"unloaded" poems
Sitting on the bathroom floor with a gun in your hand
Knees pulled up to your chest
Your head rests on your knees
Your shoulders shaking cause you're laughing and crying
Gun to the side of your head
"Are you gonna do it?"
Find the sweet release when the bullet leaves the barrel of the gun and enters your brain
Click
The gun's empty
I am not dying
The gun's unloaded
I do this every time
Never strong enough to take the bullet
And never strong enough to let anyone see me like this
Always weak enough to be messed up like this
Always thinking, always wishing I put a bullet in
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams
It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered
The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.
The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression
The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:19 AM UTC
Mind of mine, you alien child.
I spoon-fed you for many years.
I pretended it was a plane in some cases
and the things you spat out
I fed to you again.
Mind of mine, you shadow of a melody.
Homeless drifter on the A41
with a 5 stringed guitar and no common sense.
Begging for a shoelace to tie on
whilst you go hungry.
Mind of mine, you nervous gun clip.
You know you’re unloaded
so your barrel droops like a snowdrop.
No hippie can put a flower in you.
and your shakes are breaking my wrist.
Mind of mine, you scar butterfly-collector.
Snatching red admirals with a chameleon tongue
and when you stitch them in
their red eyes close on dusty wings.
I know you’re lying when you can’t feel a thing.
Mind of mine, You’re a ****** full of love
and a belly full of drugs.
Positive negative flip, as love is in electrics
and you’re still such a bad liar
to tell me it’s anything else.
Mind of mine,
I can be such a bad parent to you
and an even worse child.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
The glass of wine spins on sins
Encircling the royal roulette
All rotating on a hamster wheel
Pinned on canvas and illusional walls
So tiny in errors and unbalanced books
Unaccounted annotated distributions
Twisting hands on colluded coils
Deeper projections from the heart
An eruption of the social notions
Extracted on the paradise of life
For no truth echoes authenticity
Eccentrically finding a lived reality
Plato symposiums and simulacrums
Pavlov trails of social conditioning
Sampled in tented objectifications
Functioning within the invisible rules
We sniffle as we expose the false actuality
Reactive explosions from robust heat
Unloaded rods dancing under the moon
In our tenderness rejecting the paradigm
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
I lived once ago before death
Came and took my soul away
My hoodie is stained with blood and ash
I am so lost they worry as well
To how we got to this hell
I ask them stories to reclaim my brain
One girl says she was on a date
The man she met was nice and sweet
Until it was a quarter til eight
He grew very strange and became irate
He pulled her to the back o no
Quickly unzipped his pants to ******
She felt so much pain and shame
After he stopped he drew a gun
Cocked it
shot her
then smiled
and run
How horrible I thought to die like that
I asked a boy no older than 6
He said he is here but don’t know why
His story was like a newspaper blackeye
Playing with blocks while mom cook grits
The door opened up his brother walked in
To give a toy that he always liked
It was an army man just like his dad
But then that’s when his shirt turned plaid
His shirt stained with red lines all over
He grew real cold his mother in tears
It seemed his brothers gang life came home
Two stories with endings that ached my dome
As I walked past a tv I saw
My truth being told to me
“17 year-old walking back from school
With music in ears the hood on top
However his life would see a drop
A man called in with a compliant
And the cops came looking for a mess
But found a boy who they drew at
Behind his back their guns are raised
4 stop movings
0 warning shots
and then
Un phased
they unloaded their glocks
He fell another live lost.”
My heart
It drops
now I see
why the stain
We are all victims of violence or fear
The world just throws us away like beer
I miss my mom I miss my color
I miss my skin I miss my hair
I miss knowing that I knew love
Now I know my life was never
Going to fit in this world like a
Hand in a glove
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
*T'was a month before Christmas and lights needed hanging.
The tree needed trimming, (my headache was banging).
"The stocking were hung on the chimney with care..."
While electrical chords, were strewn everywhere.
I unloaded boxes of tree decorations
And listened to carols from old AM stations.
"When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter...."
I hurried outside to see what was the matter.
Over-reaching the hedges, the ladder gave way.
And then I saw, in the bushes he lay.
After shocking himself with a faulty light socket,
His tootsie roll'd melted, inside of his pocket.
He stumbled and bumbled, untangling the strands
Replacing the burnouts and cutting his hands.
The ordeal was finished. At last! What a feat!
(Then one strand burned out, as we watched from the street.)*
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
i got a second hand film camera
a pentax k-1000
already it was slightly rusted
and stained in some parts
but i didn't mind
it made me think about its story
and the stories of the ones who've owned it before—
where has this camera gone?
what has it seen?
did the previous photographers behind it
love it as much as i do now?
whose very hands have twisted the lens,
fixed the camera's focus,
and pressed the shutter button?
who else has meticulously loaded and unloaded film into it,
time and time again?
and more importantly,
will i be able to capture wonders of life
through its lenses
in the same way others might have done before me?
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
you are foolish to think that pointing the gun
directly at me
will make me fear you.
hovering your finger over the trigger,
will not do the damage that intend it to,
if i have already unloaded the bullets.
but to my dismay,
the damage is already done.
as i look over my shoulder,
i can see the shattered mirror,
and a pool of blood seeping through the carpet.
in the end, i became the monster
that everyone always warned me about.
it does not live under the bed.
neither is it hiding in the closet.
but it stares back at me
when i look at the mirror.
Feb 6, 2023
Feb 6, 2023 at 3:09 PM UTC
Everything is art.
The ground you walk on, your cloud of thoughts in the sky
And the sunset's a splash of orange paint, spilled on your canvas waiting to dry
See everything just wants you to stop and notice it..
Go get your paint brush and show me, what you're currently in awe with
Everything is great
Honest words that come easily,
And the way a person looks when they dance freely
Everything is great....
but I'm not fine?
And everything is art...
but all i see are random lines.
Every day is filled with something new.
Only difference is I'm feeling more restless
I tried taking half a pill and woke up
With the same migraine i slept with
Oh everything's a blur.
Traffic lights and busy nights,
Thoughts pounding; thoughts pleading
Everything's a mess
Even the structure of this poem
Thoughts crying, thoughts screaming
Oh everything i say
Just comes across as so awkward
I tried to write a poem about art
About love
About stars
And pretty words
I tried to rhyme my love for you
With some random **** like dove shampoo
Oh everything's coming out unfiltered and sorry its unloaded all onto you..
Maybe everything's just in our minds..
Our fears, our delusions..
I'm sure the universe is too busy existing as art; to be plotting against all us humans..
And you are wonderfulll, so beautiful
It wouldn't be a typical poem, if i didn't mention that at all
Not everything is black and white
Sometimes there's drops of pink and grey
But when they told me to paint them a picture of what love meant to me,
I took a pen and some paper, and just spelled out your name.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
I bought a carton of eggs this morning.
Just a dozen.
Along with about $100 of other groceries I needed.
I didn't need the eggs though.
That is to say, that I didn't need to buy them.
(See, my sister has four fully grown chickens
who lay enough eggs to cover her family's needs and then some.
More eggs than she knows what to do with, honestly, and I could've easily gone to her place to get the dozen instead of buying it at the store.)
But I didn't, as a matter of convenience. It was simpler to buy them while I was at the store; to make one trip instead of two.
But then, when I was unloading the cart of groceries into the trunk of my car, that carton of eggs I bought, which (unbeknownst to me) had been placed on top of a 12 pack of toilet paper which toppled over after becoming unbalanced without the support of the other grocery bags that I had already unloaded, came crashing down.
They hit the parking-lot cement with a smack.
"Oh no, not the eggs!"
That's what I'd said.
I seriously said that out loud.
I picked up the bag with the fallen eggs in it. I opened the carton to see if they were alright, though I already knew at least a few had broken.
5, maybe 6. Maybe more. I don't know how many broke exactly, just looking at it made me sick. I walked the dripping bag back up to the entrance (after playing with the idea of going back in and being like: "Hey, my eggs broke in the parking lot because your inept bagger's idea of how to stack groceries was clearly inspired by the game Jenga. I demand a new carton of eggs!") but instead I just tossed them. The whole carton.
I'll just go to my sister's house before breakfast tomorrow.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 4:02 AM UTC
I am a physician.Last fall, I had a very interesting
conversation with a patient who is a trucker. I asked her if she knew
anything about deep underground military bases, and then I played ignorant
to see what she would say.
Without further prompting, she informed me she is an independent contractor
trucker, driving 18-wheeler rigs cross-country. She said the bases are real
and are located all over the country, "especially under the mountains out
West". She said one of her main contracts over the last few years has been
with DHS.
She said there are underground roads running all over the United States,
connecting the underground facilities.
She said she has personally delivered many truckloads of supplies to the
underground facilities. For each DHS shipment/delivery, there was a stack
of non-disclosure forms about (by her description) six inches thick she had
to sign.
DHS would attach a tracking device to her truck for each of these shipments
and monitor her truck's every move. She would be told where to go to accept
delivery for each shipment. In each case, she would be escorted by guards
"with machine guns" away from her truck, so she could not see what was
being loaded into her rig. The truck would then be locked by a large lock
with a ring 'as big around as your finger", which had to be torch-cut off
at the time of delivery.
When she would make deliveries, often within underground facilities, she
would again be escorted away from the truck by armed guards, the lock would
be cut off, and the goods would be unloaded.
She said the only shipped goods she ever saw in these DHS shipments were
stackable black plastic things that looked like coffins.
She told be the gov't is getting ready for a collapse, which she told be
she expected might happen as early as late 2014.
She also told me she thinks the gov't has just about everything is needs
stored underground, because the number of DHS shipments has been
declining.
I asked her if she would be willing to have lunch with me and tell me more.
She replied, "yes", but afterwards when I contacted her, she had changed
her mind and would not talk further about it with me.
Another pt of mine, whom I saw within about a week of this lady, is a local
trucker, but he told me that he has lots of friends who are truckers, and
through them, he said he had learned that there are "thousands of miles of
underground roads" running across the country, connecting underground gov't
facilities.
He had just recently, in fact, heard among his trucker friends of a
shipment of frozen meat being shipped to one such underground facility,
totaling four million pounds of meat.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
The night sky spits crystalized drops of clarity.
I stand with eyes painted black
My lips painted red
And ponder my reality.
Unloaded amps, keyboards, guitars take up more space
Then my heart can create room for
Erratic beats and flailing feet explode my sense of peace
and I'm caught in the harsh whipping of the vibrating music
played too loud to hold any resonance
its only purpose to push the sweat to dancers skin.
This music which I normally love so much
Falls flat to ears accustomed to the screams of suffocating ideals
and I forget why I am here.
I forget why these arms love his with a tired affection
that withstands his sublimations and holds his faults in a place where everything he creates is perfect.
We are not perfect.
This rain falls in thin sheets
intermingling with tears that suddenly appear on my flushed cheeks
and I taste salt.
Throughout the infinities trapped in teenage years I find
Its taste a fading memory
a paling reminder to how submissive I have become
and before I can remember exactly where it's from
Its gone and I am left with arms full of his music gear
and a heart too full to hold with only two hands.
He calls back to see if I need help
and I say no
because what are you going to say when you are shattering and do not know why.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
I'm tired of fighting these wars,
taking your bullets,
and bleeding for months.
But if you ever
took your gun,
unloaded it,
and walked away,
that would be the greatest pain
I'd ever face.
Please don't go.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Outside Stockholm
in that base camp
having put up the tents
and unloaded the bags
and suitcases
from the top
of the truck
you walked with Moira
to the camp cafe
and order two beers
and burgers and fries
and looked out
the window
at the spread of tents
over the campsite
and Moira said
if I have to share a tent
with that Yank girl another night
I’ll go mad
her and her talk
and boasting
of how many men
she’s *******
and where she’s been
and what she’s done
and always wearing
that leather gear
all black and tight
showing her backside
and small ****
and so Moira went on
and you listened
half heartedly
wondering what Judith
was doing in Florence
and who she was with
and if she remembered you
and would bring you back
some gift like she did
from Amsterdam
that postcard
of a Chagall print
which you pinned
to your wall
and if she so much
as boasts of her education
once more
I’ll break her
FECKING JAW
Moira said loudly
so that people nearby
turned their heads
and stared
your thoughts of Judith
blew away
and the image
of the Chagall print
pinned to your bedroom wall
maybe she’ll sleep elsewhere
you said
who else to sleep with?
she said
huh? who else is there?
what about that Yorkshire girl?
you asked
maybe she will
I’ll ask
Moira said
can only say no
and she sat
and thought
and sipped her beer
and the other people
looked away
and returned
to their conversations
and you sipped yours
taking note of her small hands
and plumpish fingers
and the small *******
pushing through
the tight tee shirt
and the small
silver crucifix
hanging down between
and her moving chin
and you wondered
how well she *******
but didn’t ask
being
you thought
rather rude.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
Blast it!
We've put our eggs
in the wrong basket,
and now Little Liberty has dropped them.
She's dropped them.
She's dropped them!
She certainly did,
She dropped them!
Each egg splits, cracks, breaks,
all despite Liberty's bleeding
colors. Faded, young
hatching prematurely;
before their time.
Liberty heard her love-
boyish ruckus in The Bush.
Hurriedly she did run;
giving all her aide.
Unfortunately, careless Liberty did not see:
All our eggs are handled irresponsibly.
Soon after little Liberty's Bush date,
she saw what she could only surmount to fate:
Poster slapped to said Holy Tree,
plastered with Allah's face.
Hating those jihadist anyway,
Ignorant Liberty unloaded her bounty-
upon the sacred man's face.
It took a while
till Liberty thought,
looking down,
but by then,
we all thought it all too late.
But ,Little Liberty being supreme,
(totally Grade A,)
finally remembered to put the lid down.
Ah, now that should seal our fate,
her reasoning as she bounced and pranced away.
But just before she reached her people,
her sickness burst,
her pride was shook,
she couldn't show her face.
Afraid of what her people might say-
she reopened said lid, state of panic
flipped the basket promptly 'round.
All the little eggs crumbling to the ground.
Babies dispersed;
Children burnt and broken;
not to mention all the vital yolk;
nasty stuff and what a mess-
now onward to face my people.
But all is well;
she gives her spiel
about the alleged evil-doers.
People line-up,
hypnotized-
ready to give their last;
service, duty, and loyalty too
all for Little Miss Liberty.
Quite the siren, ain't she?
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Every child of ten knows
the universe is a jagged shape
edged by home and park
and school and market -
at least that’s the way I knew it
and all the world’s kids
went to McKinley school
and everyone's dad
worked at Lincoln Park Tool
while mother stayed at home.
So my entire universe
was shaken to shards
when father broke news
that we soon would be moving
to a distant galaxy
a dozen miles away -
entirely peopled by aliens.
Well it wasn’t so bleak after all -
my brother and little sister
were allowed to come with us
and we kept the same grandparents too.
New friends popped up everywhere
like rainbows of tulips in May.
The house was fresh and new
but seriously lacked a lawn.
so a rusty old truck rumbled up
and dumped us a mountain of soil.
Seizing the obvious challenge,
I put a shovel to its intended use -
moving and spreading non-stop
until Mom called us to dinner
then went back and shoveled ‘til dark.
The pile was nearly leveled
by afternoon next as
Dad turned his fifty-three Ford
into our driveway -
hitting the horn to call me over,
“Son I need your help.”
Dropping my shovel
I sped to the open trunk
and stared in disbelief.
In an ecstatic yelp
produced only by ten year old boys
I circled Dad's waist with my arms,
then gratefully unloaded
the best yellow scooter
in this or any other galaxy.
September, 2008
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
Rocks, Dirt, Flesh & Bone,
Under my feet,
I search for space,
For my grief to breath,
What has become of this Man?
When a woman’s light touch,
Can lift a heavy heart,
Rifle strapped on my back,
Ammunition carried in a sack,
My weapon is unloaded,
Blood & Guts,
Is the War over?
Or did I lose the first battle?
Can I really go home?
I’ve changed, become estranged,
Do you want me?
I think of you, as I wander through the fog, across the lazy jungle
Anticipating the burning pain to pierce my armor,
Letting me feel,
In a dream,
I held you in my arms,
Felt you dying,
Unrelenting sadness,
I’m powerless,
You turn to me, and whisper,
Your Journey is over; it ends here in my arms,
Your tears wash my face
It’s me, It’s you, It’s Us
I turn and watch the zipper slide over my eyes,
Into darkness.
Firewalker
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
See her,
skinny lassie -
so aware,
stood there
at the counter.
The eyes
lifted from papers,
hooded and guilty,
leering
under sunglasses.
She knows nothing,
thinks
she's in charge.
Bless her.
Whatever's going to break her
hasn't happened yet.
Makes me shudder,
the thought.
The painful innocence.
"Just a fruit smoothie, please!"
she sparkles
at the man.
Thinks his approval
is unloaded,
worth seeking.
No eyes on me.
Glances fall off me.
If I catch a look,
I see it turn
to embarrassment,
pity
or scorn.
Firing blanks, guys.
I'll take those
over possessiveness,
lust,
crawling promises.
Over saccharine
strychnine
strangler smiles,
over violence, veiled
as love.
Your attention is toxic.
Better show it as such.
"Chips and cheese, please,"
I wheeze,
and his sneer
is a klaxon
of cruel jokes
he'll share with colleagues later.
Those
are the tiny victories
of victimhood,
as the twirling girl inside
stays protected,
unsuspected.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Drip, drip, drip.
Something falls on the floor.
Something is loaded.
Click, it's a clip.
A hammering on the door.
Something exploded.
Skip, skip, skip.
Kids play outside, class is a bore.
"That's so gay," the older ones goaded.
Slip, it's a pistol grip.
Kids fight outside, it's all blood and gore.
"That's so gay." His sanity eroded.
Whip, whip, whip.
A prisoner screams, tell me more.
Broken, his ****** body corroded.
Flip, it's a jeep by the gaza strip.
It's not worth it, the leader's a *****
The refugee food unloaded.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
We often think that the baggage we carry
Needs to be unloaded
Onto someone else
Something else
Like a hobby
Or a lover
"You can't have me if you can't handle my past"
But what, my dear,
Does your past have to do with what's near?
Did your baggage wake you up and buy you coffee this morning?
Did it put its jacket over a puddle so your shoes wouldn't get wet
Does it whisper sweet nothing's into your ear when you lie down
Tell me,
Does your baggage watch you paint
Does it love your beauty when you are vulnerable
Yet also when you're strong
Your baggage is not you
I will not lift it off of your shoulders
(Only God can do that)
But I will teach you make it weigh less
If you'd just give me the chance
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
A change of scenery and a new life. An innocent beginning, as all beginnings seem to be. Still, after all these years remnants of that incipience still remain.
**A new adventure
Packed, moved, unloaded, emptied
All but for a few**
Boxes with pieces of me packed away and disregarded. Never to bask in the sun or live in all their glory. Too little too late. Like a lost retainer straining to fit shifted teeth, they no longer belong to me these bits and pieces.
**Long since forgotten
Secrets held within their walls
Hiding shattered dreams**
They had gone unnoticed for so long. Yet, the secrets of how I came to be the me before you, remain in those dusty boxes, so neatly stacked and so easily overlooked. They may no longer fit the puzzle, but they are still part of the picture adding splashes of color and bringing zeal and
**Artful shading
To my self-portrait painted
in hues of joy and pain**
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 10:53 PM UTC
We shed our gap-toothed gentleman coats
and ran white skinned into a purple river,
George (a weak swimmer) grabbed handfuls of
reeds as the water undid a fantasy of clouds.
Our feet found love with the edges of rocks and
our swimming trunks unloaded the stink of chlorine
into the cold bright dark light miracle of water,
our reflections broken into champagne pieces and
beautiful as only two laughing boys can be.
How clichéd to be lost in the heart of the morning,
as George sat with his orange juice like an
illustration drawn by the most lighthearted of artists,
a little prince against a backdrop of blooming baoabs
that shrugged behind him like green diamonds
with the tunes of birds still clinging to their leaves.
How deeply romantic I was at fourteen -
too young to have read Brideshead Revisited,
too old to have gazed at George’s hair and
seen a simple tumble of boring blond.
This was the summer that ached with everything,
like a muscle throbbing during tennis
reminding you you’re playing as best you can.
That summer was the shimmering pause
between two acts of a dismal play -
our childhood not yet left behind,
lingering like a tan line on the shoulders of joy.
One night we drank lemonade out of brandy
glasses and sat together in the biggest bath you’ve
ever seen, winding our wrists together to sip
from each others drinks, his hair was dark and
damp at the tips and there were bubbles everywhere.
Such things I remember, the gentleness of first love
and the way it shapes each love to come,
I’m still a sucker for blonds and a gallant lover of
summers spent as they should be spent:
in water baby England, with the countryside
humming inside your ears, and the sunlight
warming up the grass to greet your feet after
swimming in rivers, and to wind down at night
with a friend who is beautiful,
and to kiss them just once, near the ear and only here,
to wish them goodnight, goodnight, goodnight.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
delicate
lovely
romantically depressed
poetically broken
not at all.
just a sick
naïve
little girl
with an unloaded gun
and a wrist full of scars
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC