"vertebrae" poems
there's poison ivy
growing along
my spine
it caresses every
vertebrae
it's a climbing plant
you
know
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
This woman of blonde locks
slim body and perky *******
acne and ribcage and vertebrae
she gives me that look
drawn smile with teeth bared
heaving tummy and deep stare
into my eyes like, "Come on."
Like a run-on sentence I'll make
her come on my face all night
and all day the next day
Best *** we ever had,
we had on a naked mattress
after a Sunday doing nothing
This woman of five o'
clock shadow and travel size ****
loose skin from weight loss and a thick neck
she is me and look
at that lucky feel
smearing over my dark mug
like I just won the sweepstakes
Like a run-on sentence she'll run
She'll run, she'll run, run me till
we need an oasis
Best *** we ever had,
we had on a naked mattress
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs
Squeeze your legs,
Release them,
A baker's dozen
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
**SKY BLACK AS TAR AND TWICE AS THICK GOD I KNOW YOURE NOT SUPPOSED TO WISH DEATH BUT THE WORLD WOULD BE BETTER OFF I ******* SWEAR OH!!!!!!MY GOD I KNOW SCREAMING DOESNT MAKE GOOD POETRY BUT I WANT TO TEAR MY HOME TO PIECES TEAR MY FINGERNAILS FROM THEIR BEDS CURSES CAST OUT WILL COME HOME TO ROOST BUT I WOULD SACRIFICE ANYTHING TO SEE YOU DEAD!!!!!!!DECAPITATION ISNT PRETTY LIKE THE PAINTINGS HUMAN HEADS DONT POP OFF AS CLEAN AS BARBIES BUT ILL SAW THROUGH YOUR CERVICAL VERTEBRAE AND THE LAST WORD ON YOUR LIPS WILL BE A GURGLE!!!!WITH YOUR BONES UNDER MY BED I WILL SLEEP PEACEFUL FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS YOU ARE POISON EATING THROUGH THE HANDS OF MY FRIENDS YOU ARE THE DEVIL QUOTING SCRIPTURE IN THE EARS OF CHILDREN!!!!!TRIGGER DISCIPLINE KEEP YOUR FINGER FROM THE KILLING STROKE TILL YOURE READY TO COMMIT ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU SURE? ARE YOU ******* SURE ARE YOU READY TO SHARE YOUR BED WITH A CURSE KEEP YOUR FINGER OFF THE ******* TRIGGER BEFORE YOU SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE FOOT WHAT THE FUCK!!!!YOU TOLD ME YOU WERENT CRUEL!!!!YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE SAFE I ******* BELIEVED YOU AS IF I DESERVED SAFETY AS IF I COULD TRUST YOU BUT YOURE ******* EMPTY!!!!WEARING MY FACE TO COVER THE ******* HOLE IN YOURS WEARING MY SMILE YOU USED ME YOU USED ME AND YOURE WEARING MY ******* SMILE!!!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR! LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!LIAR!**
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
I am in levels. Past levels. This deep, intrinsic wonderful lost, the lawlessness of its fascinating expenditure of excite. Pushing through the wild and feral snow-dusted plains and timber ridges. Like red-spotted dots breathing through the cylinders called the spine. This descends into a narrow channel of scantly clad greenish scenery in a time-soaked visionary wilderness of snow,
Our crab legs dancing down wiry purple highways, our heads could not even look backwards if we had wanted.
Furious, love-latitudes, stalking breaths thwacking fork-ended tongues into a pinkish knot buried into the first layer of organic membrane on this railway of miniature canals, showing. And their pride snuck into the elbows, shooting down each vertebrae as it stepped with great precision every ledge that the currency emphasized. The raw accumulation of stolen heart-beats rattling between the interstices of new fuel careering these red engines. Crashing with exquisite pleasure into one another.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
I want to know how many scars you have
And memorize the shape of your tongue.
I want to climb the curve of your lower back
And count your vertebrae
Your ribs
Your fingers
Your goose bumps
I want to chart the topography of your anatomy
And be fluent in your body language
I want you, entire
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
I look at the fractured streets
littered with broken promises
peeling billboards peddling luxury to the wrong audience
the contorted vertebrae of this country's spine
and I mourn
the death of the American Dream.
I see it lying at my feet with every step
like the broken-winged bird from childhood fables.
"Fix me," she wheezes.
I tried once, but it died in my hands.
Apparently,
"The Dream" used to be two cars
but now it's two good fists
the wisdom to know when enough is enough
and the strength to say it.
I was born too late to remember anything else.
Here lies the American Dream,
bruised and battered by those who vowed to protect her
doused in oil and set aflame
by misdirection
misdemeanors
and Miss Universe.
Here lies the American Dream
who was born from revolution
and died in its absence
who waited for a day that never came
who lived long enough to see the fruit of her labor
become a raisin in the sun.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
"Have you talked to dad,
since you've been at school?"
"Nope."
"Are you coming home
for thanksgiving?"
"I don't know."
Josephina
breathes in a crackle
over the phone.
New York,
a cacophony
in the background.
A background of cold,
and
people talking
while walking
while hailing a yellowcab with a left
and slow-rolling heads locked
onto the phones in their right.
These people enter taxis,
not knowing if they're ever
going to reach home,
or the airport,
or union square,
just going
on the promise
that they won't become
road-kill.
I can't feel it in my yellow apartment.
If anything,
my yellowcab
idles.
Through the receiver
A squad car
rings nervously,
then
after a lungful
of garbage-smelling air,
it becomes a full blare.
A pause
of
noise
always ensues,
just for a second,
the entire corner
becomes a silent silo
of human beings.
"How's new york?"
"you know,
dad called me
and asked about
how to get on a diet,
can you believe that?"
Yes,
I can
dad is a fat ****
a pink, white belly
of a man. And a few
sandbags for chins.
"That's good."
"So I'm not going to see you?"
"Probably not."
"Well, you should call dad,
talk to him,
he loves
you."
Some conversations,
acheive nothing.
The same
tired, dead things
get run over.
Road-kill.
Josephina believes she is the spatula
that will bring back
pancake squirrels
and
pancake relationships.
As much as you don't know
about me and dad's relationship,
I can give you a kodak moment.
A snapshot,
of a hovering man,
pointing at his son's neck,
searching for the misplaced vertebrae,
the lack
of fear for the world
--"the right kind of fear,
the fear a man
should have
of himself"--
and a son,
hunched,
small hands in fists,
a heavy haul of muscles
pulled into a dark brow
right over black eyes.
This picture
will suffice.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
August, the Red Line,
connected tanks
of bolted plastic vertebrae.
Every seat gone except
five rows up, where a sea lion
sprawls across two,
stuffed backpack, yellow jacket
spread out like caution tape.
His grunt a wet bark
at the glow of his screen.
Middle-school deer slip into the aisle,
chatter clipped when the sheriff drifts past,
their ears flicking, smiles bitten shut.
Not a predator- just a gelded ox,
chest puffed, badge sagging, glass-eyed,
chest rig clattering with blanks.
Two lemur-children cling to their tortoise elder,
her shell steady against the sway of the car.
She shepherds them from the surge of riders:
loud Dodger blue parrots in cholo socks,
moth-women with plumed lashes beating the stale air,
a stray dog, gutter musk dragging at its haunches.
And one gray bear
muttering alone,
arguing with her reflection.
Between Koreatown and MacArthur Park,
somewhere the sea begins to breathe again,
then, feathers forcing through my skin-
an alley gull knifing into this clamour,
scavenging inside its exhaust.
The car rattles, its ribs plated with blistered posters:
museum wings open to no one,
‘register to vote’ fading into graffiti script,
flu shots promised by smiling ghosts.
A bruised hatchling staring out beside the words
See something, say something.
The warning lights glow
like eyes hunting in the dark.
From its flanks the train
unfurls iron claws.
They rake
the tunnel walls,
the city’s bones,
the dark itself.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
I stay awake—
gas,
ion and
tail.
your ghost strokes
my back, fingers
ski-jumping vertebrae
as my face steams into
powder.
your pith, soft and white:
our star in you—
rove to your low neckline in
fire humming comet.
space is blameless in
this limb of heartbreak.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone.
Brass wire, a loop at one end.
It bends as to make sure this will fit.
A gauge that measures mesmerization,
And we both must get along, but
Not because we're not tough enough:
Most of us aren't soft right yet.
So many stiffs, folly after folly.
The whole carful of loose cadavers,
Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow
And carnage,
Not even musk deer pop up,
They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol,
With X's sprayed to their groins.
Burning pop couples
Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras
Hiss, my own burnt blood is also
Flocculating.
Turn the cup upside down and
See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque
Moss while it does not drip.
This is the story of man you asked me about;
Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse
Hair in a garland.
It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night.
A plateau for this most sensible study.
We feel another coming.
And when you awoke, your larval tongue
My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy.
This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
your forest’s architecture
verdant in spots, and then a stump
did the dead leaves ever have a heart beat
what made the ballad stop, was it sun?
little larva squirming towards a moon
and their mama maggots weep –
to lose a child, to lose a child
when death-creatures want to be
an astronaut, the green canopies are bars
prosper in the centipede teeth munch
fertilizer for a final seed
without vertebrae they climb over stars
& leave your forest’s architecture
crumbling for buzzards.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
wind's cool lips envelop and chill
protruding listeners, speckled stamps
on crinkled noses
or sun-bit, stacked vertebrae
dabbing each one, I count the
anatomical stars, fibers of you
glancing over with the brim of
my own beginning, parted just so
maps unwind, sighing deeply
but robustly seducing the depths
of our curiosity, condemning
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
elephants stomp with stone-laden feet
back and forth, back and forth,
creating cracks in my already-battered skull,
weakening the very foundations of my sanity.
their trumpeting echoes through cold corridors
flooding my thought capacity to the brim.
a tightrope walker stretches me, thin -
i feel the shifting pressure of her nimble feet
treading the territories of my weathered frame,
back and forth, back and forth,
my skin reddens beneath the incessant crossing
as the sinew within me starts to atrophy.
in my chest cavity there is a ring of fire,
manipulating my lungs and feeble heart to mere ash.
two golden eyes seen beyond the flames,
ready to leap through them - without the
inconvenience of fear weighing down his agile paws,
both capable and likely to tear my veins to shreds.
a grisly strongman has my bones in his grip.
he smiles malevolently, gloating his strength over me,
squeezing the life from my cartilage - awaiting the snap.
i am cognizant of the sound, but i won't flinch.
next, the imminent collapse of my vertebrae -
i feel them crumble to dust. he laughs.
but it is in the pit of my stomach the ringleader sits -
commanding me into subsidence with every crack of his whip.
i want to meet his eyes but he only averts my gaze.
his twisted circus nearly through, the audience begins to dissipate.
i stare through the blurred smoke, desperate for his visage -
when i see on one of his faded lapels, the embroidery spells out your name.
-m.f.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
every achy bone inside me a relic
of the former self still inhabiting this shell.
exquisite fossils of the life once lived
my silhouette, housed in rock,
yet the softest part of me rotted out.
the vacancy in my expression
mirrors the hollowed out spaces
between each rib and every "what if"
my lungs carry haunted cries
apparitions you forged in my memory
phantom fingers singed the word
“remember” into my paper skin.
i am still smoldering.
chambers of my heart filled with cobwebs;
every strand of silk an unfulfilled wish.
we are still tangled up.
the spiders have crawled from our throats
but the dust is settling.
your fingers have intertwined
with the segments of my spine,
fists taking root in my chest, cradling a stone heart.
knuckles bent comfortably around each vertebrae,
your hands are cold.
the weight of all my sins is crushing me,
i suppose i should have noticed
when you read the lines in my palm like an obituary.
forgive me.
- m.f. & j.a
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
1 4
she offers me, a spot of dust
she raises me under the couch,
on platitudes and warm bread I know it’s
in return for my devotion there
she loves me like the boats today, I start spring-cleaning,
she keeps out on the ocean (this alone
she loves me to be molded, should receive
not to be unfolded more recognition than it will)
I pull out the couch
she bore me bones the vacuum doesn’t quite
the lacrimal bone reach the dust lying
the breastbone on unused carpet,
all the cervical vertebrae the head
I use them to simulate keeps hitting the wall
her expectations unproductive
I put the furniture back
2 in place
I have names, no one will see the lack
I wear them like badges of progress
inspired by something not quite
earned yet 5
while lucid dreaming
I assigned constellations were on
each name my skin
a compartment and freckles in
of me the night sky
If I name them maybe
they will become pollution drowned out
real, not just necessary two thirds
even if most imploded
before they were seen
3 6
with enough necessity were it not for shadows
anyone can tell a lie I would surely learn to
hate the light
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
When I called the visual appeal of your body topography, you laughed. You misunderstood.
The sharp angles, the planes, the curves and the hollows of your body, of your skin stretched thin over bone, these are what I find beautiful. This is the topography of you, the places I want to map with my lips and teeth. The familiar places, my home within a home, my love.
Your body is geometry, trigonometry, mathematics you hate almost as much as the way I can trace your every rib and vertebrae. Perspective translates your flaws into aesthetic beauty, but your perspective is your own and you will never see what I do. I will love you enough for the both of us, darling, love your flaws more than your perfection just to give you what you deserve.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
He weaves slowly between the tables
at Buongiorno's
stooping over each diner's ear
close and intimate as a lover
He asks if they can spare a little
money for his lunch
He's gaunt each cheek shadowed hollow
his skin bleached white as bone
Each vertebrae is marked prominent
Each finger skeltonic thin
Unsocked, in shoes laced with knots of string
leather uppers baked, cracked and crazy creased
His hair is dry-straggle stalks of corn
Eyes hold a stare that fixes fast the lies
He cuts a powerful figure under that cosy awning
though some name him worthless beggar
Fearless of taunts and titles offered from shamemongers
and well-respected-men-about-town
there is no guilt in asking for your basic needs
from the latte-ccino mob who have so much to spare.
© M.L.Emmett
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
let's be honest
sometimes I turn
towards the wall at
night and close my
eyes, I can see your
hairline, a fracture
of scoliosis in your
curved spine, I can
almost trace
the bumps of
your vertebrae
through that
thin cotton
sweater
let's be honest
you start to turn over
before I lose you in the
geometric dark, sometimes
our eyes play tricks on us and
we see colors, well, sometimes
mine play jokes and I see you.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
Your words crawled through my auditory cortex like caterpillars, preventing me from hearing anything other than the inflection in your deep voice. As your body inched closer to mine, they took residence in my chest cavity, building chrysali that hung off of my ribs making it more and more difficult to inflate my heavy lungs. They cocooned themselves as I too wrapped myself up in you. Suddenly, your lips were on mine and your hands were counting the vertebrae down my back, scaring the insects from their resting place, resulting in chills up my spine. The newly emerged butterflies flew out of my sternum and up into my throat, longing to be closer to you. But then you pulled away and they instantly died, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
It closes
The surrounding darkness is somehow contracting
Though it was always equally lacking in light, the walls approach on the edges of your vision.
The jagged edges that hold a promise of riches never yielded their prize.
They fall and crush, snapping your vertebrae without thought.
Pinned to the damp floor, your skeletal remains give up their fight.
It has won.
Not daggers, no, far less civilised, far more brutal shards pierce roughly through your chest.
The sound of your screams is replaced with silence
The battle is over.
Yet still the blows crash against your skull, the pounding on the inside of your head starts to break out.
Perspectives reverse
Not dark, sunrise, not rocks, a quilt, not screams, but beeps.
A day begins
It
Was
All
In
Your
Head
Does that make it alright?
Do you feel better for that truth?
Your mind tricked you, is that what you want?
Which restricts more, a prison of rock or thoughts?
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
Glances shared at infinitesimal instances
trickle up my vertebrae,
blow the dust away
& chew the tin foil for me.
Nonchalantly running a gauntlet
that I designed with architectural
displeasure.
If you absorbed all the gold you've ever touched,
feverishly drank the blood of gods,
suckled the syrup from tangerines
until you blessed a famine,
stole your story from a pack of gorgeous wolves,
or inhaled the whispers of every wise soul
it would still not explain your unprecedented
growth & elegance.
A superlative pressure wave in the eyes of
a politician.
Purely an enigma.
Beauty in the form of human nature.
I truly flourish in this experience.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
She was beautiful.
But not in a Cosmo Model, Megan Fox, or Tara kind of way, not how you would expect. It was strange, her beauty. The kind that has you peering through a crowded room to see what you were really looking at. Her eyes, her smile, the way she held herself; strange how just holding her head up a few vertebrae higher could catch such attention. And the way she was around people, was a mystery. She would be all smiles, childish and comic at one moment; but the next she would lean quietly, her face relaxed with no thought of expression.
When she smiled, it took little effort to make her smile brighter, and the promise would make her giggle and laugh. Her laugh could make even the saddest man cry out for joy. And sometimes she would sing, and her voice was like the angels from heaven, to get her to sing was just as much a task as it was to make her smile. While, on the other hand, when she was relaxed, her expressionless face dominant, the task to make her smile, to get her to laugh grew hard and tiresome.
Such a strange beauty, like a well painted piece of art, was rare. She stuck out like a sore thumb in the cluster of thin no bodies. Each girl prim, thin, perky and down to the letter. Each girl barely had a mind of their own, barely had wit enough to keep them. But this girl…this girl could tame the whole room if she pleased. This girl could open her mouth wide and get the whole company into a dance. She had personality, she had spark, she had emotions, she was alive.
That’s why he liked her so much. He loved just looking into her auburn eyes, the almond shape of them as interesting as her topics of conversation. He could listen to her voice for hours, just as beautiful as her singing voice. And she could pull your heart like nothing else. That’s what he liked about her.
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 2:05 PM UTC
Divine Minds Transcend
There is so much more than what we see
what we fear and choose to perceive
what we're told we must believe
a place that's hard to conceive
a portal to a world beyond belief
Since birth, it waits for you and me
a world beyond a lucid dream
I can tell you where this portal leads
it leads to a cure for humanity
So step onto the magic train
and learn to accept your certain death
For life is nothing more
then fabricated reality
Fate, it seems is not without a sense of irony
I finally broke free of the evil me
it wasn't church that set me free
it wasn't drugs from psychiatry
it wasn't money that made me see
I had to die from this reality
and accept my certain death
It's your turn to consider the facts
now breathe a bit and try to relax
Just one second as I remove the mask
then a crack like a whip and a panic attack
No slack as you slip into a static bath
your vertebrae split you are severed in half
You blast away and never look back
the math adds up so you have to adapt
Half of you is lost and your soul is cracked
the other half swirls in the endless black
As you float down an uncharted path
you finally breakthrough at last
All you thought you knew from life is shattered
as you step into the looking glass
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.
We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.
Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.
Most days.
I am only words.
But some days, I am more.
Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..
I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.
And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.
I am still.
I am calm.
I am still calm.
I am still calmly waiting.
It's worth mentioning that we never made love.
Now. Everything is different.
I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"
And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."
Some days I am lost.
Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?
Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.
Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.
I am walking a tightrope of strength and..
Something else. Something else entirely.
Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.
And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.
Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.
And this is how I will end it.
I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.
And all wonderful happy lies.
I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.
And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...
I once allowed myself to seem less.
I guess...
I just needed to get you off my chest.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 12:44 PM UTC
I miss
the forest of
your magic
as it winds its
tattooed way
through the
serrated textures
of nightfall
all up inside
my vertebrae
the soft wind
rustling in your
elms,
outstretched to me
like arms
as stars burn through
this brewing sky
in molten,
fiery charms
They beckon to me
unexpected
in quiet
apertures of subtle
they sneak upon me,
unprotected,
when I'm sunken
in my tunnel
and sometimes
in the
quiet stream
of the lonely, sacred night
I hear a whisper
whirring soft
as it permeates
my spine
I let it take me over
as I sit,
slumped,
in the bath
it creeps and seethes
over my wet skin
eats out my silent wrath
I let it
fill my senses
as I walk inside
the deep
and on wooded paths
of solitude's carpet of leaves
when I feel
no soul is watching
the deer start shyly peeking,
and lynx resume their stalking
then long slashes
of ache
are reawakened
from their lair
snaking through my ribcage
choking up my hollowed air
yet, somehow
in the longing
of bottomless, falling space
I see in distant, faded visions:
the precious contours
of your face
and so,
like an enchanted
secret box
I open you,
inhale the confetti
of your floating stars
wave them over and through
my strands of vein,
my tripped out,
healing scars
your essence
penetrates
my presence
like misty mountain rains
seeps inside my pores
opens up
striations
of seismic,
writhing pain
Your invisibility
takes form
and then
in sudden,
whipped-up heat
it pours out in
honeyed rhythm
to our own
invisible beat
and just like that
I get taken.
Overcome
by slakes of love
rushing through my
arteries
like sweet
manna
from
above
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 5:58 PM UTC