"therapeutic" poems
Loneliness Is Wishing To Cry
Can we really control our loneliness when it attacks? Of course not. However, we can employ the means by which to channel it into a positive force. A force whereby we recruit others and together battle this power of the dark side attempting to cajole us into this state of melancholy. We have to collectively rise to the occassion, and with the force of Good, vanquish it forever more.
Here is a short poem about what loneliness means to me. It was written at a time in my life when I was trying to deal with the recent death of a close family member. Needless to say, I was most devasted at the time of this writing. This poem at that time, in reflection, acted as a therapeutic means for me to "get it all out".
Loneliness is despair
Loneliness is something to beware
Loneliness is the thought today
of no tomorrow
Loneliness is wishing to cry
without knowing why
Loneliness is a simple feeling
without a simple answer
Loneliness comes
Loneliness goes
Loneliness is that uninvited guest
who visits, always without a request
Loneliness is a sickness
you my friend are the cure
Together we will strengthen
and together we will endure.....
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
A marvel millions of years in the making.
Where the womb of Earth chaotically meets the surface.
Under a clear blue sky, an expanse of bliss -
But beneath gray rolling clouds, an endless enigma.
The easiest world to get lost in
is one where everything can be found.
One can only build a sand castle where the sand is wet.
But where the sand is wet, the tide comes.
Will it gently lick at your foundations until you give in?
Or will a sudden wave send you crashing down in the blink of an eye?
Either way the outcome is the same.
Yet we still build sand castles.
I stand where the foam wraps around my ankles.
Where my toes squish into the sand.
The salty air is therapeutic.
The breeze is gentle, yet powerful.
I sink my toes into the ultimate boundary line, tempted by the foamy tendrils.
Turn back, and I abandon my peace to erode at the shore.
Drift forward, and I return to Earth forevermore.
Mar 13, 2019
Mar 13, 2019 at 5:51 PM UTC
⭐️
*Reading is like
Sitting under
A canopy of trees
Listening to the humming of bees
Chirp of birds
A gentle breeze soothing the mind
Absorbing the warmth of the early morning sunshine
Being one with nature
A solitude
Undefined Peace
Writing is like
An ever flowing stream
Cascading rills
Sparkling placid waters
The essence of nature
The different seasons
Like a flurry of emotions
The moments lived
Reminiscing the times
The Moments to come
The moments one dreams
Different reasons
Wrapped in words ideal
Writing is Therapeutic
The essence of it all*
⭐️
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
We go after stuff just to make us feel whole
It’s our therapeutic way to gain some control
It’s a kiss on the neck, or that burn down our throat
The stories we tell make us feel less remote
We **** up our lives just to give ourselves purpose
Earn trophies and badges to feel less worthless
Sleep with a few strangers and break a few laws
Cause we’re already ****** can’t you tell by our flaws?
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
you are
*breathtaking paintings displayed in museums,
therapeutic songs played with earphones on,
eloquent poems meant to make people feel.*
you are
everything i love to admire
and
everything i cannot call mine.
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
when arrived, feels like home
like a bubble, like a dome
peaceful people all around
enjoying this crazy sound
so much colors, crazy figures
all this smells pulling my triggers
intense, incense, aromatic
be tense? no sense, just be static
entering, meeting the fellows
or should I just say some jellos
wiggling with the rhythmic music
for us this is therapeutic
waves of sound hitting my face
punching hard with deepest bass
I believe that things will turn
I choose not to be concernded
this 'so crazy, this 'so good
here we find the greatest brood
jewls of every generation
some eletric, others pacient
colored waters, not for thirst
only if you need a burts
shining patterns underneath
make it hard for me to breath
then the sun comes up for us
contributes for the new buzz
now you see who's there with you
and who didn't make it through
sunglasses get pulled out
soon the sun will loudly shout
soul, mind and body fused
into one nice breakfeast juice
that's when people start to leave
not what I like to archieve
"I will stay", I always say
until the end of the day
molly, goa, lucy, prog
buds and buddys, love and fog
I'm so glad this moments caught me
this is just my type of party
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
I learned how to draw dragons in 3rd grade.
I did so compulsively, and voraciously because it was therapeutic.
But they loathed me, and inherited no majesty from whom they were made.
Though I loved them. And I empathyzed with what they would never be.
Because what if my creator had no plans for me.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
therapy and resistance
how is it that therapy becomes the excess of class war or the oppression thereof?
When the struggle of the individual is made to seem self induced when it is easily and clearly directly a result of the failures and complacence afforded by the majority of the group.
When in a therapeutic environment it is important to distinguish the opportunities of resistance from the experience of trauma.
there has always been individuals who establish groups that are in a realm of desperation.
Understanding how this process has unfolded institutionally is just as valid as treating the individual.
This gives the individual the choice and resources needed to heal.
The healing could look like resistance rather than assuming aspects of class war or oppressive culture to be normal.
Otherwise therapy is nothing but the means to normalize the process of oppression.
The traumatic state needs to be able to decipher its organic existence from that of organized oppression and its institutional cooperation.
the neglect of deciphering or distinguishing these differences causes individuals to make a competition out of trauma. This minimizes certain trauma of individuals and causes the group to have less of an opportunity to resist organized oppression of the institution.
Those that are in the realm of desperation or traumatic state are given no choice but to repress in order to continue being social or a member of the group.
in excess the hierarchies of gender, race and class are reinforced to an almost superhuman level.
To the desperate or traumatic state…
what needs reinforcement is that there are humans just like us who have resisted oppression and caused the normalcy of the group to be more inclusive and aware of the processes associated with organized oppression.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
Yesterday I came home mad
I had the house to myself
so I went to my room
and packed a bowl
I decided to clean the bathroom
because for me,
cleaning is therapeutic
I took a hit and then scrubbed the sink
I took a hit then cleaned the toilet
I took a hit and then cleaned the mirrors
I took a hit and scrubbed the bathtub
I took a hit and swept the floors
the bathroom I stood in smelled like bleach
and
marijuana
I felt better
burning and bleaching the days gunk away
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
In a Skype chat room
Topic : I Like Haiku's
**************
Me--- (LadyBird)
Haiku's I do like
for they are so easily
written in three worded lines
Friend--(TonyS)
Writing in Haiku
forces me to think about,
what is important
Me--- (LadyBird)
indeed you are right
writing them is important
and can be therapeutic
would you mind if I
add your words in my Haiku
giving you credit ?
this conversation
we are in is very fun
what are you thinking?
Friend--(TonyS)
I find great solace
in the idea that my words
are that important!
I have no problem
with allowing you to use
my simple verses!
Pining for someone
who I love very dearly
takes most of my time.
Me--- (LadyBird)
awesome Thank you so
much; I really enjoy this
writing is a passion
as you can see I
enjoy the flow of my words
and all that inspire
you are so kind I
will for sure keep an eye on
your wonderful wods
thank you very much
hoping I was no bother
to you my dear friend
I try to keep my
pen with me jotting down all
my thoughts from within
it is so nice to
meet someone that shares the same
passion for writing
please do keep in touch
I will for sure stay in touch
with you my dear friend
Friend--(TonyS)
The pleasure is mine!
To meet a friend is always
an enriching thing.
My name is Tony!
It is always nice to meet
new internet friends!
Me--- (LadyBird)
your name is so cool
it is indeed very nice
to make a new friend
it is so funny
I knew your name was Tony
from your user name
this is the most fun
I have had in three long days
I do enjoy it
Haiku-ing is like
text-ing with out a cell phone
it is fun indeed
Friend--(TonyS)
The pleasure is mine!
To meet a friend is always
an enriching thing.
Me--- (LadyBird)
I find great solace
to know that you share the same
interest as I do
Friend--(TonyS)
Names are only words,
I am nice because I am
who I want to be.
I am Tony Stark,
at least in my heart and mind.
Money? Not so much.
It was a pleasure,
this banter being quite fun,
maybe again soon?
Me--- (LadyBird)
Wow that sounds so cool
Tony Stark is so good looking
very good actor
names are only words
they don't describe who we are
inside is what count
thank you for talking
to me my friend it was fun
indeed again soon
gonna end convo
nice chatting with you my friend
now I say goodbye
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Random Sampling
Coughing up a lung,
sticking out my tongue.
Looking up her skirt,
dropped my pencil in the dirt.
Watching movies just for fun,
I will never own a gun.
Cat **** on the floor,
kicked it out the door.
Jake The Snake and The Macho Man,
will forever be a wresting fan.
Heavy metal and hard rock,
Skid Row's singer was Sebastian Bach.
New Jersey's pizza is the best,
it would beat New York's in any taste test.
Slept with girls, I didn't like,
soon after, I made them take a hike.
Never slept with a man,
if the money was right, I guess I can.
Love all my family and friends,
mess with them and I will defends.
Done some killer drugs,
stuck screwdrivers in some plugs.
I love paper, I love pen,
I'm more smart than the Three Wise Men.
Pina Colada's in Margaitaville,
then I take the bitter pill.
I still love eighties music,
it's relaxing and therapeutic.
Baseball is my favorite sport,
the Phillies, I will always support.
The next Super Bowl will be held in San Quentin,
***** girls take it on the chin.
I had a few nervous breakdowns,
I've put on a few to many pounds.
Allen does what Allen wants,
how's that for my final response.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Smooth, strong, deep, therapeutic.
Hands playing on my skin like a virtuoso pianist.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
With every stroke, his hands melt my stress.
Sooth my pains, physical and mental.
My anxiety fades. My mind rests.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
His hands are sensual.
His eyes are closed, so his hands move on their own.
No distractions. Just natural. Instinctive.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
I’m open and vulnerable, self conscious.
But his hands even sooth my flaws, and imperfections.
Press against places I keep covered.
Unflattering angles I would rather keep hidden,
But somehow his hands seem to find beauty even in that.
Stroking, kneading, pressing.
Dang....the hour is up.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
Adored you from afar,lacked the courage to talk to you.
For someone who claims to be so confident, you made me weak.
My only weakness, my Achilles heel,
Dearth of you would make me scream.
Scream out loud,loud, LOUD.
My mother told me love hurts but she never told me that it makes you breathless,
Gasping for breath as I realize that my love is not just my love,
My love is my reason, my reason to live.
My reason to live, you get me through the dark days.
The dark days turn to dark nights that terrify me,
You're my beacon of light, my lighthouse.
This ship lost its way and the captain has give up,
The sailors are missing and the waves are ruthless.
Ruthless, ruthless, I take the blows.
That's only because I fall back onto you.
My wall, my security blanket, my therapeutic ice cream.
If you were ice cream ,you'd be vanilla,
I'd be chocolate because chocolate is nothing without vanilla.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC
Texts from my mother while in recovery:
#1 Following the rules is easy, doing what's right is easy.
#2 Stop making attempts at manipulation.
#3 Stop it. What is the point?
#4 Stop acting out.
#5 Stop being disrespectful.
#6 It seems like you are not even trying.
#7 Are you behaving today? Are you being respectful?
#8 Stop being so negative.
#9 Show some insight.
#10 Just be positive.
Because treatment is so easy.
And treatment is not a place where I should ever feel upset or act out in any type of way.
Never can I say a negative word about how I am feeling--- no. I must say, "I am sad but it doesn't matter because it's a beautiful day out!"
I am finished with feeling belittled and unheard. Where is my support? I lost everyone including my mother now. It seems like all I have is me and I will do absolutely nothing good for myself, so right now I am alone.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
1) Mental hospitals are more like dramas/comedies than horror
films. When people think of psych wards they think of criminally
insane people rocking back and forth, talking to their imaginary
friends and throwing chairs. Don't get me wrong, there's some of
those. But most of us just do word searches, color, joke about
serious things.
2) We aren't monsters, we are your brothers, your daughters, your
mother, your co-worker we are just regular people who have lost
our way and need some help finding the path again
3) I am closer to people I knew for 2 weeks than I will ever be with
anyone on the outside. Yes we all call it the outside
4) Sometimes talking to people who understand what you're going
through is more therapeutic than the actual therapy groups. This
is not to say that the doctors there are crap it is just to say that no
matter how much they read and listen they will never truly
understand what it feels like unless they have been there and we
can tell who has been there, they go the extra mile to make us
feel like people
5) It's not a vacation, it's not fun, it's not an escape from the real
world. It is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is work.
6) Everyone in there is a person in unbearable pain but it isn't just a
bunch of people sitting around crying. We go from group to
group and then color and go to bed nothing about it is really fun
but you get used to it
7) The mental hospital is like a camp for empty people, just like a
band camp we can all relate to each other and makes you feel
less alone
8) Getting discharged it a great feeling because you are free, but it
is also completely terrifying, in the hospital it's safe, people get it,
there is always someone to talk to and now you're all alone
9) Just because I've spent 7 and a half weeks in a mental hospital
over 2 stays doesn't mean I am fixed there is no cure for my
illnesses and that's just the way it is
10) We are not who you think, the kindest people I've ever met
were also the ones hurting the most.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC
They kept her in the attic with the rest of the nonsense
An improvised pen and paper of fingernails and floorboards.
Cracked windows rusted shut from years of disuse
Chapped lips pinched shut from years of neglect.
Broken mirrors on the floor from outbursts no one heard
Shattered eyes blinking hollowly because no one was listening.
Patterns traced on dust covered windows letting bars of light shine through
Therapeutic
Sunlight outlining shadows that shouldn't be there, dust mites that should.
Daisy; the name she gave herself after forgetting her original.
Daisy; what she'd call herself should she ever get out.
Withered; what she became.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
Another Sunday, time to recover
From all the drugs, my only lover
Take my B vitamins to start the circulation
With some fish oils to reduce inflammation
Most importantly, are my amino acids
Because of that I've been flushed
So now I replenish these masses
The benzos are the only drugs that get touched
So addicted to them, so I know it's a must
If a doctor read this, he'd understand my logic
But if a doctor read this, he'd command me to stop it
As I continue my day with my normal acting mind
I realize I'm a slave to drugs, all the time
But I'm financially flourished
The whole family I nourish
And after reading these poems, I feel some people get jealous
Who would follow me? They know my soul I had sold it
I always follow back, I'm not a bad guy
Now sit on top of that, I'm not living a lie
I could really care less about it
It's just an alias, and a therapeutic outlet
Just another Sunday
Glad you read about it
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
CAN'T YOU FEEL..
The gentle sound of my heartbeat, suddenly pounding with all the intent of tearing me apart-like a lady having anxiety attacks with no help within reach?
CAN'TYOU SEE
This sparkle in ma eyes, suddenly replaced by the look of fear aroused by images deeply ingrained in my memory, Memories you created that now torture even though you meant them to teach?
CAN'T YOU HEAR?
This melodious tune turned a melancholic symphony created by my wailing n sobbing,caused by a voice once therapeutic now at its faintest sound I flinch?
CAN'T YOU SMELL?
The stench of hatred as from us it emanates and slowly it spreads into ds crowded space we share, as little by little, layers of enmity fills the air we breath?
If all these you knew then your senses would interprete
That at your touch I cower; From a feeling once sweet and tender that now drains every ounce of strength and leaves me without power.
That at the sight of these I choose blindness; Away from the ethereal face that at the sight of, leaves me numb
As to your smell I get nauseous; so nauseous
That I taste the bitterness of heartbreak
And hear the sad music my heart will play at the sound of your heart bidding mine farewell
So please, I humbly plead, let me go!
But if break my heart you must n breach my trust,
Then let all we ever shared be counted a loss and from our memories be swept away like dust,
Please! Be fair in your dealings with me I plead
Be kind and just...
For this heart has only started to heal,
Please don't let it rot or rust..
-r3d-
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:08 AM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
"...In the young man's bedroom
police found disturbing
poetry, drawings, and writings.
The boy's father said he
knew about these
and encouraged the
boy to stop them."
The television droned on.
A school shooting.
Numbers, irrelevant.
The boy took his own
life along with his
classmate's.
"His father, the model of
manliness, told him to stop
the only way he knew how to
express himself."
said the decrepit octogenarian
to his squat, plump nurse.
"Yes, Mr. Smith. You shouldn't
be watching that stuff...
it gets you all excited then
I have to come in here
and check your pulse,
and heart, and oxygen."
Would hate
to make you get up...
He thought.
"The anger can't be bottled
up forever. It will come out.
It could have come out
in a therapeutic and peaceful
way, but it came out in
a violent and brutal way."
"Yes, Mr. Smith, the world
is a terrible place."
"That's not what I said.
What stands between
a murderer and an Einstein
is the ability to express
oneself. This boy
was taught that his
expression was wrong, therefore
he was wrong."
"The youth are troubled."
"The youth are perfect.
They haven't had the weight
and burden of time ****** on them.
They are the only ones free
from the ******** story
we all buy of the way things
are. They can
express themselves and
change the world, but
we have to stop telling them
they're wrong."
"Oh of course Mr. Smith, the
children are our future..."
Stupid ***** she's not even
listening. She can't wait to
get back to her one
handed novel she's got
at the reception desk.
The man closed his eyes
and dreamed of what could be
if he were young again.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
Teenagers write poems about sadness
And I diagnose
Drain false narcissistic depth
I choose to diagnose
Girls that moan about darkness
I can try emphasize
At a therapeutic distance
Walls rather a leather settee
Cry me your conjured problems
The attention that you desperately need
Hug into my
False intellectual façade
You want your name in lights
Rose-colored perception
Of a overused typecast
Your sadness poetic and bottomless
Caught in the flight
Spotlight
That you cannot bear
Insipid perpetuity
Whining and moaning and whining
Life in hard and it is not fair
I’ve seen it all before
But should I sit
Put myself high on a pedestal
Satisfied with my own scholarly ruse
What I lack in qualifications
I make up in apathy
You wear a different coat
You messy attention grabbing
Poetically distraught
Attracted to the next sparkly thing
That will make you more interesting
You magpie, you lemming, you
I will hold your hand if you hold mine
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
I had a very ****** up day so if you value your life stay away I'm not afraid to slay whether it be on page or to your face I'm enraged at the fuckery I had to endure today if I had my way I'dve laid in bed all day but I guess that's not how things work in this age I'm grateful for this ink to abuse because without this therapeutic fuel I wouldn't have a muse but then again I draw on life the good and the strife
wait a minute... cut that **** off
(beat to hit em up drops)
First off **** yo **** on this grim *** day when it rains I feel pain enough fuel to slay
you claim to be a gangsta but you ain't done ****
so sit the **** down ***** and **** my ****
Cyber Tough guys go ask your admins how I'll have ya cut yo little *** up, seen you in pieces, now go eat your release Little trolls don't **** around with me I'll reach thru and smack you through the screen, like I'm legit mean.
I'll let you ******* know it's on for life
don't let your account cause your death tonight
haha... little troll ******* murdered on page and killed... **** with me get yo blood spilled you know
see type emojis you little ***** brony
keep talking **** Imma **** you up.
keep insulting me but you just can't finish now you're gonna feel the wrath of a menace ********** I hit em up.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
Energy radiates and traces my body with celestial tones
I am more alive than I’ve ever been
when surrendering to awe and wonder
the same way my younger self fearlessly did
something about that glimmer hasn’t left yet, may never leave
memories still have flavors to me
mornings with a lake of flakes in my bowl
or years and years later when a fried hangover cure restores me
each month and its esculent flashbacks are a part of me
a cell in the skin
a beaten feather in the wing
something about the glimmer hasn’t left yet
the Earth is still new
and discoveries never expire:
new scenery
new explorations
new chronicles in the cinema
new kindred spirits
new waves of audio
new therapeutic solitudes
all balancing out the
new captivities
new mistakes
new mediocrity
new unhealthy solitudes
and more
until the body is a home base of homeostasis
commensalism at its finest
but something about the glimmer hasn’t left yet, may never leave
I outgrew shadows who doubted their expiration dates
I don’t rubricate the sky in a rage
anymore
don’t let the heartbreak pause a pulse
anymore
don’t let misanthropy obscure who I see
anymore
don’t let uncertainty’s web catch me in a paralysis
anymore
or at least I try
something tells me I’ll never “age out”
of my hunger to live fully
I know deep down you're similar
your craving will not fade into cinders
oh what a feelin!
To be trippin on nostalgia.
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 2:17 PM UTC