"waistline" poems
The release; so powerful; sometimes to feel alive: all you need is a reminder:
His guiding hand:supplying the demands to the upper-hand, across her belly button, to forbidden; lands. Parted lips, her pink folds;dragging his hands down. Working each other: we ain’t fooling around; our bodies, over time. Dripping wet with desire.
Her reaching back; she leaned back. Over the edge; of the bed. standing ***** Picture perfect; she’s holding her breath, as he’s kissing on her neck, her breast, focused on her ****** the left. Right in my mouth. Long ponytail, pulled to the left. She is wet, under there, her underwear - pulled to the side, exposing her underhair; shaved bare, under there.
Fingers wrapped around him. Looking hard, she found it; tugging on it. Him pushing his luck got her pressing her lips against him. Pulling his belt out of way; biting his lips, he’s tensing. She, kiss as she play. looking a certaining way; tempting how she tempts him. She’s over the top, and its so overwhelming.
She’s all touched, from touching it; so fortunate, her ******* soaking wet, juices flowing. Wet spots, he’s all over it. Exposing her **** to his fingertips: with his index; middle finger next. Started working her slow, building up to raw *** Pressure building, rising her chest. She’s worked up; trying to get off. Giving it our best. Her waistline, being pumped from behind, so smooth; the finest wine. Unsatisfiable rhythm, keeping them inline. Holding onto her waist, he’s so online; bending backwards, pleasuring each other, every time. Some may come and go, but they come together every single time.
He’s feeling it: the way its feeling, feels so good - a burning sensation: her tenderness subduing his manhood; all is well, so it must good. Movement, with quickness, once his hips shifts, its motion sickness. Stroking his egos, increasing his stiffness, filling her deep. She’s clenching him, tighten, tighter. The feeling of him growing, she’s feeling him insider. Their wet bodies, skins glistening in the their fire.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
A man I once loved told me he wished I “cared more about my body”
But I do care
I care for every lump and curve as much as I hate them
As much as he hated them
I remember yearning for puberty
A thing to make me tall
And thin
A biological fix for my
PROBLEMATIC BODY
Does he know the history?
The gain and loss
The bullies
The pushed-into-puddles
The nightmares
I despise the power of his lips
A lover disfigured
That’s the vibe
His words birthing a mantra of shame
And I’ll never outrun this skin
Thirty years later
And he’s pushing me into a lake
No principal to save me this time
No dry clothes
He left me years ago
Found a much thinner replacement for my side of the bed
It’s for the best
I tell myself as I drunkenly throw rocks at his window
“Don’t think
Just eat”
Is this just a game I play?
Three glasses of whiskey and a Postmate
Won’t chase the horror away
Momentary pleasure
(add guacamole)
Is that enough?
Will I ever be enough?
No
I am too much
Too much skin
Too much softness
Too many folds
Too much of me is filling up space
That’s what they tell me
I see the reflection and I hate all of this excess ME
“I wish you cared more about your body”
What is the remedy?
A perfect diet
A perfect exercise regimen
Pills
Sweat
Porcelain
Think before you speak on a body, sir
Because your words alone
Have the power to ignite a hell
Of
The
Utmost
Destruction
His venom is still pulsing through me
And I’m burning up
I want to escape
Crawl out from the water
Become pure wind
But how do I love me?
How do I allow myself to occupy space?
To stop hiding from every mirror, every glance at the ocean of my belly?
I don’t know
I’m not there yet
I am on an opposite shore consumed by self-hatred
Longing to set sail for somewhere
Somewhere I can cherish the secrets that these sacred ripples of flesh hide
Where my waistline is a treasure map of my wisdom
A place where his words have no power
Where I collapse into the sunset and set myself...
F
R
E
E
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
Oh Jamaican girl,where is your patois?
where is your long dreads of natural hair?
your culture?
Jamaican girl,sing your country's national anthem
How do you not like reggae?
what kind of Jamaican are you?
You see the ackee and codfish I stuffed down my throat on a Saturday morning would never be enough for them.
My extinctive use of the English language made them sick at their guts
The fact that my waistline won't move in such a manner to alarm others.
Born in the Yard
Grew up in the suburbs
Never boastful;always grateful
So Jamaican girl you try to act white on purpose?
Wear 'American clothes'
And perm your hair?
My nationality will coexist throughout my veins
Will never hit sunlight unless my tongue decides to move in that direction.
Will never be ashamed of my heritage as I am proud of it,yet also modified to not be defined by it.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:36 AM UTC
Dark hair tied back.
Blue eyes pointed front and center.
Tats two on her back and shoulder
Black stocking satin strap.
Knee-high; hard to measure.
High - heels they just climb forever.
Spread thighs hypnotized his eyes.
Deep breath watching her chest rise
Wide eyes she looks posterized,
long strokes that disappear deep inside.
Deeper sighs I can feel the vibes,
nail marks across his chest,
blood dried just follow the X.
Move slow make her want it more,
said wise speaking from experience.
Handcuffed cause she likes to be a deviant.
Lips sealed, around his **** like she’s practicing keeping secrets.
Hair tied back cause that’s how Sir told her to keep it.
Legs wrapped around his waist, at a right angle, so Sir can reach it.
open wide like Simon says, She reacts so, Sir doesn’t have to repeat it.
Firm grip on her waistline, but there is no wasting time.
Twitching hips, tighten his grips, as she whines,
in joy of the loving being deployed.
Toes curled the pleasure can’t be denied.
Slip slide the more she moves the harder he grinds,
smooth ride the way their bodies coincide.
Deep ****** they combust, as they collide,
come inside her, like a gentleman,
he gives her, a piece of his mine.
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 3:17 PM UTC
I’m a Polyglot Polymath, Microphone’s a Polygraph,
Manners of a Sociopath-Rhymin’ keeps me on the path,
Else I’d be hackin you up like a cannibal,
Pullin the Chianti out-serve you up like Hannibal,
Words heavier than Elephants invading cross the alps,
Under Armour over Body Armour-waistline fulla scalps,
From the Belt o’ the Celt o’ the Schizophrenic Sandman,
You’re triple teamed by -EC- Raps new Xmen.
I broke me chains,some say I went insane,
But it’s simple,all I went and did was grow a brain.
be the Bane of your life,while Mal plays Dark Knight,
A rhyme Super Villain with a verse of Dark Light,
The searchlights on-watch the cockroach scatter,
We speak Dark Matter while your brain gets battered,
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
Mal and Sandman's Positively Mental Attitude.
It’s the original Irish OG rough rugged and ready,
Battling me is futile keep your hands steady,
I’m no pacifist,and if you take the ****
I’ll clap you with a fist like an obelisk,
That’s a grave warning,-global warming,
The Dragon of Eire ,skies look stormy…
Since cassettes and disks I’ve been spittin ****
That makes wannabee’s wanna slit their wrists,
The Sandman’s calling,come in and take a mauling,
Rappin since clappin one two and yes y’allin,
from New Aulins to saint Pauls my kin,
Are gathering for the quickenin,pulse races,air thickenin'
Highlander in a land cruiser,take your teeth out like a dentist
E.C’s BRUISER.
batten down the screws-worldviews get skewed,
by Mal and Sandmans Positively Mental Attitude.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
When I wrap my vision around your waistline...
I get tangled in knots that butterflies tie.
Wings thin as wax paper and transparent as your soul.
Curves of flesh produce exact precision.
But hey, I'm just a connoisseur of those...features.
Those fine-lines of feminine phenomenon.
This soft, subtle, sensual creature...
Delicious pheromones parallel the purest of poetic sentences.
I would speak velvet vows to your lips.
Volumes of words get whispered in a single kiss.
Vivacious verbs flirt with hidden hips.
And those hidden hips are hidden bliss to my male mind...
I got lost in hidden hips somewhere along the line...
But first I got lost in your mind.
Got blinded by your sunshine...
Body like a wine bottle...
So fine that no words or signs can define...
Those deadly curves.
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 11:34 PM UTC
All of these beautiful people
need to stop revolving around
the scale, she says,
a size 2 with
a waistline
that could cut up
titanium, oh so razor
sharp & perfect, as if
her petite frame was
not enough. Tell me
what she could
know about
a scale
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 12:36 PM UTC
I want you, can’t you see
Kissing and hugging you, showing you the real me.
But also let me be your freak under the sheets.
Let's make love on the couch, in bed or even the backseat.
Kiss me passionately, but don’t undress me just yet.
I want you to tease me, kiss my neck till I’m soaking wet.
Your hands with mine
Seductively put them smoothly on my waistline.
Slowly kiss my stomach and caress my thighs
This is something I’ll never deny.
Go down on me and eat me like never before
Oh baby don't stop and give me more.
The way you look at me is like, **** baby you is a snack”
Now let me turn around so you can hit it from the back.
Wrap your hands around my hair and pull it hard
and slide it in nice and slow like a credit card.
I like it slow and I like it rough
Do me all night long, I can never get enough.
Make me moan, make me scream
Thinking that we're smashing but it’s just a wet dream.
-NGM
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 9:15 AM UTC
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
When I feel tired in life,
Come sit with me dear,
Hold my hand in yours,
Swing your other arm,
Around my waistline, and,
Tickle me hard to shrieks.
Right when I need you to,
I relax myself in your lap,
I'll blow in your hair,
You will let me do it,
Slowly & close to ear,
Holding you closest.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
For Her
She looks in the mirror at herself
and smooths out a wrinkle on her waistline
Feeling pretty anxious about tonight
but also floating on cloud nine
She comes down the stairs
thinking don't fall now girl, please do not fall
Then she says to herself I got this
As she sees his face and suddenly feels ten feet tall
She loves to play dress up
and loves to please her man
So she puts on the little black dress
As all part of that strategic master plan
For Him
He looks at her and thinks wow so stunning
as she stops at the top of the stairs
For a moment he forgets to breathe
He forgets that he has to have air
As she comes down the stairs he watches her
and he knows she is waiting to see his first reaction
He hopes that she truly can see what he feels
Way more than just any mere physical attraction
That little black dress is so hot
as it is hugging all those luscious curves
but the best thing about that little black dress
is watching it fall to the floor so he can worship her and serve
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
at age 8 i stopped wearing jeans because they were uncomfortable.
at age 14 i wore high heels, fish nets, and skirts to school and a man once asked my mother if she really let me leave the house looking like that.
i also wore checkered pajama pants and shirts with holes in them to class, i dressed up and down because everyone else seemed to dress in the middle.
i dressed however i wanted to because my mother told that guy to shut the **** up and mind his own business.
at age 16 i wore crop tops the size of sports bras and pants so tight i understood why they called them skin-ny jeans
my **** and *** would be flying all over the place,
but people with larger **** and larger bellies, people like me, weren't supposed to be wearing those sorts of things so i thought i must.
or so i thought.
at age 18 i started dressing in oversized shirts and formless dresses
i didn't believe my body needed to be objectified and put on display anymore,
i didn't need to prove that my waistline was small enough,
i didn't need to wear the spanx i wore every day at 16.
at age 20 i stopped wearing make up or a bra,
my **** sagged and eyes bagged but i wanted to show people that ***** aren't always perky even on twenty year olds.
i also stopped shaving my armpits
i thought they were cute.
at age 22 i stopped shaving my legs.
i didn't think they were cute.
but i realized not every decision i made about how i presented myself needed to be in order to make myself more beautiful.
and at age 24 i shaved my head.
a man once asked me,
as he looked at my college ring wrapping itself around my pointer finger,
if i always did things differently just to be different?
and if id always be doing things just because someone told me not to?
i should have looked at him and asked him
what has he ever been told he cannot do?
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 11:22 PM UTC
Beauty is power
The words we teach our girls
whipped mousse over the freckles along your temples
will get you respect
the zit under your chin
will make you somebody to avoid for a month
The rouge on your cheeks
will make people think they've made you laugh each time you smile
Taken more seriously under anonymity on cyberspace
than to that same person talking to your face
As the standards grow higher
The modified faces and bodies of revlon and maybeline
become tall tales in every sense
The waistline is taken in to better display the shellac of that manicure
why of course!
as more and more voices go hoarse
from taking out meals before
in fear of a body to abhor
when beauty is power
and its concepts changing
is it only to keep us from misbehaving>
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
She was an ordinary girl.
Plaits beside a waistline she drew on with ribbon,
Fastening her thoughts she'd sworn to keep hidden.
Behind closed doors she would loosen the noose
Man tied up before her,
And bind up her lover
The milkman's daughter.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
your greedy hands are no greedier than mine,
as your fingers travel past my waistline,
thinking that i’m about to waste my time
on a man like you,
“too good to be true,”
kinda borrowed, about to be blue.
my greedy hands will clench,
as i lean closer on that bench,
ignoring your disgusting cigarette stench.
“i’ll break your ******* jawline
if your hands don’t leave my waistline,”
and you didn’t waste time
running away.
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 3:40 AM UTC
All the once upon a time stories that end in happily ever after have the flawless handsome Prince charming who meets the sweetest princess or young maiden who becomes a princess after they marry (typically approximately 12 to 18 hours or so after they meet usually because the sweet young lady was rescued by the Prince because she was singing randomly and dancing around with woodland animals who do her laundry and she fell off of a tower or was attacked by some lady who literally has no job but spends her entire life just being evil for the sake of being evil and yet never starves to death despite the fact that her evil plots never actually allow her to aquire money or food of any sort.)
The girl is always polite
Everyone loves her
She usually has a waistline tinier than a flowerstem
And she sees the good in everyone
She is also gorgeous 100% of the time
Well I am NOT that girl
I can't alwaye be polite and perfect
I can't even be pretty
There are more people that hate me than there are people who can even tolerate me
I'm not the likable easy going type
I don't have a three inch waist (mainly because that is completely insane)
I can't find a way to like every person
I'm the jealous ugly stepsister Anastasia in Cinderella
I'm the wicked witch in the wizard of Oz
I'm the wolf in the three little pigs
I'm the hag in snow white and the seven dwarves
I'm not the princess in the story
But fortunately, I don't need to be because life is not a fairytale
And you don't need to be prince charming
Hell, you don't even need to be anything like the lists I make about what my dream guy should be like
Because really, since when do I know what I actually want?
I certainly am always wrong about what I need
So here's the deal
You love me for me, be loyal, care about me because of my soul first and my looks having nothing to do with it, you give me eternity,
And I promise you the same.
I don't need you to catch me when I fall off a tower
That doesn't really happen much
I need you to catch the little pieces of me when I fall apart because the emotions were all too much
I don't need a happily ever after
And you don't need to be prince charming
Because I am not a princess
Repost if you are not a princess either
Please comment I love to read interpretations of my work and really any other thoughts you may have! :)
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 1:19 AM UTC
My home sits atop a lonely wave
Basking in the sun
My home of flora and sturdy nave
Of which I am a nun
Lilies grow in white quartets
Jasmine from every crevice
Spiders sew their thoughtful nets
Dust on every surface
Here my pilgrimage ends
At the waistline of the coast
The lemons that became my friends
Will now observe my ghost
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 5:14 AM UTC
Baby hear what the wind says,
It carries my light voiced words,
Listen to it a bit carefully baby.
Listen to really simple words,
It's more than just lovely words,
Baby trust my loving promise.
When you come to me, lover,
Come swinging your waistline,
You're coming to me, smiling.
You shared all your warmth,
Come now taste my tastebuds,
When I call you in my arms.
Then as you fall in my arms,
I envelope you in my embrace,
We will sleep while hugging.
We cling to each other tight,
I hold your sides and pull you,
Then smile as we are asleep.
You are my ice cream cone,
My ice-cream melts in your arms,
Get lost in our mutual love.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
You hear the vocals of my pores
Calling out for your ecstasy
Baby, will you answer me?
Annihilate my suspire
I'm craving for you to sojourn your lips unto my dermis
Floating in passion, your love takes me higher
With annimalism
Your death grip on my waistline severely quenches my skin
I feel your thunder storming on my frame
Being pounded by my waves
Of this flash flood you made
I NEED YOU
To come and swim deeply into my ocean
Contain my legs from this uncontrollable wavely motion
Surf my waves at each convulsion
Your breath trickles down my spine
You haven't even reached your peak yet
And I have came here
And
Came
4
Times
This visit, I do not regret
I WANT YOU
To make love to me
Like there is a war outdoors
With nature and valley
A war between temptation and flesh
But wait
Not just yet
Because your cinnamon skin
***** my tongue passionately*
Constantly
I melt, into a puddle
Full weight on the floor
That you lick up until no more
I travel my lips up and down your masculine build
You feel my exhaustion
Invading your spine
Interrupting your concentration
At this hour, in this moment
You are mine
And I am yours
Finally tasting those lips I've always adored
My succulent tongues takes a moment and travel down your chest
Leaving my mist dwelling on your buff
Down to the strong man hood you possess...
You grab my neck
As you explore the soft walls
Of my saturating portal
Your head inclines back in full relieve
As I continually, savagely feast
You then explode in great fury
We collapse as if an earthquake violated our terrain
And then we lay....
But,
This is not the end
Welcome, to foreplay
With gratitude, your excitements hardens
And your eyes paint me, you feel extremely lucky
You begin to fill your lips with thanks
But NO
Baby don't thank me
*Just **** me*...
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
The staircase looked to be painted green or something meant to be blue but ended up green
The green was chipped with flakes of brown hardwood poking through the crevices
Of the emerald color. I stepped on the first staircase remembering the warm Augusts there but mostly the fall. His coat was still hanging on the pole connected to the railing I glanced at it and it glanced back at me. Staring into my soul but my weeping eyes as I remembered what it felt like to be in love. His coat smelled of cologne and dried rain. I put it over my shoulders, tears falling into place.
This staircase in our home belonged to us and only us, but then he left and now it is only me, It is only me with all my faults and ripped jeans too big to fit my withering waistline as I count the days gone by. I count the days on the calendar marking a tiny X in the corner hoping still he might walk through the door. I hope still, that he would greet me with the same expressions he once did before, always first asking me about my day. Now I enter my home with empty dreams and dark memories with no one to call out my name. The staircase was for us, it was the road map to our dreams. The staircase carried our first boxes all marked and packed with things that belonged to us. The staircase carried our long nights after staying up late, talking about things only we knew.
The Staircase who was once emerald green carried what I thought to be our future but ended up as a memory from the past in only a matter of seconds. I never knew why he left me sitting upon that staircase, my head buried in the palms of my hands atop that staircase . He left in a fit of rage with the idea of never coming back, I didn’t think that was so. But now this staircase carry’s regret, for I shouldn’t have said what I said but the staircase knew I only wanted what was best. The staircase may also carry my future, I just haven’t discovered what that might be yet.
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
I woke up
to a nightcalm-shattering
cell phone ringtone.
"Can I come over, baby?"
"What time is it?"
"I don't know 3, 4."
**** eyes roll, sigh,"yeah I guess so."
"Don't sound too excited," Molly said, Molly laughed.
"Are you going to be long?"
"Nah, I'm already outside."
"Awesome. Okay, let me put on some pants."
I opened the door.
Her hair was up.
Her skin was the color of milk.
Her eyes were grey.
She held keys in the palm of her hand.
"I like your hair," Molly said, Molly laughed.
I said it was getting ridiculous,
she put her hands on my chest,
the tension in the tips of her fingers grew,
exploration, exploration.
"Do you want something to drink?"
"Nah, can we just sit on the couch?"
"Sure."
"How's your fella do-"
She kissed the words, to lock them in.
She started to tear at my shirt,
I stalled her advances,
turned the tables,
I'm done with being prey.
I pulled her up gracelessly,
I fell through her crimson shirt,
through her black bra,
I drank each ounce of her chest,
I grabbed her nape gracelessly,
her eyes briefly frightened,
turned sinister,
turned to validation,
turned to encouragement.
I mapped her stomach,
made quick work of her
cotton shorts,
I bit the waistline of
her lace,
she clung to my coagulated hair,
I laid her to the ground,
we warred atop notebooks and
***** t-shirts,
kissing vigorously in an attempt
to stay far ahead of morals, of reasoning.
I feasted on her hip bone,
she tugged at my shirt,
no,no,no.
I removed the lace with my teeth,
her breath was exciting,
I feasted on the insides of her thighs,
she convulsed,
cursed,
grabbed tight to shirt, to hair, to every piece of furniture near.
Molly's pupils, irises, all grew.
Molly's panting ******* moans all rose.
Howling.
Peaking, breaking, releasing, falling,
sighing,
sighing,
breathing.
I wiped my lips with the back of my arm,
got up,
went to the bathroom,
used some mouthwash,
Molly walked in behind me,
"Things have been going better with him, lately, actually."
"I'm ******* happy for you guys."
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
Look at her
Greenfield said
he was referring
to Miss Money
a girl who sat
two desks in front
hair light brown
drawn into a woven plait
at the back
bet she’s
got **** on her
he said
you glanced over
your finger turning
the page
of the history book
some text
on the Tudors
some boring ****
who had six wives
or so you’d read
the girl was engrossed
in writing
hand gripping a pen
head slightly down
I wouldn’t know
you said
bet she has
Greenfield uttered
the history teacher
had his back
to the class
fingers with chalk
scribbling
on the board
you noticed
the girl’s neck
between blouse collar
and light brown hair
my cousin’s got big *******
he said
saw them
when she was dressing
one morning
while straying
at her house
getting ready
for a wedding
he drawled on
you followed the text
with your finger
the second wife
had her head
chopped off
poor *****
you thought
Miss Money turned
her profile captured
ear
eye maybe brown
then turned
back again
sunlight
from window’s glass
blessed her head
but Greenfield talked
of her figure
and waistline
instead
making motions
with his hands
in the air in front
history
was lost on him
Miss Money
moved him more
at least
some aspects did
not the finer things maybe
but he kind of
wrote and made
his own
dull history.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC