"unprofessional" poems
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
When I was young,
I had long curly hair
That cascaded down my back
Like an ominous waterfall;
So dark and thick, it seemed to go on forever.
But, when I was in school, it was always tied up.
It was a challenge for my mother to tame it with a brush
And keep it in the confines of a bun.
She said it was to keep my hair
from getting to my and others’ faces.
But some people still managed to make me feel bad for having such “unruly” hair
when the most it’s been exposed is when I take out my hair tie just to tie it back up again.
For years I tried to straighten it;
Hair rebonding every year,
Straightening iron ever morning,
Damaged hair and damaged pride every day.
They say a woman’s hair is her crown;
She must wear it with her chin up
And flaunt it unabashedly.
This is to the girls who do.
This is to the girls who dye their hair magnificent colors
To match their colorful personalities.
This is to the girls who cut their own hair
Because hair salons charge so much for a trim.
This is to the girls who shave all their hair for charity
Or for support of the girls in chemotherapy.
But this is also for the girls in chemotherapy,
Who are still thriving even though they’re suffering.
This is also to the girls whose hair are being treated like an anomaly,
Their braids being pulled and afros being patted.
This is also to the girls who can’t land a job
Because their skills were degraded by their “unprofessional” hair.
A woman’s hair is her crown
But a queen does not need a crown.
A queen is not just some girl with a shiny thing on her head.
A queen is a figure of power, compassion and grace.
She wears the crown, not the other way around.
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
young kid my age on the news for
being partially beheaded in South
Vancouver
his girlfriend blurry
pixels in shock. he was majoring
in criminology, sweet God I miss
him already, oh my sweet
sweet
whatever.
My heart aches and a
tear wells and crawls down my
cheek to my chin to my neck to
my chest. I'm at work.
this is
unprofessional.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
There’s something about you that
makes me want to write
bad poetry
and half-assed short stories.
Something about you that
makes me want to take all my
unspoken words and turn them
into something beautiful,
something worthwhile.
You make me want to be an artist
like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath;
you make me want to create.
Maybe it’s that blue wave
that crashes down like
an incoming tide on the beach—
your eyes
when you look at me in
a certain way, in
a certain light.
Or maybe it’s
the way that you say
my name and then say all
those horrible things that make
me want to rip something
open.
Those words that rip me open.
You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my
head like lyrics to a bad pop song;
I can’t erase them and the
only way I can think of to cope with it
is to write them down like a schoolgirl
with a well worn diary.
I think I might as well have hypergraphia.
I am an unprofessional
medical doctor with
a pen, paper, and
Word Document
suffering from a form of
verbal ***** because I
can’t possibly think of a way to
speak my mind.
I think I would make a very good mute.
I wish I lacked a voice box
because then I wouldn’t have to
be the one that has to
say all the right, comforting things
at the all the right times
and all the right places.
Sometimes it feels as if I’m
being eaten from the inside out
by some sort of paratrophic organism
that sits atop my frontal lobe and
dictates my life and fluctuates my
anxiety and I can’t even think about
some things anymore because of this
nervous clench I get in my gut when
I let my thoughts get too jumbled.
But you—you make me want to write
the most heartfelt and sappy sentences
and you make me want to
be more than just ordinary.
You make me want to be extraordinary.
I guess that what I’m writing is
an apology in the shape of
a few stanzas and a few metaphors.
And this is an “I forgive you” for that night
that we spent outside your house
arguing over the stupidest of things,
so stupid that I can hardly
remember a single word I said to you.
Nothing gratifying is ever
painless to obtain
and I want to be a fighter like
Hercules or Alexander the Great.
I want to be extraordinary with you.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014
“You are cute.”
No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.
No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.
No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.
No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.
And finally, No.
I’m not **** *** ***** ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or **** either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
She thought she has understood it clear
That love is only a game to play
When she feels bored and out of place
Someone is there, a game to share with
She understood it so very clearly
A game of heart, so let's play it fair
To Win some, To lose some
A love game between two players
The game of hearts,
Attracting, flattering, sweet talking, seducing...
losing or winning
doesn't really matter...
the pleasure is the game...
Just a fling of romance,
In the name of a game
Steal each others heart...
and be safe and sound
a risky game...
to love for
to die for
and to leave free upon a game over
no strings attached....understood it clear
after all.... its only a game of love
She thought the game is in the grip of her hands
understood the game so clear
Played with the rules of the game...
A game is nothing but a game...
Too egoistic to admit...
That emotions and feelings cannot be bought
can never be part of a game...
To these.....
She Lost herself in her own game
Unplanned, Unprepared, Unprofessional...
Both players were
A dangerous game... love is...
What she thought as a play of love
Is a strong flame indeed, hard to put out..
hard to cool off...
what a dangerous game of heart
to play fire with fire
a fire of real desire...
it burns the skin so deep....
The players are hooked in the end..
lost their navigation....in the game they thought
They have understood...
What they thought a GOODBYE
after They grabbed some tokens
as the exchange of love..
is an unexpected FOREVER stays...
In this game of the hearts
Success or defeats...
unskillful Players become lovers...
attached... inseparable...
even when the game is OVER!
When she falls, she falls hard...
play not with the game of heart...
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 4:04 PM UTC
I couldn't believe the pathetic look you were giving me,
As if I was the one who needed saving.
Let me profess once and for all that I do not want your pity.
Once and for all, that you never realized what I needed from you.
Friends,
He shrugged at me when the fiery arrows came,
And he kept my secrets,
but only when I was present.
Friends,
I gave him my utmost devotion and he
dismissed it for the bat of pretty eyelashes
Friends!
He abandoned the sacredness of friendship
For the sake of professionalism.
It's "unprofessional"
to care for someone
Who sacrificed everything for you.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
so there's this girl that i met
about a month ago
yeah, maybe a little over a month ago
might be two months, for all i know
but i digress
my point is that this girl
she likes me
she likes me a lot
and i like her
i like her a little more than a lot
maybe a little too much more
but there's this problem
it's been around since the first words we spoke
and it's been clouding my brain
for as long as i know her
and i just can't seem to let it go
and i'm usually good at that sort of thing
but i guess everyone gets a little
broken
sometimes
see, this girl
i work with her
we talk for hours
and hours
while we're serving customers
and trying to hide the fact
that we might talk a little too much
from the other employees
and the management
because that's bad for business, you see
customers can't take notice
or even have the slightest cause
even for a moment
to wonder
or think
that anything may
or may not
be going on behind the scenes
between the people
that serve them behind the counters
at the movie theatre
it's just unprofessional
people have gotten fired for this
lots of them, so i hear
we have a problem with that though
see, when we're around eachother
it's hard to act normal
per say
it's hard to seem unassuming
when the person you want
is right there
only inches away from you
it's hard to fake something
that's just so real
so we don't do that good of a job
to say the least
of keeping what we are
what we have going
on the down low
so we constantly get things like
"you two better be dating"
and
"you two act so much like a couple"
and, the classic
"aww, you guys are so cute together"
i shrug it off for the most part
or i just smile
just a bit (because i can't help it)
and say something like
"no, we're just friends"
or
"no, it's not like that"
but it is
it is like that
i want it to be like that
i wish and i hope that it could be like that
but going back to what i was saying
that little problem that's been shadowing me
and prodding at my thoughts and my dreams
is that
she already has a boy
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
I wanted to hug you
but it would have be unprofessional.
Four years,
we have worked together,
and I was finally able to talk to you.
You started to joke with me
but it didn't feel unprofessional.
You said,
'I almost didn't recognize you!'
and we walked along the canyon rim.
Every time out paths cross
my thoughts become unprofessional.
Your blue eyes,
make me dizzy and I get tongue-tied,
maybe that's why I couldn't speak.
I packed you a lunch since you forgot yours
and it didn't seem at all unprofessional.
You said,
'You've made me week!'
and the baked goods were all you could talk about.
I offered to make you a cheesecake for your birthday
and I hope our relationship gets unprofessional.
You said,
'We can trade beer and baked goods!'
and I couldn't keep the smile off my face.
Now I have to wait until April
and I'll try to be professional.
Believe me,
I still want to hug you
and I hope you call me for that cheesecake.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Cloud-vacant darkened sky,
muffled ears
under woolly coolness
of chocolate-icing water,
choppy,
unsmooth,
iced by an unprofessional
child-chef.
Stretched-out limbs
like a blown-up starfish
floating dumb and mindless
and alone.
Bobbing apples, eyes obscured
temporarily, under cold salt
swishing
swashing
slipping sliding.
Sticky candy-apple lips
pursed tight against
salty smoothness
licking
lapping
lisping loving.
Slow breaths flow freely
through nose,
sticking upright from the water like
ancient uncovered bones
from sand;
Wind whipping off years of hiding
to reveal
the unknown death.
Slowly floating, bobbing
silent, unaware
from the sand: waves washing
gently, nudging
against the starfish boy.
Leading him
away
from shore.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 4:53 AM UTC
I slept. I woke up early. I got ready for my day early too.
I slept in my clothes, hair done and makeup too.
I had plans for the library and to wash the car, but i did nothing
I slept
I had dreams of things ill never remember.
I had dreams of things ill never relive
I had much needed sleep ill never give.
And then i met him and went to the doctors
Where i was treated out of taste
"Did he at least make you *** Says my doctor
His tongue hanging out
Hes going back to teaching
His divorce on the rise
I told him nothing only moved my head thinking to myself the unprofessional words he said
When my appointment was over and it was time to go
He said if things dont work out with my fiancee
To let him know.
Today I slept and the world still went by
Looking out the car window watching the trees fly by.
Here comes the crisp of night.
Im wrapped up with my love
Protected and safe
Away from inappropriate doctors
Away from the chores I put off
Tomorrows already here
And Im rested to go
Time to sleep and forget about yesterday woes.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
My poems don't have a sentence.
They're vague, unfinished, unclear.
And they certainly don't address the reader,
For that would be unprofessional, dear.
My poems don't have a meaning.
They're meant to be read and understood.
And they certainly don't have a title.
Yes, guidance is not at all good.
|
|
\/
Commas and them old fullstops.
Questions? Hah! What do they even do?
Exclamations? What silly ideas!
My poems don't need you!
Yes, my poems never rhyme.
For what use will it lend?
Yes, my poems never hold ironic lies.
And of course, they'll never end.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC
- I -
I am Death
and I am sorry.
Sorry that I robbed you
of your youth
your vigor and your
vitality.
I am sorry that I gave you days
and months and years of black
days and months and years
better spent under the sun
dancing in the rain
prancing in the snow.
I am sorry that I robbed you
of your very first love
your child, your sister
your mother or father
your one care in the world.
I am sorry that I took away
those things that were the
light of your life
the salt of your earth
whether those be tangible
or intangible.
I am sorry for all this and more.
- II -
But this is what I do.
This is the burden that Fate and
Destiny have placed upon my
shoulders.
This is the task that has been
assigned to me by the cosmos.
The universe needs a Reaper
a Soul-Harvester
a Life-Taker
and that’s me.
Death.
It is my unfortunate task to remind
you – man, woman and child
that you are not invincible.
I am an omnipresent reminder of
your own mortality
an ever-present red ribbon
tied around your finger.
Believe me when I tell you that
I enjoy it very little
and detest it very much.
That I should be the one who
coaxes your tears from your eyes
burns my soul – MY soul.
Yes,
I have one, too
however hardened it may be after
all these years.
That I should have to swoop in to
your homes, your hospital wards,
your cars, barge in on your meals,
your vacations, your special time
with loved ones
is, to me, awful, a sin.
Me stealing from you those years,
people and other things from you
is vagrancy, indecency, criminal.
Nothing less.
- III -
I, Death, am a vagabond.
A cold hearted ******* A demon borne
in the fiery pits of Hell.
I am cruel, calculating and ruthless
with impeccable timing, I know it.
I know it, and yet I have not the heart
to give up what I do.
It is the only thing I know.
But every day that I do it is a day
where my heart aches.
My heart aches
and it has for some time now.
It is a pain of which I shall never be
rid. I am sure of it.
Would you believe me if I told you
that I listen to your pleas?
Your moaning, your agonized begging,
your take-me-not-hers, your why-him-not-me’s
fall on ears.
Attentive ones
listening ones.
I promise you, I hear you, and I hold your
hearts in my hands.
But I just cannot give you what they seek.
It would be unfair.
Me letting your brother live and not
his would be unbalanced, unnatural
unseemly, unprofessional.
Mercy defeats the purpose of death.
Mercy defeats the purpose of me
and I hate it
but it is so
and that is that.
- IV -
I am Death.
I am black
I am dark
I am night.
I know your secrets, your darkest
ones.
I know what you desire to know.
When you shall die.
I know it.
You all shall die.
I know it.
You know it.
And that scares you.
You are all afraid of me.
Do not lie. I know it. It’s true.
You all think you are doomed.
You think you are doomed?
You are doomed to succumb
to death?
I am doomed to be death.
I am sorry
but I am Death.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 7:31 PM UTC
Beads of sweat roll down my forehead as my fingers fly all over the keyboard
There's not much time, I need to get it done, I need this to be perfect
It's my saving grace for my lousy performance through high school
It's the leap that will take me to the next level
How's my grammar? Did I spell these words correctly?
Will they finish reading it with a lasting impression?
Am I thought-provoking? Too serious? Too unprofessional?
These questions only continue to clog my mind
I handed the type-written output over
And ask the guidance counselor if I'll do fine
She nods and fills my head with reassuring words
I swallowed them down and stiffly said 'thanks'
The car ride home summoned a couple of daydreams
I pictured myself getting into the honoree list
And making my parents' hearts swell with pride
But let's be real: Am I even going to make it?
Here I sit in front of the laptop again, fingers ready
To explore a wide range of prestigious universities
Maybe they'll require me to write an essay again
I swear on everything I'll write them better than the last
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
Someone told me
I was someone
But I didn't get it.
Sure, I write
Google knows my name
I've been "published"
But it feels empty still.
What do I want?
Reviews
Comments
Tell me you hate it,
Tell me you love it.
Tell me it made you laugh,
Tell me it made you cry.
That you threw my book out
That you couldn't put it down.
Something.
Anything.
I'm wondering, you know...
Am I good enough?
Will I be discovered?
Or am I full of hot air,
A childish,
Unprofessional
Hack.
I other words,
Am I a nobody, or
Someone?
Dec 4, 2009
Dec 4, 2009 at 3:16 PM UTC
Being a girl is hard
But being a black girl...
Let me tell you about being a black girl
Leave Out
Twist
Frontal
Perm
Pick your poison
"Unprofessional"
Or falling for " European Beauty Standards"
" Why are you so quiet?"
Do you expect me to be aggressive
And snap my fingers in an A-Z formation
Light Skin is the best skin
Or so they say
I'm jealous of my brother, for his caramel skin
Oh what I'd do for that caramel skin
You think that's the worst of it but have you see ****
Cute girl makes love to -insert famous **** star here
Ebony ***** gets banged till she squirts
Which would you rather watch?
If you ever turned on a TV you'd see reality shows with the perfect blue eyed blond hair cast and the one black kid who doesn't get enough attention
Ever since Rachel was the Bachelorette I too prayed one day I'll find the man of my dreams
Have you ever had a crush on someone and ever think if they even like girls your skin color?
Being a girl is hard
But being a black girl
Oh let me tell you about being a black girl
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
January-
I’m trying to forget the sound of your voice. Just a few days ago your cries for attention were echoing in my ears. I don’t know how to turn down the volume.
February-
Grape vines twist through my ribcage. My blood turns to wine.
March-
The sun pokes its head out the curtain. The stars tell it not too. That is unprofessional. No one can know what goes on behind the scenes.
April-
I wear birthday cake frosting as lipstick. I resemble a clown. I balance on boxes filled with my favorite books. Another year older.
May-
I’m a time bomb. I’m ticking down. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6. The confessions burble out of my throat. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Silence.
June-
Like the flowers, I am reborn. My petals spread out and greet the warmth. My pretty colors distract me from my inevitable death.
July-
I can’t breathe under this heat. The air has stilled, the Earth has stopped moving. How am I still not over this?
August-
I hide from the sun. From the sky and the stars. I am ashamed of what I am.
September-
Everyone is looking at me. I don’t fit inside my skin. They all know. It is written across my forehead. It is tattooed in braille on the soles of my feet.
October-
The leaves fall from trees. I follow suit. We change and die together. I knew there was a reason I liked this weather.
November-
I have long stopped being a person. I am your lost inhaler. I am snow in the summer. An afterthought of a girl. I am sorry.
December-
Its the anniversary of the assault. I’ve only ever spoken about in poetry. Compared it to bees. Compared it to cats’ claws stuck in moth eaten sweaters. To irritated scars now opened despite months of bandages and stitches. I’ve left it folded in between pages of diary entries. I hope one day you find them. And you realize what you’ve done.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
"Don't leave any marks," she says
as I nip playfully at her neck;
"It's unprofessional," she mutters
while squirming from the waltz of my lips,
and at the dance of my fingertips;
everything was electric
and it was great,
truly breathtaking-
at the time-
but that time-
has passed;
sacrificed;
killed.
If only One
so edified, dark, and **** in Her ways
would grace me with Her Time and Temple;
whilst true to Herself
upon Her unfolding Path,
that I may also be true to my Self
upon my unfolding Path.
Truly, that would be
a Dream come true
and the Moon would stop
and stand still for us.
Though,
think not that I seek merely a toy,
that I want someone for mere fun;
this is not a question of mere Lust:
I want Love.
I want to feel Love.
Truest of Love;
Metaphysically,
as well as
physically;
I
want
someone
who would make it seem
as if the Moon stands still for us;
Alas, though a gleam,
it doth indeed seem
to be merely a Dream
within illusioned Dream
-__-_-__-_-__-_-__-_-__-_-__-_-__-_-__-
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 4:56 AM UTC
Underlying secrets hidden well within the drift currents of civil conversations
Accusations and insinuations all sensually dressed as ordinary citations
Anticipations build while I wait for you to stroll through, my double doors.
You open it wide and come inside As I beg for you to stay for more…
of your stimulating conversations mischievous contemplations
Enlarged by the sight of your muscular arms
Please don’t be alarmed!
I realize that my intentions are unprofessional and corrupt
But I can’t get enough
As I fantasize and visualize you between my thighs,
I won’t deny
these intense vibes of pleasure you send
As I’m more inclined to live in
this moment -
No excuses – just own it
As we realize our omitted restrictions
mutually hidden well within
our underlying conversations
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
The way you scrapped me
solidly so the meat on my bones is picked clean.
Malingering with the charm of a sweet cream
but filled with distaste underneath,
neatly putting me in the box beneath your bed.
I find it unweildy, inconvenient;
To be carrying such a scene
in parts of me that you outlined without knowledge
They tell you to say grace before a meal
or at least wipe your hands first.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
On 11/16/15 at 4:45 p.m. near 338a Main St., a Hackensack Police Dept. patrolman in car #107 slowed his vehicle down to text on his computer
which he had positioned on the passenger side of the vehicle. While
using his right hand to use the computer his left hand was on the window slot of the driver's side door. Keep in mind now that no hands were on the steering wheel and the patrol car was still in motion. When I mentioned to the driver "no texting while driving officer." He then turned to face me and stated **** you." Then he drove away. This was the most unprofessional act of an uniformed officer that I have ever witnessed Here
in hackensack.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
I have nothing against the person,
But the profession can be irksome.
You may get argumentative,
But that’s part of the dance:
To step on some toes.
So, I leave you to choose,
And add some of your own.
o Dentist
o Teacher (for the disenchanted/entitled)
o Oncologists
o Auto Mechanic
o Clerics
o Lawyers
o Funeral Persona
Sep 26, 2019
Sep 26, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
sometimes i wish i could go back
and tell myself not to go that day
tell myself to stay home
don't use the car
eat at home
sometimes i wish i could go back
and tell myself to not trust him
tell myself he's unprofessional
you can find new friends
in public areas
sometimes i wish i could go back
and warn myself
that something will happen very shortly
if i choose to go out for lunch
instead of stay home
sometimes i wish i could go back
and make different decisions
make a decision to find food at home
and to not trust everyone you meet
because there are some terrible people right under your nose
but i was only eighteen
i had 2 hours to spare
it was lunch
i was hungry
and you offered to bring me out to lunch
i shouldn't have gone
i should have stayed home
i shouldn't have waited in your house for you
i should have seen the signs
and then everything turned upside down
because as i yelled for you to stop
you covered my mouth
and as tears ran down my face
you got angrier
and i got scared
i wish i could go back
and not go out to lunch
i wish i could go back
and not run into that situation
i wish i could go back
because then maybe
just maybe
i wouldn't have been
*****
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC