slow exhaling sea
This foreground flow of white-grey-brown pebbles
each sensibly-sized for the hand in the pocket
yet substantially-singular on the window’s sill
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:12 AM UTC
"Once he is within our custody, we shall take his life. He shall be, henceforth, survived only by the image that stains my CCTV screen."
Security is no longer watching the CCTV;
No longer watching the purchase of a rice pouch;
No longer pulsating in a sterile environment,
Simultaneously monitoring an image that was never on tape;
Focusing, so deeply, on a soul that was never on tape.
So deeply fixated on those who have committed a crime;
Those who are substantially unblemished by sunlight;
Those who are continuously touched by our Heavenly Father's sight;
Those who possess an artifice of the Sea Horn which was not originally their own;
Those who unceasingly scale onyx towers draped in a filthy government skin,
Waving pure flags against the night.
Feb 22, 2023
Feb 22, 2023 at 8:41 AM UTC
Sombre loneliness in the abyss of power
Where selfishness begets solitude,
In which the powerful ones that be
Eminently hang alone self-ostracized
In a high catacomb of democracy
From which is connived the foul whims
Of dictatorship, the sole protégé
Of deliberate exclusion, rendering mankind
To beautiful menace of powerlessness
A pedestal on which civilsations of Africa
Substantially dangle in a stand.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
I stare into non-existence
Taking breaks from existence
Restoring my resistance
So to come back substantially fit
To feed my realism
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
Its 1:30 in the morning. And I’ve begun to think of the rarities and adversities in life, which shape
us into the hollow ghosts called humanity. Machines that listen, and obey. Becoming slaves of a
mundane existence as we go about our days. Wake. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. With the slight possibility
of variation that may never come to fruition. Why must we consume, but not provide? We
multiple uncontrollably, take from this earth, yet never seem to substantially give back. Something
so beautiful and yet so abused. To give, may be to take away from ourselves. But is selflessness so
horrible? To make the life of another better, at the small expense of ourselves should be but a
small price. Yet the few whom know this and continue to give out of the goodness of their hearts,
are scoffed at by the selfish majority. Why must we, the hollow ghosts of humanity, make
decisions for whatever objective we may have, in whatever situation should be presented, and
then complain of the results or the consequences should they not go accordingly? Rather than
vowing to improve on the matter of contempt? The decision was made, and cannot be
changed. Why fret so much, over something that is now unchangeable? Why not simply decide
within one’s self to, when presented with a choice of a similar nature, make a different
decision? We, being the hollow ghosts we are, dwell so frequently on the past. Thinking so hard,
as if to change events of times long behind us. We think, as if to comprehend our very
nature. And in the absence of the desired understanding and/or enlightenment, we complain
about our very existence. As if anything and everything in our daily lives may hold precedence
over the very fact of our existence. As if to curse our Creator for making us such simple creatures
not able to grasp the complexity or diversity of His design. Rather than taking existence itself for
face-value, and enjoying the many fruits of this beautiful earth, we **** ourselves with selfishness
and passiveness. And we, the hollow ghost of humanity, will ultimately be our own miraculous
yet untimely downfall.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:01 AM UTC
The ocean caught fire the first time I laid eyes on you,
the world was perfect & wars didn't exist for that split second,
also people weren't superficial but instead loving & appreciative for what had been right in front of their eyes for so long.
I'm sorry it took me so long to notice you before,
I had been so caught up in my own little chaotic world that I had never before noticed that the ocean had caught fire long before I was ever born, long before I knew how repulsive the taste of saltwater in my mouth was, long before the curtains could draw themselves,
& even before songs used to be written because of pure joy & not the idealistic lifestyle of endless fame & mountains of money.
I'm only 18 years old but I swear to you my dear, i've loved you for centuries.
Ever since the big bang theory, the universe has known what pure love has looked like because you have always existed,
in the dark matter,
in the dying stars,
in the evolving cities inside the galaxies that won't even exist for another 10 billion years,
you were always there, being loved; unconditionally, unimaginably, substantially, overconfidently, loved.
& whether I fade off into a heaven-like nirvana, or reincarnate into all of the tears running down your face, or just rot in the ground for all of eternity;
always know that every star in the galaxy will always love you if I can't, & the sun will burn out to the thought of you, & every burden that I ever put on your shoulders (including myself) will always remember (& appreciate) you for breathing all the air inside of a gasp-less room & will always love you for that;
even in 10 billion years after the earth is dried out & the sun is on its death bed, the universe will still love you,
for everything,
every kiss you gave me,
every time you let me lay in your arms even though you hated me at the moment;
every "cheer up champ, you'll get over me sooner or later" line you said to me,
every single piece of advice you had given me for ways to love you better, ways to love you harder, ways to give myself to you without seeming vulnerable, & ways to kiss you without actually being in the same room as you.
The universe will always love you, & the same goes for me, I will always love you as well, even when a meteor destroys the tree house that we built together, or a heat wave so powerful wipes out the human species, or you decide one day that the way I look at you in the shower isn't as meaningful as it was 6 months ago; no matter the catasrophe, this aquarius constellation will always remember how happy you made it, & will always love you for that.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
Lost in trials and tribulations; testing one’s patience as malignant lesions formulate morphological alterations ceaselessly swarming throughout this mortal embodiment
Erratic mitotic divisions serving as propositions carrying calamitous conditions - prescriptions from physicians functioning as baleful contradictions augmenting one’s overall condition
Salubrious air would substantially repair in lieu of a multimillion-dollar pharmaceutical snare chemically altering the brain chemistry unsympathetically.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
From deep within;
Emptiness.
As if you're trying substantially to chase a ghost;
Aimless.
You look around and there is no one, nothing
Simply yourself and some nonsense..
then
I ask myself, is it me? Am I the problem?
subsequently..
I take a look at my heart;
I wouldn't find pureness but lucidity and daintiness
However..
Im still on my own
Fighting the feeling of loneliness everyday
The day ends, I go to bed
Cry myself to sleep.. But I wake up hoping that my day would be different
no, it just ends horribly.. like every other day.
Giving up.. It hurts to give up though
Specially giving up on him
As if you're yanking, stripping out, extracting
a piece of your own heart and mind.
..
Holding way too many feelings
Nodding to people and heads
When I wish to have a simple happy life
With my loved ones,
Instead they misunderstand me,
hurt me,
blame me,
disrespect me,
enough..
..
I can't explain my love to him,
infinite emotions of love,
flowing thoroughly within every inch of my heart
..
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Some call me a prophet
Others see me as a derelict
These stories I’ve stored in my head
Can easily be twisted to fantasy
Am I reliable?
You have no choice
But to take what I say and believe
At least for a little while
I believe the listener
Is as naïve as I seem
Sitting on every detail
Every word
While visiting Southwark
I met a variety of characters
From different means of life
With different perspectives on the world
Looking innocent has its advantages
It gives me a leeway
To invade other’s privacy
And extend the truth to the edge of fabrication
Have you ever questioned a storyteller?
We all seem friendly
We talk highly of everyone we meet
Until we dive deeper into their secrets
The Squire
Composing music is his forte
I say it sounds beautiful
And he seems fresh as the month of May
The Friar
A gossiper full of language
I hope to understand
To grasp
A Sailor
Having bad joints
From extensive labor.
He must work substantially to acquire those injuries
The Summoner
Full of white pimples
Yet drinks red wine
As red as blood
I create a story
Yet can end it all the same
I tell you what you want to hear
Not what reality presents in front of me
For life is not exciting
Without a bit of imagination.
And with my mastered poker face
It may be impossible to seek out my lies
The darkness inside us all
Can peek its head at any time
Consuming us into a downward spiral
Of lie after endless lie
So am I reliable?
We’ll just have to see.
So here comes a story
Told by me.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I read somewhere that there is a natural
process of renewing all the cells within
your body. That it takes something around
the time of seven years to substantially
be a new person. So I guess
I’m waiting.
In seven years, I’ll see if my heart wants to
start up again without the scent of your
fabric expelling from each beat or to suddenly
enjoy the unremembered feeling of your skin warmed
close against mine or to experience the exhale of
I love you finally leaving my lungs for the very last time.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
I have forgotten what
it feels like to be
loved.
It is so odd and
most definitely sad,
as I still know so
substantially what it
feels like to
love.
My existence is so
unrequited,
for even when you
again shared your
body with me,
even though two years
time had passed since
our last dance,
the wall you built remained intact.
I searched every surface
in hopes of finding a crack
in the stone that,
with some effort,
could finally help me to
topple the blockade.
But your love,
or what I have (probably pathetically)
convinced myself
exists on the other side,
it is as well-protected and
well-hidden as ever.
So I soldier on,
fighting my losing battle,
feeling love for you,
the love from which
I am doomed to be destroyed,
shot down, blood staining the
ground
beneath me,
no shield of your love
with which my body,
my heart,
could remain intact.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 10:00 PM UTC
I am an open book, yet not a long one.
However, I seem to not be easily read.
I am not tucked into a nook or cranny, but know some
Sticky pages should be pried to see inside my head.
At times, I feel like a journal of dreams,
Scrawled into and left beside a bed.
My cover, it alternates, older and sewn with intricate seams.
My author is only He who bled.
Do I have a title?
No, yet I was named with a purpose.
It would be unfortunate to find me an eyeful,
And stop when you have yet to scratch the surface.
I can only pray for my pages to add
Substantially to my true story.
To see experiences passed down to younger ages, I would be glad,
To share true wisdom before I am in glory.
I am an open book, but certainly not a long one
I want to share love any way possible and be blessing
Either a single work or in volumes, how ever it is done
It should be one that only adds to life, never lessening.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
Your smoky cloud foams
Got my eyes tripping
Chronicles of biology lab
Lacking of chemistry
You burn your forest down
Slowly reaping
Lucid crystals bowls
Enticingly got me dreamy
Two individuals
Trapped in a poetry emotion
Reminiscing on each other
Mysterious sedation
Writing of riddles
With sincerest caution
Preventing straying lines
Infecting our rhythm
Hearts shattering mirrors
Reflecting smiles
Memorizing words
Into a typography file
Reflecting daily circumstances
Shadows by my side
No one could judged
Your moody ocean tide
Like a fish flying high
Against the currents flow pride
If I could continue writing
Scribbles with your permission
No words in my vocabulary
Could ever substantially passed
I've never caramelized
My riddles with lies
Sugar coating inks
Luring ****** and flies
If my feelings for you
Never sober and true
Why does it hurts
When I'm thinking about you
There is no other love
I could simply lose
Valentine just over
But..
I'm still missing you
@2014 Maman Screams
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Incessant insolent innocence lies broken by a bedside.
Am i taking psychoactive substances, or am i substantially psychoactive?
Puzzling proportions of a mirror lie shattered by my knees.
Am i broken?
shhhhhh
We just want to fix you.
Are you broken?
HUSH
I just want to feel free.
Aug 5, 2010
Aug 5, 2010 at 12:00 AM UTC