"tinny" poems
complexity
is your beauty
simplicity
your mystery
interdependence
sustains you
once upon a time
we dipped bowls
into your waters
and brought up
draughts of life
now
Skipjacks go
fathoms deep
into endless
depletion
charting
entangled
dead zones
broadening
into a sea of
inertness
your delicate
eco-essence tips
toward oblivion
effluvia farmers
layer mechanized
blankets of
nitrates on your
sunset shores
weaving
green tendrils
of algae blooms
strangling the
entanglements
of all links in
your miraculous
food chain
the EPA
proscribes
a Jenny Craig
pollution diet
to halt the
slaughter in
oxygen
challenged
dead zones
where rockfish
are garroted,
oysters get drilled
by screwworms
and azure tinted
soft shell *****
dance soft
shoe taps
lifting a tinny
chorus of sad
Piedmont Blues
the flat-lining
watersheds
voiceless
warnings
tremble
rocking the
purged nests of
screaming ospreys
in vocal protest
of a sinking
Tangier Isle
anointing it’s
tombstones
of unvisited
cemeteries with
multicolored
guano
fitting
alkaline
tributes
to the lost
inhabitants
and forgotten
languages
sinking into the
brine of gray
brackish tides
Delmarva’s fine
intra-continental
balance skewed
by the oozing
industrial swill
of Frank Perdue
chicken farms
ruling the roost of
sanctioned sustainability
tinging clear watersheds
of finger lakes
set in splints to
repair dislocations
and complex
compound fractures
that may never heal
again
Music Selection:
Taj Mahal: Fishin Blues
jbm
Oakland
6/7/12
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
I like my headphones for the
Insulation. Sometimes my ears
Take in too much stray noise,
Dredge up too much disorienting
Mud from the depths of a TV
Screen or an iPod. Then I can
Always snuggle into my headphones
And be silent - and silence is a
Dear dear commodity, to be sure,
When every other scene-
Stealing, pudgy-mouthed buffoon
Has to put his ten cents in. So
Much sound should be a sin;
Background music, ambient noise,
Music for airports, and pubescent
Boys screeching from tinny silver
Speakers near the wall. I don't
Want it, not every bit, not all
The hate and the slippery tongues
That speak and salivate and don't
Say anything human. I want to reprimand,
To excommunicate them from
This Holy rite of sound. (And really,
I would be content to never hear
Music if I could block out the roundabout
Fights and the sultry nightlife descriptions
Gushing from my screen, if I could
Use my headphones to keep
That liquid crystal from pouring in
My too needfully silent ears.)
Maybe I'll follow a painter's path:
All visuals and open dripping wet
Wrath with a noisy race. I can be a
Terrifying girl. Cut off my ears and
Be deaf to the world. Wrap me in
Canvas and chase me back into the
Woods on a starry starry night.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
Two strangers in a rickshaw in Varanasi:
Two strangers who never felt like strangers.
Two people lost and alive in the moment,
The same moment
With every sense standing, antennae bristling..
Two in a bubble
Together, held apart.
Caught up in a parade and surrounded by shy , smiling faces
Waving modestly at the fair haired strangers,
Laughing
At their surprise and joy.
Knowing that moment's awe
Delighted to share the festival.
Rickety trucks gaudily decorated blare out the tinny music and
High pitched voices distorted by the tannoy add an urgency
To the motion.
Shimmering saris glisten,
So in tune with the music that trembles with joy.
That joy spills out from the
Scents, the colours, the gleaming grins and the shy waving that marks our welcome,
Till every sense tingles
With life.
And then the sand storm
Swirling and circling the speeding rickshaw
Arrived mysteriously, magically,
Like dry ice in a theatre.
The air now tangible;
Surrounding us like the skin of a bubble
Lifting us out
Of ourselves as the scene comes and goes.
The sand screen clears to reveal
An elephant
A beautiful, smiling elephant
Dressed in splendour
Accompanying us on our magic carpet ride.
Close enough for us to touch his hide.
Bejewelled and glorious
Smiling too
And all is one in that moment
And each looks at the other and feels enchanted and wants the parade to go on forever
Just like this;
With motion
And music
And colour
And smiles
And laughter
And
An elephant.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
This is the place where people come to forget that they will die one day.
They let their conscience build up on the linoleum floor in puddles,
deep and dark
And follow the crowd to the next store
And the next
And the next.
This place will bleed you.
It will tear your pockets out of your clothing
And your children’s hands from yours.
A new shirt.
A new TV.
Well done.
You’ve done well.
But when you leave the white walls
The music tinny and dim
Escalators and litter
You still won’t feel free.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
I want to spit my tongue
straight out into the wind
Because I'm better stricken dumb
than smart-mouthed or thick skinned
Straight on to the edge of town
I will chase my temper out
There, we'll talk about the "whethers"
We'll talk the sun down
And I'll hope that's the last time we speak
Walk across the bridge on 5th Street
Half reflecting on past choices
Glimpse the moon on Goose Creek's surface
Spy a ******
Recall voices.
Like the one my father used before last April blew his chest up
Or ones I can't remember 'til I heave my boiling guts up
in some yard.
A tinny crash through piled leaves,
I just want to make it home--
The S.P.D. are everywhere
and we don't get along so very well
It's gotten late and gotten old.
It's gotten cold the heat is busted back where I make my home
I've hit my wall, I hit the pavement
Stand me up--two streets to go
5th and Bellevue ain't so bad
I'm nearly home.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
rattling thunder
pummels the tinny tin can roof
under which you drive
through the swelling swamp-roads.
you say this is england.
i say this is climate change.
snakes emerge from murky water,
the same green as your eyes.
a hiss wobbles through your tar-bones
and your flesh boils to scales.
a fat, emerald python.
eating me whole and clean.
your bleach-bowels sear me.
a hapless, cocooned boy for a devil.
the teenage smile is what beguiled me,
tricked me into your drunken youth.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 8:51 AM UTC
******* at tickling the ivories,
at inducing the jet buttons
to chortle, say, in a concerto ;
but I do strum and flirt
with those amazing royal,
88 unrepentant loyal
keys for Jupiter and Saturn,
for Mars and Neptune,
making a blank bland tune
for extraterrestrial beings for fun.
On the cosmic moors
the moon's whirling feet
cease for my discordance.
What a slurred entrance
by F in D major!
Only a novice--an amateur.
I'm no magnificent pianist,
O majestic Mercury.
Summon the stars the search
to lead for a supreme virtuoso,
one of no incongruent ingenuity
like this dilettante--a pseudo
music polymath, counsels Thebe.
A Mozart, Beethoven, or Bach?
Any of the greats scored above, as well
as geniuses like David and Handel.
Impressario fly! Flee thou away
and go get a classic maven.
Otherwise sleep there forever at Erebus,
never dream of waking up in Eden.
Circuitous world stops: strings break off
at the Earth's axis--
the Sun's panels pause
and darkness' movement begins
its own obscure notes to improvise:
apace demented melody
is released,-- bathos of symphony:
tinny wine of concord
settles on the lees of discord.
Asteroids hooting some ***** calls
when into the grand chrysolite chamber--
in her tailor-made blistering gown--
strolls in the coruscating Venus
in the sturdy arm of jaundiced Uranus,
garbed in his glistening stomacher.
Like a ball, all eyes are bouncing
hither and thither, up and down,
googling and ogling,
once more at them leering,
gaping at the irreplaceable paintings of
da Vinci, Picasso, and Van Gogh
cavorting upon the weightless walls
to the romantic performance of Strauss
in the palace orchestral of Bacchus.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
I met a woman
with a trumpet tongue
who played her words on
paper, white as truces.
she told me through my stereo
"we've both had days
where the phoenix didn't rise".
we' have all had days
where the phoenix did not rise.
but thank goodness
my birthday was the first time
I heard your lips part
and saw your teeth spill oceans
of blue blankets across my jellyfish eyes.
I wish everyone understood the irony
of writing love poems to a lesbian,
but my hands never seemed to reach
the ends of my arms
like I want them to.
They always get stuck dancing somewhere
in the middle.
playing a tune only they can sway to
knowing all the steps
bouncing off every syllable
while others let their wrists go limp
as if the puppeteers needed strings
to tune their fiddle
for a happy song
somewhere far far away.
so take my breath again
keep it wherever it is that you keep
the gasps our ears give you
as your words pull the
heartstrings we forgot we had
that we forgot how to play
to wave our wet-noodle fingers and
conduct a life worth living
so full of blatant love
not afraid to make no sense
my chest was an rusty locket
the day before I heard you
and now I am so full of echoes
from it's tiny, timid click.
For Andrea,
you are a sketchbook muse,
something I have to guess at on my
worst days when there are no words
and the rain smells like a swan song
from the sky.
you kept me writing when there
was nothing left to draw
or sing or smell or see anymore.
when there was black smog
between my eardrums pounding out
the dying breath of clouds
you held me through tinny earbuds
and poems I etched in the moss
running over back roads in my mind
so I hope
you find peace
every time you find a microphone
and that someday, I'll play you a tune
which echoes through you,
with a tiny, timid
click
and a full breath
that resuscitates the open blue
until we are both whole beneath it
until, again, we are true.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
An ingenuine smile
aspartame sweet
aloof with loose leaf lonely
A tinny tune
echoing aloud
pinched with bleached blue sleep
An invaluable sore
useful aches
shredded with angry desire
A stolen smoke
swirling clean
backward with unruly peace
An envious shake
frozen steady
breaking with flooding fur
A sigular collection of emotion
hand built
abandoned with friendly pain
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
clutching at pebbles
thrown hard into sky as birds
bitter yolk of unceasing raindrop
ideals personified, then scattered in leaf
a coarse blending of the soul and what is
scream of forgotten swing alone in sunshine
a fear internalized, an unquenched song of watery despair and silence
pacing, pacing, toward and away from a melody that is
as intangible as balloons whispering to decaying stars
fading into nothingness, brief respite, void of sound, emptiness most
profoundly pierced with kaleidoscopic shards of senses and memory;
with music of blueberries, gleefully dropped
into tinny pails overflowing from wistfulness
with touch of unblossomed rosebuds admired,
unyielding like crabapples moist in calloused palms
with smell of tree, unrepentant and unchanging,
yet gnarled and longing, indistinct, uncertain
with taste of wind, speckled purity of truth elusive,
of realization categorized, of wispy but unrelenting passion
with the image of a hope
etched, recessed, scorned, repressed, grasped, suspended in song
the maybe’s and the why’s
the can’t’s and the shouldn’t’s
the have-to’s and the why’s
then slowly fingers defiantly uncurl from stone, in motion unrefined
and quietly, fervently; quietly, fervently, I begin to sing...
a mottled snapshot of my mind.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
I am standing on fire
Latterly .... Dust
On the tinny, thin string of hope..
But here you relate me
To the past?
And My silence ..
Are the words of my heart
Wanting you to know
When patience slays love
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
it is...
amazing,
how easy it is to ****
with the tinny tools of modernity
2 birds 1 shot,
of bird shot
who would have thought,
before thought,
we could create such things
to help us destroy?
in our gut,
in the deep slime
of our bellies, and our pasts
something feels right
something feels whole
when we commit
the act
something drives us
to repeat
the act
of ******
as often
as the act of creation
is this the delicate balance?
the intricate scales
tipping so slightly
towards one world or the other?
it does not seem “delicate”
when precious flesh
is ripped from bone
by angry claws and teeth
when that which flew
in the heavens
we could only dream were there
lies naked and defiled
on the sullied soil
was it always this easy to reverse the fates?
was it this easy
when we trod the plains for days
in pursuit of the hairy beasts
when our feral feasts
were by the first fires
and our hands bloodied
and our chins dripping
with the marrow of the fallen?
was it always this easy?
it matters not
to the 2 birds
killed with 1 shot
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:46 PM UTC
The country music plays at a low tinny volume
I never much cared for it
But thinking back now I enjoyed it then
From the back seat of a love's family car
Stopping at small town after town
Country meals and light on conversation
Our favorite was finding
everyday treasures of times long past.
How appropriate then as I scour my mind doing the same
thing
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
A for Austerity, P for Poverty,
R for Recession, and U for Unemployment.
Recession is in town with her three
Un-amusing friends, whose hands are always
on their lips; and wherever the gang goes
they take away the fun from that place;
tinny Tanana biko biko! Whose car is
unemployment going to take away, to
make him use his leg-dis benz?
Eeny Meeny Miney mo! Whose house is poverty
going to crash in, and undo a
lifetime’s work in a matter of weeks?
tinny Tanana, biko biko! What will austerity
sell to the state? Is it a string for
the ministers to tighten the state purse?
Hear! Hear! Recession is in town. Bad
policies invited her with her three friends
to party and paint the town gray;
shame on the leaders on whose watch the
doors of the state were opened to recession
and her three friends; their ears will
be filled with the wailing and insults of the
populace, like the cry of a widow, whose
only son has passed away, fills the house.
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 5:10 AM UTC
“where do we go from here?”
a line that haunts a million songs
like a small, aching insect
creeping in through the cracks in the lyrics
and spreading its wings to infect the expanse
of music that reaches my ears
do you ever feel like there’s a theme to your life?
some familiar collection of words, some thought
that pervades the space around you
and finds body in the world that follows
your every move
some chord, bright or dire or dim
that resounds in the echoes
in the tunnels you pass through
and sings silently after each word you speak
ringing softly beneath your footsteps
colouring the air you exhale
“where do we go from here?”
the first time i heard those six words
i have no idea where i was
or when
but i remember the thought that came to mind as
desolation
and it made my heart hurt
and i was happy
because i now i could prove its existence
“where do we go from here?”
one day i heard those six syllables
as i often did, above me
tinny and abrupt from the speakers
hidden in public places, among the plastic clouds
and spiderwebs
and i, at the precipice
of some great beginning
felt that thought beneath my step
and my soul sang, it breathed in deep
and i was happy
because now i could prove its existence
“where do we go from here?”
one day i found those words
etched into the notes of some electronic
heartbeat or sellout tune
and i, in the middle of a slow tumble
towards the realization of a loss
of a feeling i had worked so hard to find
felt the emptiness between my fingers
and the ground pressing into the soles of my feet
and the ache once again in my mind
and my heart and my soul
and i knew now the existence
of the feeling inspired
by the downturn of that phrase, six words
that speak to us all
“where do we go from here?”
i thought of this line on my own time
and never knew how to use it
until today, aware of a familiar scent
in the air, i sat down
and faced the six words haunting my ears
and embraced their meaning
closed my eyes and breathed in their truth
felt the confusion and desolation and joy
that seeped into my bones the harder i tried
to join myself with the forever aching phrase
that i now know was written
to describe the way i move through this life
and today, as i walked
with false purpose along the real lines of the road
i felt words pressing sharp into my cheeks
and i turned to you but could not let them free
six words, a simple door
into the patterned floor and closed curtains
of my untidy mind
and so i let the sentence be
swallowed it whole, let it sit in my lungs
a while longer
and i still have yet to ask you
“where do we go from here?”
has there ever been an answer to that question?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Passing Tweetsie on my way home from work.
In the Food Lion, low-calorie chicken soup
cans under tinny lights.
Sick-green avocados and riding-hood bacon
celebrated the day all your shoes moved in.
Can't we pair those together again?
The blank space on the floor
like a good friend's face seen
without glasses,
washed out.
Frustratingly,
the smell of my own laundry.
mi colada es su colada
Ha!
By the pond, the gazebo we never spent time in
but might have.
The dusk-dark evergreens with delicate lace tips
like spidery lingerie
leggings ripped wide open,
lingering,
recovered from the trash can.
Rainbow polka-dot gift wrap
on my light-blue chest,
flagship of her left-behinds;
A tawny feather earring, the lonely fore-mast
lacking a mate
and
Demure winter-cabin-smile, framed:
green scarf turned seaweed,
the face-down figurehead drowns.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
We are artsy lasses with dorky glasses
On spurned kisses with tinny braces
On selfsame faces at lavish places
On kindred spirits in empty spaces
We, we are the bosses
Archi, we are everything I want
We, we are the bosses
Archi, we could be everything they want
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 4:24 AM UTC
I wonder if the big bang
was a response to god's loneliness
And maybe he sat alone for a long time
half braining ideas
about making things that
might love him
God never said
let there be light
he just put a gun in his mouth and splattered
stars across the wall of the universe
His black hole brain
something like regret
trying to **** all the stars back inside
And I think about the days you tried
But that's not like you kid
Even though you had blood
spilling out a hole in your gut
Bone white shallow breathed
There are still stains on the passenger seat of my car
Which I now call my living room
because I am homeless
And there are no walls that could hold the contents of your head
like jackson ******* bloodspatter
a pretentious painting titled
and homage to the ****** of failure
And you are not our mother
suicide cocktail
no ice
and you are not our father
an Alzheimer's ghost
Haunting a history
we never lived through
You are skinny like water
running down the zylephone of your ribcage
tinny laughter
Asking me questions like
if love is as powerful as they say it is in the movies
then why do people give up sometimes
I'll never give up I said
You asked me if I thought god was mad at you
the doctor chalked up you living
to just luck
and I think of when god made molds of men out of mud
and breathed into them
and the mud men lived
Mud must have felt lucky then
But for us its not luck
we make so much fuss
Just so the world knows
we're alive as ****
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Several miles beyond, the dark mountain
looms threateningly - mirroring my mood
as we both brood coldly. Snow clouds hold
grip of its peaks and melt in an icy drizzle to the
umber, wind-swept valley below.
Inside this dank motel room with its peeling
walls, my addiction is both hidden and enhanced.
The room's grimy window is closed to the world
by a threadbare curtain which hangs
askew, sealing me inside my drunken cocoon.
I can now lift bottles to my mouth with abandon,
gratefully lacking the contempt of others.
A tinny television mutters a string of profanities
from a corner, and a faucet drips incessantly into
the filthy sink. It all seems to echo into what I
have evolved. I have become as this dead fly,
scraping back and forth along the window sill,
manipulated by currents of stale air.
___
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 1:25 PM UTC
finally
after days of dark, threatening clouds
and anxious birds tracing signals into the air
and trees waving back at the lightning
while the thunder rolled around this valley-
finally
it rained
the sun fought against the sky and lost,
instead blazing behind the curtain
and turning the sky a dangerous yellow
while the trees accepted the sepia rain
with defeat
i stayed inside and watched their branches
waving lazily back and forth
as if to escape the rain, or maybe
just to dance beneath it, i don't know
but i knew
i didn't feel like dancing
i felt like dancing
when we were alone in an old building
whose walls echoed the tinny swing music
back at us and whose floors were already printed
with the patterns needed to teach you
the basic formation
and we fell out of place a million times
only to fall back in again
if you were here, i'd take you out
into this rain
and dance until the thunder came back
and celebrate the lightning's wrath
and fall out of formation a million times
only to fall back in again
with you, i always feel like dancing
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Her loud voice echos inside my head
Tears pool spilling off my bed
And her hams can, and laughter fled
As life goes on, shes still dead
Just a rewind video I replay
Before sad sleepy eyes go to bed
Weeping, sleeping,dreaming seeming
Try to find the right words to describe
She was the only one I could find
To stay up and create, art, color, life
A garden to a picture drawn in crown
She was the only one around
Who found what I found
Art is the heart of family
Love and life
She found me, in the darkest nights
She helped me understand
The human struggle, to experience
Complexity, she was her inevitably
Embarrassingly, intoxication in both
***** and personality, fatality being
She never took care, her loud voice
Tinny in her last moments here
Her brave soul
Trembling in fear
Grandma don’t be scared
I'm here
Just like you were
Im here for better or for worse
Her heart beat beat beating
Tell its run its ran its course
and when its done ill run some more
Grandma my heart beats for you
that's for sure
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
I stretch, and stretch
up towards a place where my head is far
further above so
that I cannot hear the jet engine of your words.
I hear my bones creak
with the effort to get
away from the pollution
of your coal train ramming me.
I hear only my body
cracking like spring ice
as I rise, rise -
rise above your noise toxins
that settle like limp and sodden cardboard crowns
worn about your tortured head.
High above your hollow community
above your entitlement park,
above your tiny-
tinny voice.
I hear it. Your hateful sounds like poultry jibber
so far down in
atmospheres
below.
I laugh to hear your wordless squawl!
I stretch but now to bend
and see you
beneath my squishy toes.
Bend at the waist
to see who's nipping at my ankles
and I cry a tear of mirth.
A white rapid that
whisks your bitter apple groove
far away.
I stretch you gone.
I stretch you indifferent.
I grow myself pardoned, I grow my self free.
sahn
2/15/15
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
I have this horrible habit of not feeling my feelings
I don't know if its because I'm scared or if I even do feel
Maybe in the moment I don't; feel
Maybe those emotions just throw themselves into the ever spinning ball of feelings swirling in the catacombs of my mind
And they just sit and fester
Maybe all this is true:
But where do they go, you ask.
Well its a damning thing it is
That one small, tinny, most insignificant event can release months worth of anger, despair, and fear and hate
The tiniest thing can unveil the truth
The curtains which hides my eyes lifts for maybe one moment
But I already see it and I begin to cry
Because what I see, I don't like
What I see, I hate
So I sit here clamping my teeth so hard they might shatter
Holding my breath so in my throat sobs gather
Worthless tears that don't even matter
I threaten myself, I threaten, my heart
I threaten I'll beat me until my skin parts
Yet, nothing will happen
I'll probably forget the one day that I felt
And I'm ashamed to tell you why
Because what I do is wrong:
I just walk away
I make no changes
I once again feel no more
Why?
Because I'm scared out of my ******* mind
I'm scared, and I can't tell anyone
Because if I do its real
And if its real
Then I'm ******
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC