"unpalatable" poems
Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride
while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning.
We have at last seen the face of our god
which you have not even learned to utter
or never will at all.
Your intelligence gave you power that
failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers.
You built humans in just a sprinkle of *****
on to the skin of alligators and ants
on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant.
And you called them your sons
And you called them your kind.
The burrowed earths have no more riches
and they are left unpalatable to worms,
no more worms even
for even these decomposers
learn to tire feeding on your greed
no more shades of blue in the putrid waters
to which this bottle was thrown,
to which this letter longed to swim with your same species
that can never be in our family tree
for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil.
How we wished that your sons wished they
were with us in the time when
sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when
wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when
the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when
the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen.
How we wished they wished they knew.
How we wished they wished they saw.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
I
I greeted you, my inevitable day
In this shaky firmness of my hands;
Assuring me of my weakness; the languidity of my serene constitution.
The sky smeared with fright,undeed, and look, hark to how the sun closed the night!
This was but unpalatable dew, misty in its impatient greyness
Avidity for genuine sorrow and late confessions
The calm heart then wronged, and soon the war touched the light!
II
Beware of love, o silly hearts!
Loving thoughts, are indeed averse to relenting;
albeit they are always leading to smirks and destitution.
Release thy grains from yon grievous chain!
Spark thy wings, heave and bend!
Wear thy glee, ere any of the gruesome tears remain!
Shield thy mask with greater abhorrence!
III
O notions, fruit my doom and feed my sight!
From womanly misery I yet ought to emerge
and all its surly sleeves I ought to blight!
IV
O peace, fetch for me my untaught breath in vain
Keep me steady, ditch me not in the rain!
Tend me more, yet not my cheerful friend-
in pleasures whom thrives, in virtues was whom foolish!
Praising plaited hairs, swept amidst folded skirts.
Gruesome lies they carry, the finest they conspire to marry;
what a horrid, unalterable, evil concoction!
Yet pureness is the only that deserves awe;
virgins are a symbol of unrequited love, but tenderest affection!
However lonesome, hither and thither I shall bear this pain
Until my stern heart melted to love again.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:38 AM UTC
I favour the deep, impenetrable truth of the jungle
Over the smooth ride over sleek black rubber;
The ***** disturbing, demented disorder;
The distortions of the lights we bathe on,
Over outward alignments and the staleness of systems.
I favour the cheap, rugged, bittersweet taste
Of a late night's substandard drink,
In the midst of true lights and shadows
And the uncertainty they cast upon us,
Over the orderly and satisfactory--
The dead pleasures and securities that
Exist nowhere but in feeble projections.
I favour the basic, primeval, animal grunt--
The dirt, the dizziness of true treading
Across the muddy shallows--,
Over the clattering of an overflowed,
Certain mind.
I favour doubt, earnest doubt,
Unpalatable doubt, inescapable doubt--
A smile in a pitch-black room,
A journey on a lukewarm air balloon,
A half-finished sentence in a half-serious gloom--,
Over hasty conclusions and tainted allusions.
I favour the endearing messiness of reality;
The chaos of light and dreams;
The mystery, so out of reach,
Of you and me and the space in-between;
The stained, torn, shattered, burnt,
Twisted texture we find ourselves upon,
Over the smooth, marble-white,
Sterile surface where false certainties
Slide, grinning, before they find themselves
On an impending collision with the infectious hesitation of the ground.
I favour the acknowledging look
Straight into the eye;
A ladder with one step;
A race with no competitors;
A contentment without resentment;
A bread on your table that's good enough,
That doesn't tease you and promise you more,
And more,
And more,
So that you forget what you should really care for,
What lies deep under your skin,
What stirs up the dormant contents of your guts--
You climb to the hilltop
Which finally allows you to have
A peek at the next one.
I favour uncertainty and risk,
And walking too close to the edge;
I favour barely enough,
And cutting it too close;
I favour throwing all excess over the board,
And lowering standards;
I favour the taste of imminent failure
And the adrenaline of a heart-wakening sprint;
I favour meagre means
And big dreams, free of currencies;
For they all remind me what the world
Really looks like,
Who I really am,
And what the winter-night winds
Really feel like.
I favour the ways of nature, often erratic,
***** ugly and convoluted,
Often dumbfounding,
Unintentionally intelligent and mysterious,
Over the ways of fear-ridden constructions,
For there is no such thing
As a straight line.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 2:31 PM UTC
As you attempt to pour more political doctrine down my throat
I check the change in my pocket
for
the laxative I‘ll have to buy
from my legal drug dealer
REALLY!?!
Did you not know that your words are;
indigestible,
incorrigible
&
wholly corruptible?
How do you manage
to
politically caress your own eardrums
reach
through your sinuses,
tickling
the lining of your
esophagus
and yet,
make me cough?!
Your response to truth is truly painful,
you feel it in your chest,
your ***** heaves and razes
you have a fit gesticulating policies
flipping birds that won’t fly
It’s too late!
Mr "I went to Oxford so I must have the plan"
Mr Self-Interest man
Mr Ivy-league, Whitehouse, Whitehall...."Cambridge was better",
Mr I can do all things that superman can.
Mr “If we win the elections next year”...
Man
Take your leave,
your term is over,
School is out
&
the old boys no longer love you.
Time!
to
run for
cover,
under the
colour,
of
your favoured
currency umbrella.
But
If you’re African
"it's okay"
you can stay a little while longer
and bequeath the throne
to your brothers', sisters', uncles', sons' junior brother!
Turn it into a dy-nasty
Bring on board;
Kwadjo,
Mary,
Abena,
Kwesi,
Uncle Nepa,
Sista Tism
&
Aunt Ivy.
Ah-Geee!!!
This nonsense is highly unpalatable
I’m past the word puke
my bile sack is empty
because your drunkenness is spreading
&
**y o u’r e
s t i l l
b l o w i n g
m e
f u m e s!**
*Your democracy
has made your Guinea-Pigs
demi crazy,
has captured this poets’ goat
Slaughtered it
&
mandated this verbal frenzy*
Enough!
Of this alcoholic experiment
I’m not drinking anymore,
I’ve cried blood!
and now "my eyes are red"
Looking forward
to being 'tee-totally' sober,
while
U
**c o n t e m p l a t e
t h i s
v e r s e
o f
p o e t i c,
p o l i t i c a l,
M U R D E R.**
© Qwey.ku
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
there may
or may not
exist
certain colours
that the human eye
is unable
to see
an insipid
blueish-yellow
an unpalatable
greenish-red
each said
to be impossible
for our eyes
to process;
if seen
it could appear
in all manner
of forms
but would remain
indescribable
they say that
butterflies can see
the ultraviolet spectrum
and that
the honey bee
sees in infrared;
and so
it would not
be too absurd
for a person
to dismiss
the "impossible"
to believe
in the possibility
of the as-yet
unseen
although
scientifically
the only way
to perceive
these "forbidden" hues
is through trickery
and constraint
by forcing the brain
into seeing both
antagonistic colours
simultaneously
and
without reprieve
until the border
between
the opposing shades
finally dissolves
there may be
a truth
but it is hidden
somewhere between
the plausible
yet impalpable
and the proven
yet proselytised
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 11:30 AM UTC
Wiggin's was a wombat
a legend in his underwear
and everywhere he went
you would hear him *** and swear
He was a very unpalatable chap
where ever he roamed, caused havoc
He had no cares for no one, not one jot
his mantra matched his favorite film, Salem's Lot
a incorrigible beast of heinous intent
a bounder, a blaggard with all truth bent
One nasty piece of work was Wiggin's
Vombatidae would hang their heads in shame
knowing this cad of a man did scare it's name
and with grief stricken tears say, oh how lame how lame
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
dressed in home made aura
dance boy!-------------------it is all for you
their lies!
all the truth in its rolling orbit
speaking aloud!
(and this is all they have for you!--------------------
all the lies you could ever imagine!)
the ragged and torn home made aura!
the dancing freak who still sees children
as complete images of immortality!
ah, you may treat him foolishly and call him " a fool"
lies are truly unpalatable
who is still "an american?"
----
the home made aura!
soon
only the GENETICALLY MODIFIED AURA
shall be legal!
still,
you will wear yours proudly!
made from the best tailors!
while he?
he shall still be dancing
a home made boy
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 9:45 AM UTC
I am quiet. Not silent.
It might be hard to understand the difference, but there is one.
Believe me, this once.
I have spoken, screamed, begged, prayed, all of it raw and angry and loud, and it has been too unpalatable for digestion.
Ignored and left behind on plates.
The suffocation of having words lodged in your throat, words that choke you to swallow, choke you to try to speak, because they are horrible.
And then they dribble out of your mouth, leaving behind the foul taste of their wretched shapes, and the putrid stench of those horrible words makes heads turn away.
The words unheard, the wounds unseen.
Except neither of those are true, because I have spoken them within your hearing, I have shown them beneath your eyes.
So not unseen, not unheard, undigested and ignored for your own rotten convenience. Sometimes worse. Questioned and made less of.
I burn brighter than any pit in hell; rage hotter than 5,779 K searing me from the inside out.
The fire could peel me apart, my skin clawing away beneath my fingernails to expose the flames that would set all before me ablaze, the flames that are hidden beneath my bones.
And wouldn’t it be fair? For consequences to finally exist?
I am no longer the same, irrevocably different from that girl who might once have existed, who believed in fairness.
I am hate, and anger, sometimes only this red burning fury, no more. Red that crashes down upon me in unending waves that erode me further each time.
I swish it around in my mouth, considering the taste: defeat. Injustice I must make peace with, rather than repay. Because I can’t. How?
I spoke. You didn’t listen. You didn’t believe.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Romantic, isn't it?
The giant, blue, ice-cold
Air flurries, quickly
Hydrogen and helium
Methane ice - like an oddly-
flavored slushie, likely unpalatable
But surely nice to see
So far from Helios' reach
A blizzard of cerulean rushes across
A mass so great
It would require Herculean strength
To move her but an inch
Mathematically predicted
And there she was
A beautiful, azure conclusion
To our solar system
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
She swallowed his words with ease,
allowing the harsh,
unpalatable words slip into her,
without any jarring to her senses.
She fears the day of lashing back,
from all the pain incurred.
A cycle unable to be broken;
Wish. Pray. Dream.
Everything you learn to do as a little girl,
a little child.
They were failing on her.
Not noticing one thing that
might make that difference,
faith.
Something she lacked all her life.
Faith in her wishes, prayers, dreams.
Faith that she can spit out his words,
blend them to grinds,
insignificant as they will always be.
She wasn’t strong,
pretending to not feel pain.
She wasn’t strong,
allowing those harsh, unpalatable words sit in her mind;
untouched,
creating a home for corruption,
wasting away her insides.
She turned towards faith.
Faith, allowing the harsh, unpalatable words
build up coal inside,
not hesitating to spark fire,
and lash his soul into frenzy.
Faith, making her
wishes, prayers, dreams
never fail again.
Faith,
bringing out strength she never knew she had.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Prometheus, the joker, he
offered Zeus a choice of tributes:
An egg, a chocolate covered
With foil, the delicious covered
With the inedible or
Chicken wings; perhaps they were ribs,
The unpalatable concealed
Within the gratifying and
Delectable.
And, when given the same choice, I
Choose the charming, the beguiling,
The delightful exterior,
With unappealing core, rather
Than attempt to find that nugget,
Hidden within its thin veneer
And certainly worth the effort.
I find lusciousness is much more
Pleasurable.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:38 PM UTC
1.
Nothing is stable:
not moods,
not relationships,
not circumstances.
It is better this way -
when things are bad
do not say “it gets better,”
which may or may not be true.
Say it gets different.
2.
People are not always
going to be there for you
when you want them to be,
they will be busy or sick or asleep or indifferent.
Words do not equate to action.
Words can just be fillers.
“Love” does not always mean good,
“Love” does not always mean support,
“Love” can be in name only.
Love is something
entirely different.
You deserve Love.
3.
“Don’t ask, don’t receive,”
is the way it is.
You must always make an effort
to initiate friendships.
Even so, don’t expect them to last.
Know also
that it is not your fault if/when they fail.
Nothing lasts forever -
this is okay.
People who Know
will sometimes ask how they can help.
If you don’t tell them
they won’t do anything,
won’t offer suggestions,
will probably offer other things instead:
apologies, anger, their own guilt.
If you cannot explain well enough,
be prepared for no change,
no aid,
nothing.
They are not mind readers,
after all.
For some people
explanations won't help,
will not make them
understand.
Let these people go.
4.
If you state a boundary,
and it cannot,
will not,
be honored or remembered,
grit your teeth through it.
Know that it will be okay soon enough,
but always remember
your triggers are still real.
5.
If you engage with acquaintances,
you must find the balance
between Distrust and Hope.
Not too much hope -
that would be naïve,
set you up for a hard[er] fall.
Not too much distrust –
that would make you
Bitter,
Unpalatable.
You must play nice
with everyone,
walk on eggshells
if you must,
but even then
know you will never please everyone and
prepare for the worst.
6.
You will never be prepared enough.
7.
You will learn
what is necessary
and unnecessary
in your life,
how to make do
on very little.
This is a blessing and a curse,
this is the way it is now,
but it does not always have to be this way.
You are allowed
to have wants and needs
standards and expectations,
even if it feels Wrong.
If they cannot handle you,
you do not have to keep them
in your life.
Having very few friends
is not Bad or Wrong or Abnormal.
You can do without
most people.
8.
You do not have to
empty every word of meaning.
Being empty
is a way to stay alive,
but it does not have to be this way.
9.
Your intuition is valid.
Do what feels right,
do not spend time regretting.
10.
You are not weak
like your mother says.
**** your mother,
**** mombrain,
**** every single person
who has hurt you and put you down.
You have survived
23 years of heartaches and breaks,
exquisite forms of torture.
You are strong.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
I can’t help somebody who thinks, or thinks he thinks, that editing a newspaper is censorship, or that throwing bricks is a demonstration while building tower blocks is social violence, or that unpalatable statement is provocation while disrupting the speaker is the exercise of free speech... Words don’t deserve that kind of malarkey. They’re innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they’re no good any more, and Brodie (a character in the play, a would be writer) knocks their corners off. I don’t think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you’re dead.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
No need to thank me.
I mean, what are bullies for?
If not to force you
to face the unpalatable.
To confront you
with the cruelest kindness.
To unrelent with unfair truth
leaving you no choice,
but to fight for your life
and strengthen your defence.
What are best bullies for?
But to boost the beast
for when he's needed.
No need to thank me.
You'd do the same for me.
Jun 8, 2023
Jun 8, 2023 at 6:33 AM UTC
Come!
by Michael R. Burch
Will you come to visit my grave, I wonder,
in the season of lightning, the season of thunder,
when I have lain so long in the indifferent earth
that I have no girth?
When my womb has conformed to the chastity
your anemic Messiah envisioned for me,
will you finally be pleased that my *** was thus rendered
unpalatable, disengendered?
And when those strange loathsome organs that troubled you so
have been eaten by worms, will the heavens still glow
with the approval of God that I ended a maid―
thanks to a *****
And will you come to visit my grave, I wonder,
in the season of lightning, the season of thunder?
Keywords/Tags: sonnet, god, religion, Christianity, puritanism, chastity, ****** virginity, nun, *** lust, desire, death, grave, passion, lightning, thunder, earth, womb, tomb, worms, organs, maid, maidenhead, *****
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 1:10 AM UTC
"Rough", a polite way of expressing my apprehension from the start, couldn't have known I was shaking for all the wrong (Reasons) that you left are in surplus this season; flipping vowels upside down along with my smile, and faded hues stand out the most now; this pale blue follows me but that seems so irrelevant most days. Years pass and as my eyes grow feeble, I see more, more, more, and you are the greatest beauty I have ever seen, your fragile chest and broken bones more than memories for me to launder between the parts of my brain that still give a **** I replaced the decay of my spirit with rotted lungs, with magick however alleged, ritual a key, components fine like the filigree that lined my illusions, dramatic tone and teeth marks make me quiver, alchemical bonds between the ground and I, afire is the sky and my insides turn bone white and glowing under your moon.
Stop spinning ...
The feeling of overflowing consumes me, and abundance isn't always preferred, to tell you the truth I kind of miss all of my innards being contained within me. But each day I feel a little less invisible and it gets that much easier to deal with this (hole) thing, forget the flashing moments of misery in which I could suffocate myself because it's hard to complain, I must admit I've created every crevice and ****** crack that you see on my body with my own devices, like trying to mold clay with scissorhands; This expulsion may be near unpalatable but it seems to me the only thing that helps me forget, truth is I don't know why I haven't yet; just chaotic noise like the raps that flowed from the lips of the artist that I wasn't paying any attention to at all that night at that coffee shop.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 2:57 AM UTC
“You’re eating, again?”
The question stings like a honeybee’s kiss
I smile dryly as I nibble at my plate
You have moved on now
But I don't hear you
“You’re eating, again?”
These words intricately constructs heavy vines
encircling the delicate hand that once held my fork
I smile harder as three words prickles my body
Fabricating a paralyzing smog in my skull
The food becomes unpalatable and my mouth parches
“You’re eating, again?”
I rise and then I watch
"You’re eating, again?”
get flushed in a porcelain bowl
And I feel the familiar swell behind my eyes
And I weep
I weep because I ate again
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
Soowee, soowee. Top of our lungs
That’s how we used to call the hogs
And every time they would come,
Running just like well trained dogs,
Because they knew it meant food
Even though that food was just slop,
Those pigs have nothing like taste.
But nothing could make them stop.
Lately I have noticed human beings
Who seem to behave the same way.
They gobble the media slop they hear
Every day after mind-numbing day.
They too seem to have no taste
And smell something they really dig;
Nothing any sensible creature eats
But it seems to be ambrosia to a pig.
Squee, squee, squee they snort
And salivate, squeal and chow down
On the unpalatable pap served up
By the greedy media super-clowns.
It’s almost like they would pass up
A meal of honest, unvarnished truth
To gorge themselves to a stupor
On the crap they loved as a youth.
I’m always surprised that these folks,
This metaphoric, too human swine
Don’t go out in public in pajamas
Like worn by young neighbors of mine
With cartoon mice and supermen
Instead of the clothes of an adult.
They go vote like uninformed fools.
And current Congress is the result.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Condemned to a body that can not move,
Speak, or even have the strength to open one eye
I’m paralyzed
Drenched in a foul smell of fear
Barely have the will to scream
My tongue is stitch
Within my mouth
My vocal chords are ripped from my neck
To endure the agony the bleary world has secluded me to
With enough will power I was able to slightly open my left eye
The atmosphere of my surrounds was not the world the walked upon
A world of constant shock
Hostility
Animosity
With the little strength I had to move my eye was enough torment to bear
A world that is hard to explain
Only to be there to feel its ugly nature
A world that blinds the eye
To have your soul collapse
In the state hopelessness
No returns
Parasites feeding off the joyful thoughts of lovely memories
That soon turns into bitter nightmares
That becomes reality
Voices from left & right
That ridicules you for hope,
But in reality it just wants you to suffer its pain
Laugh; be amused, you’re its toy of pleasure
Desperately I try to move
Scream for help
Or even cry, just to feel something other then misery
At the moment of silence
Easily manipulated like a child
For candy
I thought this world of torment was over, but only to see a bleary man standing at the corner of this deluded world
Watching me as if nothing has happen
Why do you stand there?
Why do you mock me?
Are you even human?
WHAT ARE YOU?!?
No response, but only more pain is afflicted when it starts approaching me
Facing death literally 2 feet away from me is terrifying enough
No poor soul should endure this madness
In honesty, Death, cruel punishment of every soul’s demise I advert you on this grim second of my life
Strike me as you please, just end this horrid madness
And let me escape this world I dare not to think.
I soon to reawaken into the land of the living
Grateful to have chattered the unfortunate chains
Of the world of the unpalatable madness lurking around us
Despite of this ordeal
I feel this is only the beginning of something that yet to seize us into its world of disaster.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
The collie, fur grayed and patchy, lopes away from his house,
Ostensibly bound for nowhere in particular,
Knowing only that it is that time, his time,
And, as he wanders away for to await that last solitary purpose,
Meanders past a pock-marked and rust-patched single-wide,
Occupied by a young woman (a girl, in truth)
Nursing a newborn, child whose father
Is one in a wide range of unpalatable options.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
They walk, the residue of some boy meets girl,
Along the quiet main street of an equally quiet town,
Utility poles garnished with benign, contented snowmen,
Low-hung five-pointed auguries strung with tinsel,
Brobodingnagian candy canes swaying rhythmically in the wind.
They have arrived at the unspoken yet mutually understood conclusion
That they have taken their particular accident of birth and geography
As far as such a thing may go, yet they walk hand-in-hand,
Fingers intertwined, though tentatively, in some interim rationale.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
On a hill above town, there is a rambling, low-slung edifice
Multiple-winged single-story octopus of a house
Well appointed though sparsely and diffidently decorated,
More hotel than home, decidedly transitory in form and function.
In one of the rooms, dimly lit with little ornamentation
Save a Charlie Brown-esque tree squatting forlornly on a bureau,
A woman is reading softly, almost mechanically,
As if it is a story she has read out loud countless times before,
To a man who is heeding, perhaps, though it is clear
That the act is more essential than the words on the page.
They have a daughter who would be there,
Sitting in a chair or on the edge of the bed,
Hands clasped, though in service of or supplication to nothing tangible,
But she is home with her toddler, a whirligig of a child
Who has found some hidden presents
And is tearing away the wrapping from the boxes,
Laughing unrestrainedly as he showers himself
In a red-green-gold ticker-tape maelstrom.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
i'm lost in a maze of gyri and sulci
tiptoeing over memories
triggering reflexes still out of my control
over an irreparable foundation
what is the use in trying to piece scraps together
when the final product is no work of art
but an unpalatable ********** of a thing
that once was called love
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
Some are OK
some are not OK
most seem to be half-way
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 1:58 AM UTC
when the politicians open up their traps
we're fed a diet of political crap
they think they are out smarting us
with the unpalatable stuff they feed us
we're wise to the diatribe which is shoved down our necks each day
we wont be fooled by anything they say
our Prime Minister stood up in parliament
to tell the members to be of a kinder bent
but in the next breath
he got out his nasty tasting mace
to give the opposition leader
a bit of its in the face
well that doesn't sit too well with the public at all
as they don't much like seeing an all in brawl
the politicians should be less rough
as their verbal insults can be too tough
they should be practicing what they preach
instead of going well beyond the breach
how can we respect anything they utter
when all they say is best kept in the gutter
our politicians are far from a good crew
all to often their distasteful jibes make us stew
they are losing all respectability
which does little for their publicity
their bluntness in the bear pit
we'll not have a bar of it
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
Crunchy outer shells that hurt the gums
the unpalatable goodness that soothes us
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC