"wagon" poems
He pulled and parked the supply red wagon,
then climbed the mast to the captain's cabin.
Captain Red is ready for adventure.
A quest to collect the world's best treasure.
His pirate crew is renowned far and wide.
They're rough and tough and they don't ever cry.
But none of them boys has the captain's stuff.
So don't mess with him, man, cause he don't bluff.
This motley crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
whales, whirlpools, storms, mermaids, krakens and kings.
"Set sail," squaws the boss as he munches lunch
and the Ocean Destroyer leaves port Wunche.
These rolling green hills are now ocean waves.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Benjamin!" beams the first mate Susanne.
Impeding the journey that just began.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The first mate trumps the captain, Ben will learn.
...
Her spacesuit crew is renowned far and wide.
They're smart and nice and they don't ever lie.
But none of these girls has commander's stuff.
So don't mess with her, girl, cause she don't bluff.
This brainy crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
aliens, black holes, stars, and martian springs.
"Lift off!" beams the boss as she munches lunch
and the Star Chasing Rocket leaves base Wunche.
These rural backyards are now rocky space.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Susanne!" beams the pilot Benjamin.
Impeding the flight before it begins.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The pilot trumps commander, Sue will learn.
...
Boys and girls grow up and out the front door.
Those children’s games evolve to adult chores;
those kiddy lawns to grandparent’s domain.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
so you're disappointed
that you're disappointed
and maybe that's to be expected
some folks make beds
out of their catharsis
differently than others
it's this list
of things you lost in the fire
or how jealous you are
of people
who never came back up for air
you're crying
so the faucets leak out of solidarity
& someone asks you
why the floor is wet
so you tell them
"we've been weeping here forever"
then they want to give you
a mouth full of presupposition
by saying
"are you going down with the ship?"
& you look them in the mouth
like Leo is handcuffed to a pipe
five decks down
you look at them
like you just woke up
from that dream everyone has
where all their teeth fall out
maybe it's an intervention
a hearse vs station wagon origin story
a clearance sale
& everything's gotta go
or maybe it's the dream
where you're at the docks
from your childhood
and there's a little girl
unmooring all the ships
because she thinks
they'll float away
but every time
she unties them
they just sink
they just sink
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC
That seashell
you gave me
that looked like a turtle
I threw away
That Marine hoodie
that was "too small for you"
My best friend hid it away.
The entire two letters
you wrote me
live at the bottom of my "junk" drawer.
I deleted you off my facebook
hoping it might help.
I don't bring you up
and walk away from others
if your name is in the conversation.
I fall off the wagon
sometimes
and look at your photo.
But have improved
I rarely notice if your name
is in any of my novels.
I laugh out loud
that your name is Frank.
Blunt,
Straightforward,
Honest.
If only you could live up to your name.
I cried oceans when you went away.
Appropriate considering you're now an ocean away.
I didn't leave my apartment for days.
I've been sleeping on my couch
my bed is stained.
It was a crush
It never should have been more.
But after four years
I only loved you more.
Once in awhile now
this depression sinks in.
And I can hide your things, throw them away,
I can delete you off my page, I can avoid your name.
But these memories will always stay.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 12:55 AM UTC
For a Child of 1918
My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
"Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet."
We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."
And I said it and bowed where I sat.
Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride;
don't forget that when you get older,"
my grandfather said. So *****
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?
But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when ***** whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said,
"and he's well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do."
When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people's faces,
but we shouted "Good day! Good day!
Fine day!" at the top of our voices.
When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired,
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required.
7k
We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the center hole
that makes the wagon move.
We shape clay into a ***
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want.
We hammer wood for a house,
but it is the inner space
that makes it livable.
We work with being,
but non-being is what we use.
__
"Lao Tzu is believed to have been a Chinese philosopher (a person who seeks to answer questions about humans and their place in the universe) and the accepted author of the Tao te ching, the main text of Taoist thought. He is considered the father of Chinese Taoism (a philosophy that advocates living a simple life).
Read more: Lao Tzu Biography - life, name, death, school, book, old, information, born, time http://www.notablebiographies.com/Ki-Lo/Lao-Tzu.html
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 2:38 AM UTC
There's Dasher and Dancer
Then Prancer and *****
Comet and Cupid
Then Donner and Blitzen
If you think these are reindeer
Then you would be wrong
And it's not crazy words
In some Christmassy song
See, they are my brothers
Don't anybody laugh
For these are hillbilly names
From Polecat Path
It's a place in the hills
In East Tennesee
On the top of a mountain
As high as can be
Here, Christmas is different
There's no reindeer or sleigh
We use an old covered wagon
It works better that way
We make toys in the smoke house
For most of the year
While smoking our hams
'Til Christmas is near
Then we load up the wagon
With granny on the reins
Her wooden teeth all gummy
With rootbeer stains
Now the wagon is pulled
By my brothers and I
We're plumb tuckered out
'Cause people can't fly
Well, you get the picture
About Christmas in the hills
It's a hillbilly adventure
On wagon wheels
Now there's much more to tell
But it's time to run off
'Cause we're loading the wagon
Your friend, Rudolph
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones
For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered
The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests
But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back
A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger
Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
As they walked along after the matinee, the older brother teased his sister, “Hey, guess what, Frankenstein lives in the attic and he’s goin’ get you.” With a flushed face the little sister responded, "Nah-ah, besides the attic door is locked." And her brother smirked, “Think Frankenstein cares about locked doors?"
Throughout their childhood, the brother jumped out behind closed doors, terrifying his little sister, and with each fright he gave his own fear seemed to lessen. After a startle the sister thought, ‘Does my brother love me, like I love him?’, and she concluded, “He must, why else would he try to scare me to death?’
Within the decade, a sudden brain hemorrhage took their dearly loved mother. Now, untethered in their mother’s love, the siblings changed, tightened, within, While their father, a traumatized, war veteran, swiftly fell off the wagon, and the brother and sister cast off, rudderless, uprooted into troubled waters.
And with their hearts snapped shut, immersed in relentless grief, they parted ways. Some years later, their father died, bequeathed them both his unhealed pain. The brother, the sister, slid secretively into alcoholism, conceded the family custom, invested deeply in their despair, the two went on, married, raised families, conformed.
And time went by, as alcohol soothed the pain until the brother breathed his last, his belly taut with fluid, his liver destroyed, a life sentence ended. While she, the lone survivor, mysteriously yielded unto Grace and was pardoned, recovered, she finally understood, she knew deep inside; everyone did the best they could, even her.
…and within a circle of one; I loved them all forever and ever.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
The trees juice swallowing
Dread-locks opening the
key to my heart
Pulling Amber Agate to the end
wishing the wagon
was my good luck hand
So helpful than my
hallucination struggling
wilderness mission
Apple abandoned Mcintosh
her computer
The thirst compelled her
So Gingerly lemon tea
4 -2 beer pockets
Four letters not to like
H-E-L-P____$$$
if you only knew abandoned hike
Imagining stew of rabbits
Four people Fast Wendy
4 meals for 4
Sahara desert burger
The Amber ghost of
two wrinkled catalyst
Did time desert me
4:44? Paralyzed list
No Star wars may the
force be with Amberlized
Quicksand lowered
water was drying
Her abandoned party
type Diva evaporated lava
Amber the corner of her lip
all pruned couldn't sing
Slenderman slumber nails and dirt
Amber people are the strange
wagon getting hurt
1- Hot it is (..)
2- Is it wrong to feel abandoned
3-Wrong being sold out to Uncle Sam
What was?
4- Was she blinded all alone S-O-S
5- SOS surrender distressed wood belong?
6- Belong to be dumped
near a wagon deadbeat song
7- Song didn't move lonely emptiness
, please help
8- Help wanted not just any sign
9- Sign was stolen and Amber rose
10- Rose so ember plain and desert storm
he gulped
11- Gulped left with one (.)
12- One far two stars bygones
13- Bygone the last line 13 I= phones
Help______
deleted numbers
Now don't disappear on me
I was abandoned too many times
The dirt and the sand stayed still
No cell phone picture to install
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 7:03 AM UTC
river in the joyful times
river in the elegiac
you give and take away
in your eloquent tongue
wagon, sunlight, lawn chair
subtle victories that make me smile
breathe and melt inside arms
that hold tight to the lapidary
memories that stud themselves
in my brain and the photos
not being old enough to go to the festival
interrupted, the soft fall into the river
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Moving amidst my Ramona chapter books,
I make out your movement, M, the moody turns
Of your mounts and valleys, the moniker of
Family names, you marked me like a maternal
Emblem of the generation’s matriarch,
You mingled amid reminiscences of former matrons
Maria Helena from the Midwest,
Who crossed the mountains in a wagon,
Madeleine, a migrant from Marseilles,
Who baked warm loaves in San Francisco,
And her own daughter, my Mimi,
Who muttered merde while she drank martinis.
In my own time, you materialized in
Marjorie, my nana, and Maria, my mom,
The women in which I knew you growing up,
Then Molly, who made dreams out of
Magic and Movies and Marie Antoinette,
You embellished my most favorite things.
In my monogram, you aimed my impulses
in your masts’ diametric directions
Towards competence, towards imagination.
In your middle ‘s mysterious compartment I make snug
With magazines and novels and mugs of hot milk.
You nuzzled me in moments of melancholy, then motivated me
To meander among your fundamental family,
The sumptuous L of melt and mélange,
The meticulous N of man or monk or money.
Even W, which matches your mien in mirror
It warped wicked witch while you
Milled maidens and damsels, so I imagined
The mutilation of those two majuscules formed
My image of womanhood. M, Molly Smithson materialized
From a meek mademoiselle into the mistress of mischief.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
i
i washed up for a living,lily,
for a while there
this is something george**
and i have in common..
on the whole i was treated
decently
pearl divers are a breed unto
themselves..
mine was a life of ease
over eating and boredem
it was hard on the spine
and knees..
a piece of cake compared
to digging holes
(surrounded by the boss
and his extended family..)
the pop wagon on friday
cement as a whole
the olive oil factory or
carrying bricks..
ii
the pop wagon on a friday
took only two hours
brevity
that was the answer..
the cement truck on
tuesdays
took two and half
hours..
but ended in tears..
the shift in the olive
oil factory
could last eighteen hours..
digging holes an eternity
carrying bricks up stairs
works up quite a thirst..
never mind soon be..
be in pauli´ s soup kitchen
where wine smooth and cool
as honey bees..
chicken and macaroni..!
iii
the cement was high in lime
and invariably chafed the skin
and in that hole it would set
to be picked out with olive oil
and a pin..drunk,the screaming
and carry on..
we laughed and held them down
better digging holes..!*
*it was so painful..!
**down and out in paris and london
by gearge orwell
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Intelligence is
the new authority
resistance is
the new sanctity
velvety memoir
of the patchy ride
in a rainbow rollercoaster,
left everything prime
on the outside
sink into the wagon with
wild, visceral insides
embark on an odyssey
observing the past,
questioning the future.
The future is a distant memory
of all the anachronistic glory.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 8:46 PM UTC
Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:
Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.
All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.
Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies.
While past the campfire's crimson ring
the star struck darkness cupped him round.
and centuries of cattle-bells
rang with their sweet uneasy sound.
Grass is across the wagon-tracks,
and plough strikes bone beneath the grass,
and vineyards cover all the slopes
where the dead teams were used to pass.
O vine, grow close upon that bone
and hold it with your rooted hand.
The prophet Moses feeds the grape,
and fruitful is the Promised Land.
4.6k
Can I have a little bit whisky?
Just so I can feel a little bit tipsy
In a jiffy
Can I lean on your shoulder?
Like a frightened puppy at the shelter
So I can feel a little bit safer
Can I count on you?
When things in life are feeling so blue
Because I know you will always come through
Can I ask you to be patient with me
When my world is raging sea
And draining all your energy like a flea
Can you be my paragon?
With you around, I could go on.
Without falling off the wagon
Can I be your bro forever?
So we can grow old together
Reminiscing on life wonders we both had to discover
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
"A patient man bides his time,"
Theodore tells the man in the mirror
Tomorrow, all the levees will break
And all the fables will be told
Of distant Decembers and forgotten fathers
Livelihoods will be threatened
And remorse will fall by the wayside
He watches as icicles on the awning
Melt away into puddles on the ground
"Warmer every day," he thinks to himself
He hangs up his scarf and overcoat
The way a simple man, with complex demons, is wont to do
And as his wants devolve into needs
And as all his anchors deteriorate to rust
Her smile unnerves a once-settled man
To think of the quality of glove necessary
To hold onto the wagon in this day and age
So Theodore pulls the door to,
Leaving Chopin's "Horseman" to gallop in peace
And in pieces
He watches her from across the courtyard
"Such sweet bliss in her footsteps," he sighs
And it seems to him as if the snow dissipates
Just from the warmth in her steady gait
Just from the radiation behind her brown eyes
He slides open the dresser drawer
A haven for scattered trinkets, odds, and ends
A place of respite for the weary souvenir
There, amidst all the corroded memories
Lies a corroded pistol, unspoken and unburnished
"And a lonely man drinks his wine,"
Theodore says, as intrepidly as he is capable
For there is a time when fathers stop teaching
A time when mothers stop singing
And a place where the sins stop searching
A last breath is deeply inhaled
But never again will find its escape
With a thud that echoes to Seymour Street
Theodore crumples to the cold wooden floor,
A simple man, finally free of complex demons
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 1:19 PM UTC
Every felt like the world is caving in on you?
Like there's no where to go anymore?
Like you're being kicked out?
Don't freight my little angel,
For I am Unwanted too
I am the 5th wheel
So I'm not even on the wagon
I was kicked out
By my best friend
Every felt like crying?
Or even like dying?
Don't freight my little Angel
For we are both Unwanted
But don't be sad
Dont be mad
We are alike
So unwanted, so lets be friends :)
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Joe of to the poky.
Joe off to the pen.
Joe of the ***** wagon again and again.
Joe fit shased and sailing, three sheets to the wind.
Joe swearing and cussing.
Joe in the back seat.
Joe sits on wrists. fingers all numb.
Joe tossin his cookies. Joe real no count ***
Joe know all the coppers
And breaks in the rookies.
"Hey rook" asks Joe " "can you loosen these up"
My hands been asleep since Henry was a pup.
Joe Bangles they call him and erbody knows.
That Joey cant get lit up and keep on his clothes.
Institutional homeboy.
Going back to the house.
Three hots and a cot.
and wild stories to tell.
slippers and tooth brush in an eight by ten cell.
Mr. Joe Bangles Dance.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
tunnel vision life
everything happening far away
backwards telescope
high school prom
pink & blue balloons
I walked through those doors
off the devil's wagon
like a poltergeist I was either
invisible
or a painted blood red target
Alone in the hallways
they laughed at me
a wasp-like
******
entombed in toilet paper
spit & magic marker
they didn't hate me,
they got me to hate me
everywhere I went their
gummy bioengineered shadow stalked
it was stuck on me all those years
like a bucket of pigs blood to the head
that I could never wash off
but I'm not that loser anymore
Don't worry, dea r
Lo ve me.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
I remember my old Grampa
And the way he used to look
He had so many stories
He was much better than a book
I remember on our visits
While the folks would head outside
Gramps would get us grandkids
And take us for a story ride
He'd hitch up the hay wagon
We'd get up and off we'd go
Then gramps would start to talking
And so began the show
He'd tell us all the stories
Of our folks when they were young
Some he had to censor,
And sometimes bite his tongue
Now, Grandpa told the stories
Whether we were in or out
And we'd all sit and listen
To what they were all about
When we'd gather by the fire
He'd pull up his rocking chair
He'd have his pipe and all us grandkids
And his dog, Whiskey, always there
We'd all sit in front of Grandpa
We'd want to take in every word
And he would speak up louder
To make sure that we heard
He'd tell us tales of Cowboys
Of bank robbers and the trail
Of how the west became the west
And how his horse once lost his tail
The folks would gather round too
When it was almost time to go
But, Grandpa, being Grandpa
Wasn't set to end the show
See, he'd told the tales forever
To our folks and all their friends
You could tell that some were truthful
And in some the truth....well....bends
The older ones among us
Knew deep down that most were fake
But, to see old Grandpa work the room
Man, that man just took the cake
We'd get together monthly
All us kids stayed close to home
We weren't like lots of others
Who had that built in urge to roam
The stories, we'd learn later
Were mostly from TV
He'd be talking of those cowboys
And of how things used to be
A few years back we lost him
His dog had up and died
Gramps old heart was broken
He couldn't take it, though he tried
My brother tells the stories,
Not as good as Gramps at rhyme
But, the kids all hunker round him
I'm sure that he'll be good in time
We still go on the hayrides
Tell ghost stories now instead
To all us grown up grandkids
We still hear grandpa in our head
Each month we get together
There's near a hundred now in all
The kids go with my brother
And he tells tales ten feet tall
The stories are consistent
Of old cowboys and the west
I can close my eyes and listen
And still like Grandpa's versions best
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
My early memory of farm,
Blackfella’s hill, banana sand,
exploring, chasing rabbits.
And riding round with grandpa,
in the white and well loved station wagon
checking sheep, windmill and chooks.
The lollies in the tin were there,
to help him stay awake at night;
but grandchildren were once allowed
to sample from the tin of treats,
in longer trips with grandparents,
while out on country roads.
The farm, a favourite place of mine,
away from school and normal life,
but Modb’ry North not quite the same.
With grandpa still out shearing though,
the farm-like feel not far away,
and granny kept a strawb’rry patch.
I went a-shearing with him once,
About six customers that day
and I can’t count the load of sheep.
I earned five dollars on that day,
while travelling around in ute
with shearing stuff all in the back.
His love of music satisfied,
the grandchildren are all gifted,
the music played from instruments
of cello, clarinet and bass
of flute, piano, violin,
and voice as well from Kate and Jo
Called grandpa day or dad or Doug
he’ll be remembered, days to come.
The stories will be told and told
of happenings while he was here,
from farm or Modb’ry North or else,
from other places he has been.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 11:01 AM UTC
baby blue stroller
fire engine red wagon
chrome oxide green bike
yellow convertible
azurite blue van
sorrel colored wheelchair
bronze casket
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Meet me here
at a quarter passed four
in the morning.
I'll be the boy
in the duck sauce t-shirt
you can wear your favorite
Lollipop skirt.
I'll have my my secret
Neutron bomb.
Your hips will be destroyed.
I'll pull my bright red wagon
and a handful of other toys.
I'll dance the flute
and play a jig
You can drink as many
Long island ice teas as you want
I'll be your rodeo clown
Your laughing hyena
Your pinstriped suit
Your Knight that you dream of.
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 9:01 PM UTC
A speech in a play once described
A Queen of Dreams.
Mab.
The faerie's midwife.
I fear that she may be real.
Plaguing me with dreams that haunt my reality.
Déjà Vu Being nearly
The only feeling I live with.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC