"wardens" poems
In 1963
Mahalia prodded
the good reverend...
“tell them
about the dream
Martin”
transfixed on
a yonder time
he recounted
prophecies of
a near future
from a mountaintop
he foretold a
history of a people
returned again to
gardens of paradise
thriving in friendly
democratic soils
overflowing with a
colorful biodiversity
governed and
nurtured with a
vibrant sunshine
of divine justice
welcoming all
weary sojourners...
from the
pinnacle of
a Birmingham
jail cell
Martin burst
the bars with
the clarion peel
of a golden trumpet
proclaiming the gospel
of liberation to
the wardens of
unholy gulags
“free yourselves”
the horn emblazoned
in streaking lightning
across the sky
cowed by
prophetic truths
of righteousness,
shamed by
lies the pride
of arrogance
bespeaks to
placate the
intransigence
of dominion,
we prayed the
the walls of racism,
bigotry, prejudice
would tumble down as
Martin lit the Battle
of Jericho
today our country’s
profit driven gulags
overflow with people
of color as justice
lingers on death row
begging for a plea bargain
of a life sentence in
solitary confinement...
from the
****** Sunday Bridge
in Selma, Martin
offered a prayer for
peace, rebuking
the dogs of war
admonishing
the tenders of
blood thirsty
machines to
beat the gears
of war into
pruning hooks
and plowshares
advocates of peace
hope to steer
the plow across
the battlefields of
acrimony to sow
rich seeds of
reconciliation, planting
new gardens where
the rich yields of peace
will be consumed
by all God's children
yet these gardens
remain unplanted,
untended and defiled
by the machinery
of war that churns
churns, churns...
Martin last
dream occurred
on a balcony
in Memphis
witnessing
to the divinity
of those considered
untouchable after
a hard days work
collecting a city’s
refuse
he insisted all labor
was worthy of dignity
and the economic
justice of a fair wage
Martin looked squarely
into the eye of the gun sights
of those who thought differently
he never blinked, he dreamed
Martin formed his last
testament to an angry nation
yearning for the reconciliation
of stability and peace,
unmoved that it’s violence,
exploitation and bigotry only
stoke bonfires of acrimony
and division, condemning
the reprobate principality
to the bleakness of a
smoldering discontent and
continued generations
of recurring nightmares…
Martin's dream continues
in awakened hearts
sojourning on
Music Selection:
Mahalia Jackson
Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho
MLK Day
2014
Oakland
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Somewhere, there is a labyrinth, where people wander around and around, suffering,
Unwilling contestants of a cruel game, where the
Winner doesn't live to tell the tale—to claim the prize. It is
Wicked and unrelenting. The wardens of this
Prison are ruthless, indiscriminately casting their victims into the labyrinth,
Just to see what they're made of.
Around and around they go, trying to get out of
This endless ring of suffering,
Trying to regain control of their lives from this
Monstrous power. They search to find out where the end is,
Around and around, bewildered marionettes, hugging the
Walls, as cold as death. But they cannot find the exit to this labyrinth.
They cry out and curse this labyrinth
Of suffering. They don't want to know what they're made of.
They want to stop the agony and the suffering.
"Around and around is not the answer to this,"
They finally cry like hungry animals, "Straight and fast is."
And so they go, straight and fast, to break away from the
Horrors they're frantically attempting to escape. The
Frigid walls, stretching endlessly upward, collapse as they blast through the labyrinth
Like siege engines. Around and around their heads, like drunken birds, images of
Their lives whirl by. Desperate to put an end to their sweat and suffering,
These prisoners blindly race toward the light in the distance. But this
Solution does not completely end the suffering. That's not how the labyrinth is.
Look around you. What you see is
Filled with raging fists, starving mouths, and the
Cries of those drowning in their own suffering.
This world is a world of
Recurring pain, winding around and around like a labyrinth.
Look around you and answer me: What is this?
This
Is
The
Labyrinth
Of
Suffering.
We all are stuck suffering, flies in a web. We imagine ourselves escaping, hiding this
Bleak present under a fabricated future, but the labyrinth does not begin or end. It just is.
So around and around we go. Welcome to the labyrinth. Let's see what you're made of.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 9:21 AM UTC
Sometimes I think of selling pictures of my feet online
Then
I immediately think of the state of my feet;
The state of me.
After conforming to your dress code of black dress shoes and shattered dreams For 11 long years.
For 11 long years
I sat in rows of grey white and black
Perfectly poised in the presence of our educators
Our guardians
Our wardens.
If we deigned to relax,
Laugh,
Breathe,
They would find more to give and give and give
Until we became nothing but frayed nerves
And therapy bills
That should be addressed to our parents
And then I think
I can’t sell pictures of my feet online,
How could I correctly value them
If I don’t correctly value myself?
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 2:41 PM UTC
*you're haunting me still
why?
vibrations from your exit still lingering in my bones
they crack and quake
grating against themselves
why aren't they healing?
these wounds that I have been so persistently nursing
why can I not mend myself of this?
the needle is too dull
the thread is fraying
alone in this room
with your ghost still sitting next to me
gently touching my hand, laying its head in my lap to play with its hair
smiling
laughing
a perception
not the reality
I keep my heart in a box under the bed
next to treasured memories of a memory
I want to burn it all
I want to give it back to you
I want to keep it
it makes me sick
when its dark I wish to travel to far away mystical places
dance among the stars on cotton candy roller skates
yet all I get is you
your face
fetal position, clenched jaws, toss and turn
tortured still
in a state meant for rest
dream catchers strategically placed
they're meant to save me from you
ward off and expel YOU
yet my soldiers of the night
my dream wardens
they're no match for the slyness of you
you slip through as if made of air and elegance
replaying all your proudest moments of my misery
ive never felt such indifference toward someone
I want you gone
out of my head
I wish I could peel you from my skin
wring you from my marrow
shed the skin of this serpent's memory
wake to a new day
finally feeling good
finally feeling anything
finally feeling*
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
These whitewashed walls scream out my discontent,
The faces of inmates line the corridors, impassive and unimpressed,
I bang on steel locker doors, but I hardly make a dent,
My words are not replied to, and my screams go answered,
It doesn't matter though, they are silent screams of aid,
They resound through these hallways like the echoes of a gale,
The cold of locker steel is an ever foreboding constant.
They line the hallways, like the vigilant sentinels of a jail,
And I can help but think, how familiar the two seem to be,
And how in one a perfect illusion is created, of being free,
These whitewashed walls are filled to the brim,
With students and inmates, angels and demons alike,
Teachers and wardens stalk these halls, hidden behind their hollow faces,
Bullies and inmates swarm these halls, hidden behind unfamiliar faces,
In these whitewashed walls, there are blackened souls and empty holes,
Holes where hearts used to be, and coal where souls used to be,
These whitewashed walls are alive, and they bear witness to it all,
And here these whitewashed walls remain, through our rise and our fall.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
*There is a prison in your head,
with ice-cold walls named bitterness,
with red-hot wardens called hatred,
and sharp-jagged bars made of disinterest.
There is a prison in your head,
a prison you know fairly well,
a prison visited quite often,
a prison life is always hell.
There is a prison in your head,
which grows upon suffer,
and shrinks down by relief,
which doesn't grant releases,
as long as you haven't belief.*
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
Oh me, oh my,
I hate to sound trite,
but I guess in the end
we all die, so
turns out to be true
whatever way.
Oh me, oh my,
I hate to sound trite,
but I could really use
a lullaby.
Great Papa, he left.
Great Mama, so close.
Mama, in the deep end.
Sister, she ghost.
What's love got to do with it?
It just so happens, in my world it's all.
I am conditioned to serve in the name.
No matter how hard servants seek servants,
the wardens and the masters pick up on the scent,
come running over the distant hills to close in on the ****
I am conditioned to serve in the name.
Here they come running to stake their claim.
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 10:57 AM UTC
She’s a writer.
She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night,
locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind.
And the demons of her past are wardens,
floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery.
She’s a writer.
Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart,
because with all due respect, it is an idiot.
It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places.
It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily.
She’s a writer.
She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk.
Work is accomplished by the light of constellations
and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page.
She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways.
She’s a writer.
And that’s how she stays alive.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
What i am to them is an ornament.
My value is determined by the scales they use.
Freedom is a dream that looks far from reality.
Freedom is for the full who's destined for poverty.
A puppet of their play, they control me with strings.
Make me dance the mariet and clap hands and their so called brilliance.
A pawn in their game, they expect me to win.
Feed me steroids of spiritual wisdom and belief, to become the warrior destined to free them from their doom and misery.
The mascot they use to boost their fame.
Expect me to tell the world, they're the reason i am this way.
A well disciplined, obedient good mannered boy.
Parents and teacher.
The wardens of teenagers.
The tormentors of my soul.
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 3:17 AM UTC
I used to worry
that they'd send you away
to a life of imprisonment
because they hated you so
for no reasons they could explain
I used to worry
because their tread marks
were in our driveway anytime
they needed someone to try and pin things on
though you were never less than honorable
polite, personable, my genuinely good brother
I never used to worry
that they'd one up my worries
and send you somewhere further away than prison
I never used to worry that the forces
meant to uphold law and justice
to serve and protect
would walk blindly past the line
of no return, to botch their expected standards
while watching you slip away
I never used to worry
that there was an evil force within some people
that could destroy the glue holding our family
together, then again I was so young
so naive, to think that people were instinctively good
that people, having families of their own
would never purposefully tear apart another's
but I don't suppose they ever thought of me
and your kin, or beyond that need to bring you down
I never used to worry that the system would fail
allowing guilty parties to walk free,
to have families of their own; to not even recognize the fault and
to protect the ones who took you away
I used to worry that they'd try to send you
to a life of imprisonment, and in the end
they did send you away,
but it is a place where I cannot visit
and instead it is us, who love you so,
imprisoned in what we call life, where the fences are
the breaths I take, the steps I walk, the beats of my heart
the walls that confine me and separate me from the world
are the memories and lost time, and of only knowing you
through my childhood eyes
and the guards and wardens are the haze which clouds
my thoughts, unable to still hear your voice or see your face
in my mind
and my day of release will only come
when I walk through the gate, past the fences
to the afterlife, where my life will finally begin again.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 9:30 AM UTC
The liquor doesn't bite anymore,
it comes over me,
in a flowering,
a thunder-wave.
I have dreams of killing him,
with a chainsaw and a rose,
the rose for you
to place
over the tendrils of his separated neck.
Or smashing his face
into a stone lion's mouth,
then forcing him,
inch by wriggling inch
into a granite maw,
trapped forever
behind the vicious wardens
of stone canines and cement incisors.
I usually dream drunk,
too wild in myself,
to roam the day sober.
So, work is drunk;
eating is drunk;
breathing is drunk;
Orange juice spiked,
ready to go.
Meatloaf dinner; date with milk, ***** and sweating
at five.
Can't you see the carnage?
The flotsam;
The raft of bodies
of stupid, pale men
who give out their positions
to hateful women.
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
Mother Nature is a nihilist sitting with friends
Around a poker table in the dew drop inn
Playing Nasty Canasta and the loser draws a limb
On a voodoo hangman, the cut of her kin
The high-wire committee say she’s way out of line
So they’ve sent in a crack-team of their most earnest faces
To blow 40 shades of blue, red and lime
From the very corridors our Mother paces
She croaks through the smoke “the first sons a novelty
The rest are just relics of muscles unclenched
Too smart for their own good and that doesn’t bother-me
But the reaper is hungry and hustling for rent”
Lackeys line the lawn, flunkies on fleek
To cover the crack of her chunky cheeks
“To stake lives may well seem immoral and bleak
But to play for cash prize seems horribly cheap
For a Lady of her esteem”
But the crowd spoke, she hung up the wardens trunchbull
Left the skeleton key within reach of the cells
“They’ve aired their opinions and I’ve had a cunt-full
Let the hungry ******** impeach themselves
I’m sitting this one out”
“And I’ll hide, while my dead snake wriggle persists,
On Elba with hairy pits, freckled wrists,
Openly practicing romanticists
And other hapless things that can’t exist
In these times”
Every second Sunday, the search resumes-led
By a dawn-chorus of confetti festooned-plebs
She can dance the devils limbo cos she’ll not be presumed-dead
While we’ve Holy Grail Package Holi-vows to renew-said
The green eyed usher on the door
The newsstand screams “Mother Nature was a fascist
Sher natural selection was the **** manifesto”
And they’re pedalling placebo to the shell-shocked masses
While the editor shoehorns a scotch into his amaretto
Yeah the world has been orphaned and the orphans smothered
But go easy on her sordid soul cos that’s our mother, after all
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
The drones
made of skin and bone
The drones
with no minds of their own
The drones
entrapped in their homes
tied to their tvs and cellular phones
I see their pride in ignorance
both jailer and keeper
Who are enjoying this sentence
as the bankers run the meter
In a prison they were fooled to build
and gladly accepting
To pay their homage to the guild
who commanded its erecting
As the wardens stuff your faces
with superstition
and their pockets
with the source of their fruition
The drones
programmed to obey
The drones
believe all that they say
The drones
Right from the womb
taught to march to the tune
straight into the tomb
The drones
keep questioning me
The drones
will not leave me be
The drones
made an outcast of me
for failing to extinguish my humanity
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
...reminds me of the days of hurry up and wait and
tis not always a good thing either
oh i am perfectly aware that i think too much
i spend 27 minutes in the shower pondering the meaning of life and
3 minutes wash rinse and
repeating...
the next right thing would be FLUSH
I walked into my 1st mtg, looked around and
said " Oh f%#k! I'm home."
the fact that you think that there is nothing special about you is what makes you extremely special which is rather refreshing in a world full of braggarts!
ok to the point---
this was a week after I had turned 43 and
at that time I did not know that jail wardens could lie and
I was told "you are going to end up with 43 years in prison by the time you get convicted of all the charges" and
I'm not too whoopy at math but it didn't take long for me to add 43 + 43 and
I knew "ain't no way that I'm going to want to be in prison until I'm 86 years old!" so it made perfect sense at the time...
no, this has a happy ending, I'm here to post on the internet!
my mom had passed a yr and
a half before and
now I was in jail with a plastic trash bag over my head and
was seconds away from death when I heard a voice as audible said "Knock it off, Lainder-Belle!" and
it scared me so bad I untied the jail pants that were over the bag and
gasped for air and
cried cuz I knew I was going to have to live...
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
The world is but a prison, harsh and cruel.
It has two very different wardens,
Life, and Death.
The first of which is cruel, and the second is kind.
Millions of guards watch over it,
Guards including disease, and emotions.
Inmates are the inhabitants of the planet,
They have no chance of escaping.
We have no chance.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
It’s too late to go back,
My love,
To when you said time
Would stand still,
When the sun sat behind
The trees at dawn,
When the leaves fell
For the autumn
And drank the dew
Off the sappy grass meadows
That rolled out beyond your toes.
It’s too late to go back
To when you said
Always,
Always is, always will,
And now it once was,
Red moons and black petals
In distant sight.
It’s nighttime now.
Although your face sits in the sky
Like the moon, twinkling gray
Somewhere beyond the stars,
The day is much too young
To wash away the dust
Or guard your eyes against
The lips of a dying love
Like a raw cut waiting
To scab, to mold over the memories
Lining the blood you tried to stanch.
But it’s too late now,
Too late to lie in the trees
Red with sweet clay
Sometime in the mourning light,
Too late to count minutes
As they’ve wrinkled past years,
Too late to tell yourself
That you can still stitch together
The broken seams below the patches
Of the skin you’ve shed.
Time bought you long ago,
My love,
And sold you
To the wardens
Of burgeoning eternity.
Their horns wail loud
And only you can hear their sound.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
They didn't call it privilege
Mum said its called responsibility
they didn't call it money
Dad said its called overdraft from the bank
then they made you sign a contract
that ties you to your education
for the next twenty one years
with a rider that contains a Clause
that you are hanged from the mango tree
in the back garden if you fail any exams
They weren't called older sisters
they were Prison wardens controlled by Mum
dare misbehave and its solitary with no meals for your ***
They weren't known as older brothers
they were sadistic Policemen who had no Rule book
They was no sense of Entitlement
there was ****** do as you're told till you leave my house
and dare bring it to disrepute and watch yourself swing from the mango tree
there weren't alarm clocks
they was be on time in the morning for school
or go see Rev Slattery for six of the best
And then after all these
you meet the snowflakes whose mums do it all
wash, cook, iron and nurture without a mango tree
and these snowflakes signed no Contract to pass exam
and they have no Rev Slattery with a cane,
who would be recognized by them as the Pervert he was
and would now be doing Ten years at HM pleasure.
they have sisters and brothers that are mates
and have chips and Maccy D on tap
and a system that gives their parents money especially for them
not that overdraft that my father had from Barclays
And these airhead snowflakes and sociopaths
point ***** Maccy D fingers and fish and chips mouths
tell fairy Tales and fables about
Silver spoons and Privileges
about a sense of Entitlements
about Greed and opulence
Proving that comfort and easy life causes Brain Damage.....
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
held up in gutterwork masterpieces,
half a shard of torn and ragged paper edged on,
where once it bore, proud and in eager definition,
a reminder of little importance or,
a note of sweet insincerity or,
the last refuge of an eviscerated mind;
and, lost to entropic freedom,
no-body would care to ever even want to begin deciphering those smears.
not that they could, anyway.
the death of parking lot culture,
they say,
is all down to the skin on the teeth,
of a couple earthquake-gowned security wardens,
and the irresistible clamour
of city lights:
"just gotta get away, get outta this place" you say,
when you haven't slept
a real night
in three or so months, at last count, in the best-case,
whereas the real tragedy
is the drizzle,
that you're sure
will never,
ever,
cease to fall,
inside of you,
even though you keep telling yourself,
it's still just a lie.
it's all just a storytime fabrication.
it's all just waiting to fall apart.
and you're just hoping it's sometime soon.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:52 AM UTC
My freedom of expression,
Or, freedom to exist...
I've had to suppress, any implication,
That I was free, IT was free,
Or that I could rest.
My obligations became innovations,
My "freedom" was a serious test.
Shut my mouth.
Silence my thought.
Burn holes in my own sky...
To survive,
Just to... Get by.
There's no blood on the hand
of the devil begging for a gun...
But, the blood of my son,
My thoughts, my thighs,
My sun, my sky...
I'm paralyzed.
I idealized and fantasised
...a metaphor...
Something in-between dead and alive.
But this is literal.
Cry freedom for a body that fails.
An existing breath that bent steel.
Locked in the prison with 10 wardens.
Slave to a super power.
And I'm furious you sent me a bill.
I ate your currency.
I'm... Fed... Up.
Your devil is free to stare,
poke fun and share
...the misery...
...my suffering...
I'm paralyzed.
This is literal.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Two-faced.
The emptiness pockets up my chest
Like a night thief
I've grown accustomed but weary
Candor-laced, the confidante
As time flapped its wings
I shrank in prison
The little wardens beside me
Kept me back with whispers
To the cell that has been
Licked clean with blood and tears
I am afraid of something
I cannot even name
Sleeping like doom in a crib of calm
I am afraid of two faces
Taking turns on the stage
Of my reeling
I am afraid.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
Of the silence in this mind
Life once taken isn’t sacred
Staring at a mirror with one’s self, half-naked
After learning to accept the pain, there’s was nothing to escape it
One could make it better than fate ever did
Can’t understand what one was doing; just escaping
Jailing one’s self with their own personal hate and
Hiding away from the mental wardens that one stayed with
Discarding one’s self to remember that one had a very hand in
The destruction to the very world one was contained within
One believed it’s right, so the argument is always **** off-*
*go fix your life before you act like you’re a **** God.”*
It’s a long way from accepting all the blade does
But it never fails and the lines eventually fade off
Could be a saint and come to one’s defense
Or shut the **** up and watch from the ******* fence
Worn this mask so long, one tends to forget to fake it
Disillusioned to one’s self and all the things that make it
More lines to breathe across the skin appear soon
A novella of pain with no words to read through
Handling a smile like accessory to hide instability
Always showing through, but truly just a shell of ‘me’
Despite the calm you see
Through laughs and jeers
One still feels lost and uncontrolled
Everything warm when one’s heart turned cold
No chance to correct it, just craving an exit
Took the knife last night, now the demons are rested
Took the chance last night, now dried and decrepit
Relapsed again tonight, and one’s mind is repressive
Wrote about a horrid time, and now it’s all depressive
Happy stars and pussycats, unicorns and other ****
©2015 Neal Emanuelson
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
I found them buried
in my sleep, says Doris,
all feelings for him,
the love turned sour,
the anger boiling over
into his destruction.
Now I sit and wait
for the hangman to come
and take me off
to my last farewell.
The warders play cards
in the cell; they invite
me to play, but I can't
focus, my mind elsewhere,
but no where.
“Best play and occupy
your mind, Doris,”
they say kindly,
giving me a look
as if school friends
inviting me to play.
I lie on the bed
and wait; my mind
turning over each minute
like a puzzle;
the end-game unknown,
but known.
Then a panic grips me
and I sit up as if suddenly
my whole life becomes real
for the first time
and I choke
on the reality of it.
They drop their cards
and run over to me:
“can't have you choking
on us now, Doris,”
they say kindly,
but alarmed.
One puts her arm about me
like my mother used to do
when I was hurt.
“Let's get you up,” they say,
“can't have you
dying on us, yet.”
I stand between them
like children playing
a new game.
My life is so real now
that I see each aspect of it
so large and colourful
as if for the first time.
There is a knock
on the door
and the wardens
look at each other
then at me: “ Steady girl,”
one whispers,
the other opens the door
and he comes in
with a priest:
the hangman.
He is not a brutal man,
in fact he looks
somewhat like a grocer:
well trimmed
and clean hands,
yet formal, professional.
He takes my hand
and gently puts it
behind my back
and handcuffs me
as if in a new game.
Then he takes me
gently along to
the other door
and opens it and there
is the rope hanging still.
The warders
are out of sight;
the priest mutters words.
I am blindfolded
and into a dark;
words surround me.
I stand gazing
into darkness,
and my father is there,
his hand reaching for me,
and I reach out to him,
and the darkness becomes light
and so ends the long night.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC
There is no light in the yard,
but there´s been a change in the weather.
Silently, old walls strive towards the ether.
The restless souls, the wardens,
they come and they creep,
striving to rob my own kind of their sleep.
I am driven, drifting, directed astray,
by the ghouls, the gnomes,
those who vanish by day.
Until the bleak morning breaks
I am condemned to abide
in my head, the haunted house,
where the phantasm reigns.
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 9:31 AM UTC
Knock on my door,
when the wardens not here.
I swear I'd let you in,
let you turn me inside out. .
I swear we could do anything,
but right now you're nowhere.
Knock on my door,
before the warden gets here.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
A nation so starved for love
so willing to strangle it out of any space they can grasp
but too selfish to give any of their own
Afraid there will be none left
A people so oblivious to those around too caught up in our own lives to realize
some of us don't come from loving homes of warmth
but prisons with blood wardens with cold eyes
No some of us would rather die and some of us have searching for that one moment to change it all
That one second that proves were not transparent but just alive as everyone
For a hand to reach or heart that holds
Just a moment in the story of our life
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC