"tribulation" poems
I use to write of pain and tribulation
mmm I've always just been looking to feel the greatest sensation
senses at peaks, they peak when they peek at the sight of elation
I've always taken to sealing all my stories away
in notebooks with binding finally looking to fray
because the pressure they hold brings such a dismay
Binded in between faded blue lines
I swear im fine
I swear im fine
in these lines of what could have been mine
and I'll lose it all in this glass of wine
where red bleeds to black
and I've done away with that
The great purge of endless words
heard by no one other than the mad man
running through my head screaming that I can
do anything I thought my mind and limbs had banned
from the realm of possibilities
Because pain ought not be sealed to live an endless life
So I now write of hope and dreams
and the endless possibilites
that stretch from the cities and into the trees
finally dancing down into these seas
but I'm also writing
of wishes and laughs and smiles too
because what else can you do
there are only a few
who know everything is new
everything we knew
can be lost in the great blue
that paints our skies and seas
carrying away the bundle of keys
that locks pandora's box
and leaves us with happiness and cheer
Because happiness can be carried in anything as simple as a tear
racing down the lines of your cranial
that houses your greatest fears
From the lines of light blue to the minds of the hopeful and the true
And words of optimism should live
And breathe and smile and laugh
In the hearts of the world for a lifetime and I digress
In a habitat so vast
With horizons reaching from sky to sky
Drowned in blues and red
I'm glad to of found you at last
We're left to defy all that society presents as lies
I wanna speak at an intimate decibel
Acknowledge your flaws, don't be bound by them
Open your mouth to nothing coming own
Settle down in your head and make a home
I just want to compliment your soul
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
What does it mean to cry
When feelings stay locked from the
Surface
Emotions I fear
Crammed into small tears
The tears that I make myself
Forfeit
What does it mean to hurt
When the scars are from those
Who don’t know you
They’ve watched you grow up
And you feel their love
But they don’t know the real you
When I’m asleep I run
Down a path in a gold
And green
Meadow
And someone’s out there
With true love to share
Then I wake in the real world
Feeling alone
Alone
I’m home
That shouldn’t be so
Where’s the log to my fire?
Because I’m working for me
And I’ll never retire
Bring on the thunder!
Bring on the rain!!
There’s no true life
Without some small pain
So I’ll be the thunder!
And I’ll be the rain!!
I know how to cry now
So I’ll work through the pain
If I’m coming alive
I acknowledge I hurt inside
My tribulation brought me to salvation
I had to suffer to write
I don’t need you to understand my plight
Just know that I’m coming alive
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 AM UTC
solace is to comfort in words to be kind
in the wake of tragedy and tribulation find
solace is as crisps as fresh as air after the rain
wash away the tears heart broken by grief and pain
solace is soft as gel as tender as dew on blades of grass
mellow the bereaved of bitter memories till it come to pass
solace to the loser like sun rays breaking through dark clouds
bearer of hope to the persistent over negativity that shroulds
to console the believers for at the tunnel's end there's light
like merciful angels sent to soothe the terminal's plight
solace is to come to term one will expire oneself
to be plucked by the One off the shelf.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 11:07 PM UTC
Extravagantly exorbitant mentality panacea
Pretentious eidetic’s ubiquity mnemonics
Extraversion embezzlement extortion mens rea
Endergonic laconic cacophony phonics
Preterite rendition enclitic equilibrist motion
Mystic symbiosis dharma spiritual sky
Brusque macabre abjections the gist of the potion
Straight up forever ontology on high
Obdurately abstruse vituperatively vociferous
Juxtaposition apparition myriad avarice
Orotund sonorous diction obliquitous
Multifariously versatile nefarious nemesis
Mirador bartizan phantasmagoria aesthetics
Guidon gyration excursion integration
Sorcerous alchemizing interstitial endemics
Chaos charisma objectified tribulation
Conjurous apothegms clitoral apomixis
Exude emote surrogate extrapolation
Astral projection littoral hypotaxis
Kinetic supremacy homogeneity gravitation
Coercible coalescent cohesion dexterities
Adjunct conjunction conjecture acuity
Platonic pragmatic prosaic austerities
Extemporaneous impromptu innuendo fortuity
Propinquity habitation harbinger spectra
Perplexing paradox tenacity rostra
Intensely cogitational abstract mantra
Penumbral exigency , umbrage per contra
Theoretical incursion grandiloquent ne plus ultra
Exogamy of homoplasy sic itur ad astra
Quiescent serendipity surreal anestra
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 6:16 AM UTC
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
If wishes could be measure,
Clem would have reign in wealth,
Before he had a date with death.
Poverty battled with him with all pleasure.
In the tribulation, all his gray eyes saw was a
jubilating future.
In my clan, the death are kings,
Their testimony barely bear guilts,
Tales of that of dove and angelic.
In these imperfect world, they are made perfect and heroic.
That of clem wasn't different,
No hair suspected him of having a great for a kin,
Who in death embraced him to a golden casket, in Italian suit, shoes and a cow killed.
His burial got what he never begged for in hundred fold
Hmm! A late beggar decorated more than a groom to a royal fold.
As all gathered round his six feet for a final bye,
The in prophesied happened, Clem breath resurrected and all flee,
Even the priest, men, women and their kids.
Clem awoke into a dream,
Agitating against mankind and why array of
fortune should perish with a beggar like him,
While there are countless beings escaping death each dawn in perpetual poverty.
Griefs stricken for his old him,
He rose, undertook his golden casket, sold it and became a king.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
Meaningful is the wayward child that is found,
For he or she finds favor in thus adoring praise.
Replenishing spiritual vines that spread messages
of hope above and beyond.
Therefore, the third eye knoweth all.
Whose breath gives life to the faint hearted.
As barriers are tore down, crossing over...
Anointed one, where, the precious angel entered.
You are the brothers and sisters in faith building.
They do preserver as the battle of Jericho.
In a molding guidance of clay made hands...
For their is hope of feeding the milk as well as the flesh.
Kisses of glory befall unto your good graces.
Thou wisdom quench the hell like rain pour puddles.
His world! His judgment! His wrath!
Bestow thou honor, in hills of perfect talk.
Fatherless child! Fatherless child! Beware of the dragon den.
Slay your enemies with delicate wings:the cup of kindness.
As you are humbled in purple linens, fading all unseemly.
The soldier of bravery, when thou hour come, there is a home.
Cross over into the well enlightened pathways.
Make the rough roads a gateway to the everlasting promise.
Sing in jubilation, for tribulation is done and your vision seen.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
When the struggles and grudges of life weakens me down to my bones and marrows,
And l have none to strengthen me;
The grace of praise l embrace will quicken and be my strength.
When the devil fires an arrow of sorrow towards me,
ln order to narrow my passion for the vision of my mission in life;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my shield.
When the challenges and pains of life groomed in fears,
Strains my heart to rain down tears;
And l have none to comfort me;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my comfort.
When life seems so tough and my challenges becomes too hot to bear,
And l have none to bear my burdens with me;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my refuge.
When my enemies channels their weapons of destruction and distraction towards me,
ln order for me to leave my dreams, visions and life ambitions unpushed,
The grace of praise l embrace will shield me and inspire me never to retire until l am discovered.
When l am frustrated, distressed and stressed in the battles of life,
And l have none to console or encourage me to move ahead;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my fortress and my solace.
When my feet becomes feeble in the faculty of life,
And l have none to uphold me to be strong;
The grace of praise l embrace will be my strength and shelter.
When temptation, trials and tribulation engulfs me like a mother hen engulfs her chicks,
And l have none to unveil me;
The grace of praise l embrace will unveil me and announce me to my world.
When l am battered, shattered and scattered in the battles of life,
And l have none to come to my rescue;
The grace of praise l embrace will gather me up and put me together.
When l kneel before the creator and maker of heaven and earth in prayer,
And l know not how to present my matters before him;
The grace of praise l embrace will speak on my behalf.
When l am knocked down on my feet by the struggles and battles of this life,
And l have none to raise me up;
The grace of praise l embrace will raise me up.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
From whips and chains
To whips and chains,
Earned by pigmentation.
Suffered through tribulation
Caused by the need for **********
Lead to the names of elders confusion
The game of deception
Lead to liberation.
A work for works sake,
Where all currency we make
Is born for the government to take.
A cycle of earnings and yearnings
Where earnings go to learnings,
And learnings go to younglings,
Younglings go to work,
And from work they live to buy things
And from these things come the taxings
Of all things to come.
With housing comes heating where water is needed.
These things to provide for the one to be marrying,
And a child she may be carrying which leads to more taxing,
And when this child grows and they don't need your waxing
So begins your pension and time for relaxing.
Living without fear of receiving the axing,
And your wrinkles now potent define all your moods
You may wish you had done what little other men could,
Stand tall where some other pioneer may have once stood,
But instead around the stump no room for a branch,
Locked in by the cycle
Left to pedal with no brakes.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
I am thankful for the struggle.
Only in death,
in the turbulence of losing everything that I am,
do I feel alive.
Existing in moments such as these,
where the continuum of ones own way of life
isn't guaranteed,
it allows me to have an overwhelming appreciation
for what I have here,
in this moment.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
Squalid off-white cube
fluorescent buzzing hue
water stained tiles
tribulation from digital files
dilapidated symbiote
invisible hungry parasite
optimism capsized in the abyss
tedium tongue french kiss
five hours a month
forest bathing in the sun
a cure they say
nature is a gateway
shambling down trails
languid gait sails
fractal patterns surround
tweets in background
head starts to clear
wondrous frontier
five hours a month
soaking in the sun
not enough time
to melt away grime
five hours a week
leaves a happier physique
summer sea breeze
rolling over unease
basking in the heat
leaving is so so bittersweet
return to human farm
pray for fire alarm
nature is a gateway
natures my getaway
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
Bright buds hang precarious on their limbs. Their hundreds of digits green and supple sway as the winds try gently at first to shake them from their perches. They snap back, their ties elastic, always bending.
The wind struck harder the third time. It caught them off guard, swinging back to face the sun. It barreled over them like a train, limbs snapped like bones under tons of industrial revolutionary steel, the cracking brings tears to the eyes of passersby.
They were so green, so verdant was their exuberant friendship, covered in rosy flesh and sturdy bark, ring after ring of tribulation and triumph, but it fractured like a wish bone. She, Persephone, prosecutor of Her, Demeter, was judge of them both, prisoner of herself.
Solitary confinement.
She tugged at her half, she needed the wish, She need for Demeter to see that She needed wishes just like the rest of us.
Demeter, jury. 12.
Her crime: attempted impartiality, balancing a utilitarian ideal that we can divide our attention based on who needs it most. She cannot be tried on account of her inability to read Braille ciphers in gestures, ****** expressions, and Tumblr posts.
Demeter tugged at her half, but only enough to show the other that she was there,
but consistently there.
It wasn’t enough.
Snap.
No marrow could be found.
Where flesh was meant to be dripped rot, an odor of resentment filled their nostrils, it choked Demeter, as Persephone had been choking for years.
This resentment, this cancer, this jealousy, it grew inside of Persephone like a tumor, days from metastasizing, the spread could have killed them.
Amputate.
You two are a tree. Bright buds dangling from every limb, they are still soft and green and supple at their ends.
You two are still growing.
Persephone will cut out this cancer, and She will heal herself, scar tissues covered by broadleafs.
You will soothe them for her. And you will see past the rosy flesh what pain it may hide.
And you two will grow. Roots firm, faces braced against the wind, and limbs always turned towards the sun.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
*Cimmerian Chaos, incediary
The Requiem of the Revenant:
Tis I,
The Breathing Song
Conjuring a vestige,
Ensorcelled by what I'd been envisaging.
Maimed by Tempus, The Temporal Arbiter
Words reverberating on the wavelength of my soul
Left me vibrating desolate and wayworn.
Utterances deluging me in the Dominion of Doubt
Until I reached a crossroads
For perilous was the pilgrimage I peregrinated.
The Penultimate Tribulation has begun
And though angst is festering in my flesh,
The Sacred Lotus of Dreams has not wilted,
Shalt it ever upon the Lake of the Holy Oracle;
Elysium of the Soul is awaiting those who are stalwart
In the Visage of the Shadows.*
∞Hallelujah∞
By Sanders M. Foulke III
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 5:32 AM UTC
There's a typhoon a monsoon
Of catastrophic misery, agony, and doom
The pain keeps raining down
In my sorrow I will surely drown
An ocean of emotion and I can't swim
My soul's light is growing dim
The sky just keeps bleeding
My tolerance it's exceeding
In this inky blackness I am sinking
My soul keeps on shrinking
From this psychalgia there is no exception
There is no redemption
In this anguish
Is where I'll languish
In this tribulation I will suffer
There is no hope I will ever recover
In this desolation I will moan and wail
This despair is my last coffin nail
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
Suicide is not an option
Everything has to be done with caution
Be it wrong accusation or depression
Taking your life will reduce our population
Believe me, all you need is affection
Speak to someone who'll relieve you of your oppression
Who'll give you nothing but compassion
You may need trust and care in addition
When facing life challenges and tribulation
Take not suicide for a compensation
Try to have a little comprehension
Of the afterlife using your discretion
And also have a little conversation
Involving you and your intuition
Considering suicide may be as a result of impression
Or thought in abstraction
Or even to punish a relation
No matter the condition
It doesn't worth your life as a rendition
If you do plan of taking this action
I beg you take this into consideration
And do a bit of cogitation
That suicide is not an option
Though, it's taking it toll on the nation
Leading many to quick expiration
My fella, suicide is not an option
Try to do some reconciliation
And make sure to somebody you mention
To get your mind in a good position
Or perhaps it might change your situation
And set you in a new direction
Again I say suicide is not an option
Take this into admonition
That your afterlife may as well be in inversion
That live each day with vision
Devote smile to your face a portion
Do activities in admiration and jubilation
And in you life begins a resurrection
Thereby killing the ulterior notion
And also averting a possible perdition
Because suicide is never an option.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 5:07 AM UTC
An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations.
Social pressure manifesting itself into anxiety and doubt.
A mechanical mess of cogs and wheels churning out endless streams of mental clout.
Be what I will and do as I may is what I say.
But they say:
Be what we will and do as I do, this is the proper way.
Try not reform or perform to conform is what I say.
But they say:
Follow me through this hollow tree and you will see what I want you to be, this is the proper way
An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations,
passed down through electric, media driven sensations of transient satisfaction,
a mechanical mess of wound up plastic toy soldiers marching in circles with rubber souls pointing death dealing cylinders at each others backs.
Be yourself for everyone else is what I say.
But they say:
Be everyone, or else.
Try for progression's sake, be genuine and certainly not fake is what I say
But they say:
Try for regression's sake, be fake and certainly not genuine, this is the proper way.
An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations,
disgusted with modern tribulation, choosing self-selected conscious liberation.
A singular, personal declaration toward evolution.
A natural mess of vines and roots reaching below and above producing boundless rivers of truth and love.
This is revolution.
Be one amongst many is what I say.
But they say
Be us. This is the proper way.
Be you, is what I say. This is the proper way.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 12:10 PM UTC
"Unconditional addiction" are these terms,
I think of this servitude as good germs,
I understand pain is an emotional whip,
Drink in this short quip: have a sip.
And when you've had your fill, just chill,
Break through this illusion with the power of will,
When you're striking stones to light your fire,
Will lightning be created? That's overkill.
We have an addiction to stimulation,
An addiction to nonsense,
Through every trial and tribulation,
I find my mind's dense,
When will I stop stumbling?
How about a continual fall?
Every floor has a ceiling
And every ceiling a floor.
Without these things, there's nothing
But a continual thirst for more.
Have I said enough, have we won the game?
When you're old and poor, there'll be no one left to blame.
Every stranger's face will really be the same.
Not one will be your family, not one will share your name.
An addiction before you knew the word,
An addiction to emptiness,
An addiction to "wait, I'm searching"
An addiction to "haven't found it yet!"
Too often have we lost our way,
Too seldom have we stopped our play,
And now that we have cut the rope,
Your world will fall, now, ain't that dope?
Nope.
Everything's addicting,
How are they put to rest?
Stop being conflicting,
Just simply pass the test.
Outside of reality is inside.
Inside reality is outside.
It's all one and the same.
There's no poison like fame.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
Playing a solo game of frustration, I embrace cowardice as I constantly back away from confrontation, rage simmering in the alienation, mars attacks, scars attach and no manipulation can stop their compression of my circulation,
Heart stops and my brains on a feeding frenzy from starvation, out of blood so I'm out for blood, count on assassination no resuscitation
Try to reassess the situtuation but the deliberate deliberation just seems like procrastination, open to stipulation , stitch it up and look at my creation, a Frank-enstein abomination and there's no time for negotiation
I'm on trial and the tribulation
Leaves me heading to an unknown destination...
**A Destination Unknown
Though this Hate was Home grown**
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
Laughter and degradation
Put-downs and humiliation
So you don't like me
Why must you hurt me?
You see the way I dress
You think I'm such a mess
You fear me so much
That you keep me out of touch
And you put me in my place
And you sit back and laugh in my face
You go through such tribulation
To protect your stupid reputation
Refusing to accept the unaccepted
Refusing to acknowledge the dejected
Such a slave to conformity
Such a slave to uniformity
Follow a few; step on many
Go out with the crowd in hopes that any
Weirdos who show up happen to be weak
So you can pound and beat that freak
You might not even hurt him much
But you will still tell such
Unbelievable lies; such incredible myths
So that you and your clique can resound with
Laughter and degradation
Put-downs and humiliation
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Grasping her every arm,
In unowned mittens and scarf.
Tattered, the eyes red as Mars.
Though all she can do—
Is gaze to peoples jewel afar,
And wonder in optimum.
The best possible way to omit;
A lifelong scar of tantrum.
An infinite tribulation mimics.
Mediocrity sneaks to pry.
Uncanny euphoric figments,
Biding the year-end tide.
To lay undone ashes of shame.
She mourns a winterscry.
Putting off the endless dolor,
Till death ends that butterfly.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
She is as lines to Bauhaus, oblique
In category yet commanding in form;
Her mind a pool of wealth and Grace,
Allusions to illusions, omega to
Alpha’s strongest gaze. I stand
Failed, distraught, lacking the
Dexterity of voice to call her name,
The temerity of will to regain her fair
Charms and affirmed charisma.
Lost I am within a cascade of
Superlatives and tribulation.
Were only she to have conquered
My mind, I would be of sound spirit to
Elicit some tempered comprehension;
Yet alas, I have been taken in soul
And I can do naught but wait
To see if she will one day return.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 3:39 AM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
...Here a man stands accused--the pellucid jury
of his peers come to themselves in their life's arms
through him.
He wails upright...a shadow continent wedging
The Flood.
Timekeeping horseflies besmirch his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consume
time till the singular advocacy of he withstood.
The imperturbable essence captured itself, as so
at the height of its powers there's interplay.
Ease culled from tribulation...countenance slackened
by degrees...overwhelmed by awareness.
Kingdom come Kingdom--shoring space of grace
that is freedom.
As if Everything centering of itself, fawning over itself...
polar opposites in conjugal bliss.
Here a man stands accused...of being--fit for steely
juxtaposition...the murderous implement of will, or
salvation.
Envision him post-Flood, waist-deep, the living Face
of the Deep...look upon him!
Timekeeping horseflies besmirching his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consuming
time till the Singular advocacy of thee...look upon
him!
An encounter of pitless ramification: fear or love...be
it the last man upon the earth.
Look upon him--O jury of his peers boasting billions...
pellucid unto one another...look...The Hour is radiant!
Won't thee come to thine life's arms through him?
For he is Everyman.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
I could tell you how to write a poem
Playful phrasing, not too quick, not too strong,
Be graphic and persuasive, appealing to us all,
The want for supposed meaning and a silver tongue
Is the truth beneath our fall
Heartfelt sentiment, articulation,
Let’s entice some Pharisees to avoid any tribulation
For the bouts and shouts of living out
And extravagantly exhibiting oneself to all and everyone—
Clichéd, now it may be,
There’s truth in that I see
Can we find apparent happiness
All appearance and accreditation,
Let’s be certain we’re (clandestinely) drudging for recognition,
Yet, I can never tell you what is true in writing,
The slow path? That’s what I long for,
Or profess, in the world of colorful mosaics,
I am the truth! The way and the light!
I’ll set you free! The God of Wonders!
Can’t you see?
I’m God, I’ve always meant to be!
*Heaven help me,
I didn’t mean to pretend
But I believed beyond
What even I could comprehend..
I’m not God, this I know,
But is this—
The way I'll go?*
It is my end…
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC