"upstart" poems
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home,
Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine;
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
To supple Office low and high,
To crowded halls, to court, and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,
To those who go, and those who come,
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone
Bosomed in yon green hills, alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And ****** feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.
14.4k
It is when
It climbs up a tree
An ape's bald butts
Nitpickers can see.
Before having
The talent on hand
An upstart, one mustn't
Forge forward!
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
I praise Thee, God, whose rays upstart beneath the Bright
and Morning Star:
Nowit asali fardh salat assobhi allahu akbar.
I praise Thee, God, the fierce and swart; at noon Thou ridest
forth to war!
Nowit asali fardh salat assohri allahu akabr.
I praise Thee, God, whose arrows dart their royal radiance
o'er the scar:
Nowit asali fardh salat asasri allahu akabr.
I praise Thee, God, whose fires depart, who drivest down the
sky thy car:
Nowit asali fardh salat al maghrab allahu akabr.
I praise Thee, God, whose purple heart is hidden in the abyss
afar:
Nowit asali fardh salat al asha allahu akabr.
3.1k
I romanticize humanity until what's left isn't even human.
I cook up fallacies about legal aliens and add a dash of cumin.
Your chef tosses salads in the pasta section of the grocery store.
Devil's just as confused, with a ***** and an apology at heaven's door.
You don't know, and no one cares where eggs go when they die.
Godzilla thinks of a car full of clowns like you would a sardine pie.
What happens when an elephant gets alzheimer's and loses keys?
Does the paradox consume an entire circus of trapeze-act-fleas?
I ruin birthday cakes by blowing off the frosting instead of the flames.
How I do that? Count backwards from backwards and say my names.
Bittersweet love anthems pollute the brains of conscientious dames.
Heavy metal doesn't pollute, it pacifies rage quitting from soul-sucking games.
Out of the woodwork comes a limp ***** that would work,
Long hours only to find he'd pay millions for a Miley Cyrus twerk,
Which is worth about as much as an all-female circle ****
Unless you add strap-ons, so strap in and lap up the knee-jerk-smirk.
It is unwise to handle scissors when one is being cutting-edge,
Because your accountants will dangle themselves off of a three-storey ledge,
When you cut up the ledgers and make light of, that is, burn, the evidence of pledge,
To the monkeys in your think-tank mailing feces to the upstart farmer's hedge.
Now I know you're sick of rhyming and of poems and of liver culling whisky,
But I must inform you of a pirate's missing eye, I've bought sight of something risky,
I implore that when this song and dance is done, you'll assuredly miss me,
Because I've told you everything about depravity, hence forth you must kiss me.
Beacons of hope shine much like cantankerous silver in the moonlight.
If you're a werewolf that will fill you with hope and with immeasurable fright.
One day the world will admit that I'm awesome and impoverished to boot,
Because when the song and dance is done, what's left is just an ounce of loot.
Jul 20, 2022
Jul 20, 2022 at 9:28 PM UTC
There in the corner resting silently the old wooden bench
reclines beneath the billowing sky. Peeled and pale much
the worst for wear.
"A couple of young fellas down at Kitty Hawk flew like wounded ducks". Did you hear?
That was a humdinger. "Somebody swiped the Mona Lisa right under their noses"
Tick
witness to it all has heard the deepest of dark secrets whether tumbledown in solitude
or passed about in chatter.
"The Titanic went down last week ,What a pity." wasn't that thing impossible to sink"
well I'll see you later The Trolleys are running slow today.
There's this young upstart playing at the picture show this week. Chaplin I think his name is
Moving pictures,oh what will they think of next.
I got a letter from William fighting in The Somme. Dont know when or if he is coming home.
Nights are cold in the rain. Tick
Bathtub gin. A little nip every now and then can't be a sin.
The Lucky Lindy is the latest swing.
Tock.
Mickey mouse meet sliced bread. The birth of a nation
Bring the kids out on Saturday The can play awhile.
Heard That ****** Trotsky got shot. What do you think that will bring
Guess Adolf bit off more than he could Chew cause that big air war in
Britain made him tuck tail.
Tick
The greatest generation has come and is all but gone
The park bench sits and awaits the dawn
past Y 2 K and on and on
till today, this very hour
waiting for another story to tell
like a morning flower at sunrise
Beautiful petals and leaves
No one grieves for the passing of time.
The park bench sighs and
Then reclines.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
’Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of wo,
Like warriors by an unknown foe,
Were in their strength subdued,
The ****** Earth
Gave instant birth
To springs that ne’er did flow—
That in the sun
Did rivulets run,
And all around rare flowers did blow—
The wild rose pale
Perfumed the gale,
And the queenly lily adown the dale
(Whom the sun and the dew
And the winds did woo),
With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.
So when in tears
The love of years
Is wasted like the snow,
And the fine fibrils of its life
By the rude wrong of instant strife
Are broken at a blow—
Within the heart
Do springs upstart
Of which it doth now know,
And strange, sweet dreams,
Like silent streams
That from new fountains overflow,
With the earlier tide
Of rivers glide
Deep in the heart whose hope has died—
Quenching the fires its ashes hide,—
Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
Sweet flowers, ere long,—
The rare and radiant flowers of song!
2k
I can't trust my mind or my heart like you can't trust a post laxative ****
Seems like they've both been plotting against me from the start, planning to steal this soulful art
Like they know when it comes to the afterlife, reincarnation plays a big part
And with the knowledge and comfort of that truth they're ready to scrap me now like bad art
A defective throw away product that seems to have been bought at a dollar general corner mart
Then pushed around in a stolen grocery cart till interest fades and goes dark
I have to find the right end with no place to start, close my eyes and toss a dart
Then keep the blindfold on and let you tell me the score, not smart
Last time I trusted either of you ya fed me the equivalent of a week old shart
Through a feeding tube that I didn't need according to my hospital chart
Neglecting real issues when there's endorphins to bogart, losing my mind, watching my soul depart
I've lost and broken the both of you yet you still torment me, not even phased by my rampart
I never stood a chance, oblivious to the warning siren like Mozart, silent as I'm pulled apart
No one will think back on me but if they do I'll just be seen as another failed upstart
©2020
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 6:42 PM UTC
Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.
In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.
The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.
In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.
In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.
A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.
I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
.
.
Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones
Aug 5, 2024
Aug 5, 2024 at 2:21 PM UTC
Through the laden flights of pot-stewed gulls -
Deepening in red rosaries to poltroon,
Contaminated by an urgent wish,
The sun-soaked merry bandits blew.
Each to each, and, mingling with that sweaty palm,
Dolorous eyes sad-greeted the fleeing dawn.
Pancreas then, the earth-girdled Titan swam,
Anon the rising tide to stem.
Dentist the night, repair to dance-floored beams,
And rising melodiously ever anew to pine,
Sweet ***** dreaming of her saw-toothed chemise
Saw the fine end to the upstart king.
Curtains swayed against my pearly doom
Not brightly was your plainting song
Palpitating in earthly measures anew
Or seeking once more the mighty to appease.
O David, in thy glance the silver moth did live
Long dawns. An enemy of the swordfish,
He menaced us so long. And now?
Sporadic is the demise of depth!
A silver sea, or rather a sea with a fine multitude of
silver points
Caressing my eyes like toothless counterpoint to the
stately blue.
It gave a floor to a weening being of prancing gait and
measured thighs.
She smiled.
And the sea broke and roared, as ever,
and I heard it once more.
I saw too the sky, which had sufficient blue.
Cooled by the sea,
warmed by the setting rays and mild air, the body
luxuriated in perfect
temperature. She did not smile, but perhaps she did..
My body, I mean.
We came away, from there, as from all places to meet
another need.
of darkness and quiet. Foamed the elements of slaking
portions of
mysterious
substance. Surrendered to the moving body without
real life.
Borne along on a
stream of liquid desire residing in another's
breast.
Relinquishing her to a
perfect nothingness like lead or caviare.
Oh, and who awaited me? She was imprisoned
but beautiful
and I thought
quite happy. I don't think she even wanted to come
to me,
or so it seemed. But she was happier too outside,
in the waning sun.
Mainly she had been safe and free.
And there's an end of this day, which roamed
whither it would,
for I did not attempt to chain it. Now I flee it.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
before going to bed it is to be checked thoroughly
if there lays any carbon-paper under the bed-cover
now-a-days some upstart pelicans become so
disobedient it can not be assured if they come
to know the whereabouts of the blood easily
from the copy of the heart
then they distribute the delirium of the high-heel moon
by writing cash-memos at the gate of the locked-out plant
the hundreds of thousands of white clouds
also drink the whirl-water of love
they touch to feel the freshness of the habitat
they touch to feel the can full of smiles
after the explosion they touch to feel
the bier of the deodar-birds
covered with tamarisk plants
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:38 PM UTC
The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.
The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’
The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.
The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’
She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’
She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.
Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’
She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
She knew as soon as mam left
he’d start
he’d broken every healthy piece
of her heart
Sweets and toys galore
daddy’s ****
pretty new shoes
legs torn apart
Offer resistance
ungrateful upstart
Their wedding day
fatal soul dart
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
The last words of an upstart
Coming into their own
Feels like the heart stopped but the fire has grown
Wild and strange
Bristles with energy
****** expression unchanged
The face of adversity might’ve put on some weight
Surface unearthly
Distorted and framed in odd spotlight
Reflection is way beyond my means but I’m alright
The waves stay unchanged
Adamant in resolve and I’ve learned from the same mix of granite and seasalt
Great leaps come grand skyfall
I wish you sun rays
Sometimes I even wish I could stay
But we have our own fates
They clashed for a time but now we part ways
Just til the next time our paths cross and blaze trails across the skyline
Whirlwinds and paradise
Never missing the heartlines
Forever kissing the starlight
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
I gave the box of books you gave me
I removed the box of books to ease the pain
I trembled as I carried them downstairs
to your office
you were behind a closed door talking to a false blonde
she listened to your words and nodded
What are they?
Words I listened to as you began to guide me
to work I enjoyed
As a shark circled around me, the one before me, taking me in, finding the right time to attack
So hungry.
I felt her presence the entire time
Did you know?
You gave me the benefit of your past
Set the bar for me, worried over it
and I came through for you.
Walking through the empty halls
An ominous feeling
Something is amiss
I always know
Why do I always have to have the premonition?
The office door closes, I watch you take your seat
behind your power desk
A big space between you and me
like I'm a threat to you, something to fight off
Attack first, so I don't send you flying
What are you thinking?
You words come out, fresh from the corporate factory of talking points
You're not it, she will take it to the next level
You are not enough for us. You are done.
If I am surprised on the hopeful side of my brain
it's because you dissembled, don't you see?
Now you act like I'm an upstart
Claiming what was never mine
Don't I know my place?
I wasn't hired for this
These words
I sit passively
Feeling the poison set in
My mentor, my guide
I want to drop my keys on the floor
run from the room
drive from this place and never come back
I am tied by a paycheck to the chair
How I dream of running from the room
In my mind, I have escaped from your daggers
In reality, I sit obediently on the chair as you
stop talking realizing no one is talking to you
I can't remember how I left the room
I give you a box full of invisible tears today
I return sadness
Later, you are
Slumped in your vast leather chair
Looking tired
Tomorrow I will see you again
rushing around with the other bosses
breaking heads, crushing spirits
My pain forgotten
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
The small dinner party had gone
Off well, Hazel thinks, sitting at
The dressing table, gazing at herself
In the mirror, seeing her hair done
Up just so, the way her maid, Dunne
Painstakingly did it for her. She begins
To unpin her hair, placing the pins in
The small glass dish, her fingers unused
To the task. Dunne is down in the kitchen
With the temporary cook, helping to clear
Up, tidy things away as is her want, her
Tidiness part of her character. She sits her
Hair unpinned, staring at her features,
At her eyes, the mouth slightly open, the
Teeth even and white. In the mirror she
Can see the made up bed, the covers
Turned down, the china hot water bottle
She knows just under the covers, put there
By Dunne. She’ll be there soon, Dunne,
Her maid, her lover, ********** her and
Herself. She has her own room and bed
Up in the attic, but she seldom uses it unless
Guests are there over night or are staying
For a few days. Tonight she will be here,
Hazel muses, rubbing a tongue licked finger
Over her brow, and they will snuggle down
And talk of their day and then make love,
Then sleep. Since her father’s death and the
Truth of his deeds and what he made Dunne
Do and the forced *** she feels a mixture
Of anger and grief mixed into a compound
That makes her tired and confused. She waits.
She wants Dunne there, wants her fingers
To undo her zips and buttons, brush her hair,
Feeling the fingers on her skin, in her hair.
She wants to feel Dunne’s lips on hers, needs
Dunne’s fingers moving over her body, wants
To know each aspect of her maid’s body. In
Her mind she can sense the feel, remember
The point of high sensation, as if her whole
Body was taken to the limits of exhilaration
Of passion, as if she might explode and all her
Being be scattered into ***** of sensuality.
She can’t find the exact words to express it.
She sits and waits, waits sitting, breathes
In, breathe out. Dinner had gone very well.
The evening guests talked of this and that,
Had their laughs and jokes. Mr Phibuster
Had lectured to her on the economy, how
Some upstart in Germany was stirring up
Trouble. She couldn’t have cared less. Her
Eyes kept going to Dunne, watching her
Coming and going with dishes and glasses.
She sits up straight, Dunne is coming, she
Hears her footstep in the passage, her voice,
Some Mozart aria is tunefully humming.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
"two birthday presents are better than one"
sayings of the wise men
*"and what an honor it is, and how could we be anything greater
(than all too human)?"
R.A.*
~
for Rebecca, a birthday gift
~
a message of notification,
comes early one evening, an agent provocateur,
a paparazzi peeping tom,
a cat burglar presuming the poet-receiver nat is
a rat-man out and about, galavanting around town,
dancing perhaps, seeing a Pinter play, a movie,
a lecture on string theory, an underground railroad rock concert,
reading a book of priestly poetry, or himself,
lost in a mesmerizing revery of poetic composition
her question, a statement of fact, a reflection,
one or all, all for one, this pronunciation,
a witness deposition re the human condition
the man is knocked askew in about
an instantly,
sitting before the voluptuous fireplace's crackling complications,
fire sensing the multiples of implications,
contemplating the failing honor of human limitations,
sensing the uniqueness of our successes,
a claiming race prize
for all of we humans
in her words
now how great is this knowledge that we,
all to human,
all too human,
need let this then be the first
thought/ message/ notification -
meditation of our every day
that we honor ourselves first,
our upstart blessing,
in order to honor our world
and its bedazzling human creativity
~
We find our poems in many different ways. Of late,
I keep finding inspiration from the messages that many of you send to me, re the poems I choose to publish here. So I repeat my disclaimer, "any message you send can and will be used as a poem."
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 7:28 PM UTC
The Neon chatter box
says lets all talk with the same tongue,
he said he was sorry for before,
his moustache quivered under this
sanguine strain.
Most of us are foxes
who glady forage through black sacks,
some of us sit bow legged
quintessence in a darkened room
and siphon others gloom away,
but there's no standard release clause
their eyes rock with the tide
until a printing press is sought
yet their Universal probity ignores
the jammy Neon chatter boxes duplicity
embossed as the stalwart he now wants plangent marching in step
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
I remember the lights going off in the brains of young poets.
Deep in the dank streets of New York or Columbia college.
When the blues and twos would come and round up
The beatniks snapping to the howl of a homosexual mind.
When the generational attitudes of those too old to know,
Control the ****** acts of “violence”, or
The deepening scars of our philosophies.
When the urbanization of historical prowess leads to
Gentrified gypsies of the diamond deserts and endless skyways
When the great in the country isn’t good enough
For the red hats and spray tanned millionaires.
When the stocks of corporate dragons burn down
The attempts of upstart knights and online kingdoms.
When the politicians of old become the scapegoats
For the ironically gerontocratic few.
When the female few who dared couldn’t find their lost primaries
Or control the lifeblood leaking out of the Strait of Hormuz.
When the powerful and powerless fought in-between
The dejected and all too often ignored.
When the powered halogen lights flooded prison yards of
Wrongly convicted and murderously in need of help.
When the San Francisco clubs lit up with muzzle flash
And the dancers lay weeping in their blood.
When the schools became places to duck and cover
Or learn to trip a friend when running from a gun.
When parkland high became a manufacturing ground
For casings, tears, and candlelight vigils.
When the American dream came combo packaged
And supersized with obesity and unemployment.
When the education of the youth became about
The profit margin in a spreadsheet full of debt.
When the sun sets in the smoke filled horizons
And sleepless rest settles on the western front.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 1:16 AM UTC
Trading your morals for a supporting role,
Holding hands with upstart actresses while you hold the syringe
And swear this is all genuine.
This emptiness is the feeling of fame,
Waking naked on patios used as makeshift churches
Where the last of your secrets are sold for another half gallon of limelight.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
.
1
Venus
Beauty of true love
Apparition in the sun
No need for dreaming
2
Eucharist
Lost chalice is found
Blood whines of creation cupped
Deep in the flower
3
Weighty Chill
Scales of love seasons
When autumn leaves start to fall
Bereavement rises
4
Treed
Upstart crows landing
Always go for highest branch
Till eagles arrive
5
Life
Eyes and lips with her
My whole life flashed before me
The longest moment
6
Heavenly Bodies
Eyes first greeting light
Out of void universe born
Infant stars crying
7
Regrettings
Mountains of memory
In the distance all is haze
Only blue beyond
8
Aroused
Lovers dipping toes
Salt legs before diving deep
In scent of ocean
9
Iridescence
After making love
Her body glowed like dawning
Such heavenly light
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
I've had a visit from someone small.
Some say he's a little upstart.
He flies around searching for his target.
aiming straight for the heart.
Now I've tried to avoid him.
For as long as I can.
that stupid little cherub.
But he's very persistent.
and won't take no.
He never seems to let up.
So I'm finally giving in.
and admitting defeat.
but what a nice way to go.
that little cupid's shot me good.
With an arrow straight from his bow
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:57 AM UTC
*Upstart crows landing
Always go for highest branch
Till eagles arrive*
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
Seeing a swarm of flies
Seeping the sap of
A hand-deprived
Leaper's fresh wound
A good Samaritan
Disarrayed them with
A hand clap “Twa!” sound
Getting as close as he could
In vain expecting
“A thank you!” gratitude.
“You shouldn't have done that
When the former ones,
Who had their fills, depart
The famished ones come forth
For their part
To siphon my blood
To their hearts delight!”
The upstart incumbent
Closed a curtain
On at the-end-of- the-tunnel
-alluring light
Let alone warrant
The much-touted
Days bright—Democracy
Deepening
Across the board wealth sharing.
Revolutionary democrats
Who boast “Brave
In a guerilla fight
We have sent
Tyrants to a grave!”
Serving the people
Opted to forget
So as
From government's coffer
To line up their own pocket.
Tax-comafledged exploitation
Compounded by
Government-sponsored corruption
What is more intimidation
From one's land
Or abode alienation
Research aiming
At ethnic cleansing
Bureaucratic logjams
And maladministration
Creating a non stop
Hassle and tension
From fever-pitch
Brewing up
Political tension
To divert attention
Are the tactic
They use
To sustain
Their tenure
And advance
Bad governance.///
African politics © 23 hours ago, Alem Hailu Gabre Kristos sad poems • society poems
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Likes: Alem Hailu, Peter the Celt
Alem Hailu - Thank you
8 hours ago x edit
Peter the Ce
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
I find comfort In the dark
Like the night
The silence
And the villains that used to play on my tv screen
They were brave
Though called cruel
They spoke their
heart
Misunderstood from the start
In the world so bleak
And without a clean slate to start from
They were hopeless from the start
A horrible upstart
Close to my own
I hold villians close to my heart
Shielding them from the hero
Which is all to bland
And to be blunt
There always painted too brightly
Bold colors
Bright and popping
Showing they are brighter
Better than crime the villain
Dark and shy
Most the time unable to fly
Why do wee pain them in such colors
We’re all to simple minded
To believe in a world of crime
Color could truly describe
Nov 22, 2024
Nov 22, 2024 at 12:49 AM UTC
a feisty
upstart made
midday there
only would
staff his
well being
and hit
allure in
me and
tally no
longer retribution
of Planet
George to
capture the
moment by
Nunes again
this year
Nov 23, 2019
Nov 23, 2019 at 8:47 AM UTC