"wednesday" poems
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden
The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may
The ring of your parents' doorbell
The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back
The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story
The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night
The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades
The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to
Nostalgia
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
5:43 PM
Sa panahon ngayon uminom ka ng maraming salitang "mag ingat ka".
Dahil sa mundong ginagalawan mo hindi ka sigurado.
Hindi ka tiyak sa mga makakasalubong mo at lalong hindi ka tiyak sa seguridad mo.
Tao ka lang at di imortal na may kapangyaring i time machine ang nakaraan, kung sakaling bawiin na ito.
Hindi ka mutant na kayang patigilan ang mga taong may masamang balak sayo.
At lalong hindi ka super hero para di tamaan ng mga balang hatid sayo ng mundo.
Hindi ka si superman na may kakayahang hindi makaramdam ng sakit.
Na kung sa panong paraan, hindi ko 'yon alam.
Tama na ang pagpapanggap.
Hindi kana tulad ng dating matibay.
Kasi matibay ka lang.
Hindi kana tulad ng dating malakas para sabihing kaya mo ang lahat.
Kasi kinakaya mo lang.
Para kang si joker na kahit nakasimangot may malaking ngiti parin sa labi.
Pinapaalala ko lang sayo,
hindi lahat ng tumatawa ay masaya.
Hindi kana bata para sa tuwing iiyak ka ay may handang sumaklolo para pawiin ang lungkot mo.
Hindi din mapa ang makakapagsabi ng lugar kung saan ka dapat magtungo, bagkos hanapin mo ito.
Tulad ng isang batang nawawala,
Sabik at handang tanawin ang bukas.
Hindi para tumakas kung hindi para hanapin ang lugar na magpapasaya sayo.
Hindi lahat ng tao ay totoo, iba ay balatkayo.
Hindi ako sigurado sa paghakbang mo kasama ako ay hindi ko masusugatan ang mga paa mo.
Kung ako ba ang makakapag pahilom ng sugatan **** pagkatao.
Kasi tulad mo duguan din ako.
Hindi ko 'yon masisigurado.
Kaya uulitin ko sayo,
Sa mundong ito,
Inumin mo ang salitang
"mag ingat ka".
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
Sometimes, I wish I hadn’t just been the backseat of your car,
Intoxicated. My first drunk hook up. My first. Period.
I picture myself being champagne on Valentine’s Day.
I picture myself being you, nervous in the car, holding Starbucks
because you know I love coffee. Sometimes, I picture myself as her,
calling you a stalker and ignoring your calls,
but then I see myself. I call you beautiful,
turn you into poetry, laugh at your bad jokes,
I see myself as I become your drunk Wednesday night
when you’re sad. I see myself as I say no,
I become a “this is not a good idea”
and you a “we’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
We laugh because this hurts too much.
You take her out for dinner and I burrow money
for Plan B because you forgot you don’t like condoms
and clearly have no idea how children are made.
I have already named him. He has your curls and
my anxiety. He is smart. Except, I never wanted kids and
you would be a great father. Instead, you tell her
the beach reminds you of her and I cry in a McDonald’s
bathroom with my friend as relief floods through me that
the test comes negative. I stop talking to you,
move forward, meet someone new and before long
see myself becoming you. Because isn’t that the cycle?
Bad men turn good women into bad women who turn
good men into bad men. I’ll set him free so he can hurt
someone like me, and I drink red wine as I read her
poems about him and me.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 3:59 AM UTC
I heard the footsteps as they came across the road;
The snap of hurried feet outside the house.
Shapes in the moonlight, a voice in the darkness,
A knock at the door, I heard the dogs barking.
The bleating of the flock,
The chatter of the birds amongst the trees,
I recall the whisper of the morning breeze;
Hyphening the broken silence as two boys stole about the house;
It was midnight in August 99.
Two sparks set out to chase the bang!
Bang! ~ set them running.
I cut them down; I cut them down!
I heard the sirens as the cops sped off the road;
The squeal of hurried wheels outside the house.
shapes in the moonlight, a voice in the darkness,
A knock at the door, I heard the dogs barking.
The bleating of the flock,
The chatter of the birds amongst the trees,
I recall the whisper of the morning breeze;
Hyphening the broken silence as two cops stole about the house;
It was midnight in August 99.
Two cops set out to chase the bang; Bang!
I put my hands up and the cops took me down!
Judge I’m guilty, it’s true for everything they said I did; I did!
But there were reasons, don’t you see:
These boys; they were bullying me!
I called the cops on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, came round again; still no one came; drove me insane;
Two sparks set out to chase the bang!
Bang set them running; I cut them down!
Two cops set out to chase the bang!
Bang! Yes, I put my hands up!
and the cops took me down!
But Mr Wolf gave me twenty,
and the circus came to town;
for as a victim I was lonely;
but as a killer; as a killer; I was crowned.
Newsworthy, top of the heap, the talk of the town!
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 2:40 PM UTC
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.
The Master Weaver’s Plan
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
by AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.
with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
On a Wednesday morning, clear and calm,
I went to Astor Place
and had a gypsy read my palm
or maybe just my face.
She said my heart was heavy
and my head was stuffed with lies.
But things like that weren't on my hand,
they hid behind my eyes.
The room is dull and dank and cold but at
least I have a hand to hold.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
afternoon light shining in through the sheer curtains hanging over my bedroom window, on the most ordinary day of the week, your arms were around me and my head was on your chest as it slowly rose and fell, and you twitch as you’re falling asleep, and i never thought i could fall in love with the sound of someone snoring, but your sleepy inhales made my heart swell, and since then, the day has been a series of heavy exhales. i can feel the weight of you behind my ribs and in the corners of my mouth as i smile at the thought of kissing you, your laugh, the way your eyes look when they’re looking at me, the sound of your voice when you’re trying to get music to play in your car, how i feel when i can feel you next to me; i hope you don’t mind, but no matter what time or space is between us, you’ve written your name in the sand of my soul and no amount of wind or waves will ever be able to wash it away. the time we’ve spent together feels like seconds, but you will always exist in my memory as someone who held my hand as i walked into the sun.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
Mine
6:48 a Wednesday
Two Weeks later
Then: Thanksgiving eve
5E; MIT
I sit at my desk:
stare out of the windows <
My skull
at the Chocolate Bock I just
Overflowed > all over my notes
on the Circe episode of Ulysses,
which I have not yet read.
20 minutes after I just ––
Went alone. Stood there, yes, alone
Above the porcelain enterprise
Taking that litmus test of humanity
Clear, I pass. Yellow, I fail.
It was rather clear I think
Honestly? I don't remember.
Two weeks ago, I stood there==
and came up with this phrase.
Standing there with special eyes::::
Seeing.
Came back to my room, I did, faithfully
Looked there below my second fridge
A plate sat. mine. On it: maybe food, maybe *****
Probably marijuana
Only the first my own
Who remembers?
Next to it: an empty prescription bottle
"It's some medicine for Asthma. I don't even
_have_ asthma!"
"Classy **** I am; I've never bought a shot glass.
Just use discarded prescription bottles."
An experiment @ the sink: exact: 2.0z. On the dot.
Turns out that's 1&1/3 of the standard—The ritual
We make it. And have made it.
For years now together after midnight
[or so]
4 years. Soon it will be
Maybe I shall leave; probably not
but harken back, that fortnight, less 6
To that evening. Orange and purple
Effort sublime but not enough:
Lost to a team of Freshman.?!
~If only:~
"Tripped mad-laundry shrooms",
6 and a half months ago
Two men sit in the corner of my room
I know one; the other spoke
2-weeks-later: sticky keyboard
I am not sober, but who is?
Last night. Remember those videos?
reminded me that *** can be beautiful:
After basically 2 years: I almost forgot.
x-art.com. December 6, 2011
I have a perspective now:
It is not the same as yours
it is not and, by necessity,
can not be the same.
But I see it. Stephen Daedalus
calls it immature—lyrical
but **** you, James: it is mine!
I am. Will always be.
Will have never been.
But, God/Goddess **** it now!
I am: I See.
I try!
~D.B.Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 3:23 AM UTC
Today I am superwoman,
I go to three jobs, one meeting, two classes
I wear five hats throughout the day.
I got those lovely eyebags as my trophy.
By being superwoman I accomplish anything,
everything that they told me I couldn't do.
I wanted to be in student government...
the popularity vote told me no but I showed them
I could do that too. They said you can't have everything
and here I am sitting with it all.
In this day of superpowers
I fly from class to job to job to job to meeting to home
but I am the most human today.
I laugh in the face of my fears of failure because I have already gotten on the road to success.
I cry because even I am entitled to a good cry every once in a while.
I am cranky because it evens out the crazy bubblyness that I always am.
I radiate happiness although I am drowning in work
I support and lean on those around me causing a tangled connection of love
In every capacity I am me, happy, sad, lethargic, energized, hyper, lost, leading.
In every Wednesday, I remember that my humanity all in itself makes me just as super human as the next girl or guy.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:59 AM UTC
I’m often asked why I don’t like to wear shoes.
My usual reply is that when I am barefoot I feel more grounded.
Now when I say that people take it one of two ways; they either think it is a joke, or they think it has some really profound meaning.
Maybe I don’t like shoes because maybe I never learned my lesson when I would cut the bottoms of my feet on sharp rocks. Maybe I should have realized that shoes are a good idea when I burned my feet on hot pavement not once, but twice.
Maybe it’s because I like the feeling of cold mud in the spring and hot sand in the summer.
Or I just don’t like wearing any god **** shoes.
Maybe the it is way that stepping grass reminds me of home, and stepping in snow also reminds me of home because I grew up in Maine, where 2 ft of snow is just your average wednesday.
Or possibly it’s how I can tell which room of my house I am in by the way the floor feels.
Maybe it’s how when I climb tree’s barefoot I end up with scratches all over me, but being so high reminds me of how hard the climb is but how beautiful the view is once you get there.
Shoe may just be too mainstream for me...
Maybe I want to feel more connected to my ancestors who didn’t wear shoes.
It may be that wish to a tree, that I wish that my bare feet would become roots tying me to the one place where I belong.
It may be that I wish I was a dog because they don’t have to wear shoes.
I might not like feeling confined. Maybe it’s a symbol for how I wish to be free, when I don’t wear shoes it’s a call for help.
Maybe I am brave, putting my feet in danger. Or maybe I am just really frickin stupid, and I am starting to think it’s the latter. Especially when I end up breaking my toes, or cutting my feet, or burning them on the roads because I was too lazy or too dumb to put any shoes on.
Or maybe I am just cracking a joke about bare feet and the ground (and people over analyze the smallest things)...
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
On Monday we met, our eyes fixated on one another, eager to know more
On Tuesday we talked, twiddling our thumbs, fidgeting in our seats, pondering on the right things to say
On Wednesday we hugged, your arms held me close, heartbeats in sync, I felt myself floating
On Thursday we kissed, our lips gravitated towards each other, like the moon and the sea, the connection was natural
On Friday we confessed, three little words wrapped around our ears,
forever tattooed in our minds
On Saturday you disappeared, no note, no call, no text
not a trace of you left that I could still hold on to
On Sunday I cried, my heart still beats, but never the same way,
would you ever give me a reason if I ever asked "Why?"
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
When I am older I will be just like my Nan,
Streaking my naked body every Wednesday to the delivery man.
I will have a chihuahua,
Drink my milk when its sour,
Use by dates will mean nothing,
For 10 year old bread makes a good stuffing,
I will live off many cups of tea
Every ten minutes have a ***
Hoard a thousand tin of beans in the draw,
We all know we need them when we're at war,
I will be superstitious,
And make food taste delicious,
I would be head of my family, head of my herd,
My word will be final, anyone else's word is absurd,
Anyone who calls me 'dear',
will get a slap around the ear.
YES,
I want to be just like my Nan,
Every Wednesday streaking to the delivery man.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Monday was terrible.
Horrific.
I spent the day sulking on my lonesome and went home ready to erupt.
I could feel the slight tingle of tears threatening their way through my eyelids
Ready to pour over the second they perched open
But due to my lack of sleep last night
I doubt I could even build up the strength to open my glossy eyes
Even if I wanted to
In a weird sense
I enjoyed the mere thought of Monday being able to make me cry
I almost laughed
Or screamed
Or both
A year ago today
Everyday was a Monday to me
Everyday went horribly
Everyday made me come home crying and lock myself in my room
I was so used to that constant repetitive torture
That Monday appeared to be no different than any other day
Monday was just... It.
Tuesday was "it"
Wednesday was "it"
Thursday was "it"
Friday was "it"
Even Saturday and Sunday were "it"
But now, today
Monday is distinct
In a horrifyingly gruesome way
And this tear-jerking unsatisfying Monday gave me hope
Monday made me cry
Tuesday did not
Wednesday did not
Thursday did not
Friday did not
Not even Saturday or Sunday made me cry
Only Monday made me cry
Only Monday
Just as Monday made 7 billion other humans cry
On this torturous inescapable earth
It also made me cry
And that gave me hope that maybe I really am normal
Or I can be
Or I will be
Because Monday is unbearable for everyone
And Monday is unbearable for me
And the rest of the week is alright for most people
And it was alright for me
And Saturday and Sunday are fun for most people
And Saturday and Sunday were fun for me
Somewhere
Deep inside my clouded, muddy mind
I caught a glimpse of hope
That maybe
There is hope for me
Maybe I am cured
Maybe I can be
Maybe I will be
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
It's the same day again, another Monday, everyday is Monday
Monday, its Monday. Monday again, its Monday
The rain is pouring and its Monday, I have to go to work
I'm stocking shelves on Monday and the rain is pouring
I see the blonde girl and I avoid her eyes because its Monday
Perhaps on Tuesday I'll smile at her but its Monday and its raining
I'm taking a cigarette break on Monday and its raining still
Now I'm buying painkillers because its Monday
and the rain seeps through my hood on Monday
Monday, its Monday. Monday again, its Monday
"Is the bus late?"
"Yes, probably because its Monday."
Solemn faces on Monday
Crying children on Monday
Jaded skies on Monday
Will the sun be shining on Friday?
Who knows, I only exist on Monday
and its raining again.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Ease your way
Into Sunday,
Monday’s here soon enough.
Friday’s best,
Time to rest,
The week was tough.
Boozeday Tuesday is okay
I must say
And Table Tennis Thursday ain’t bad too.
Wednesday’s fish and chips are yummy –
They fill my tummy,
Washed down with a brew.
I love Saturday sport,
Who would have thought
I’d get set in my ways?
Such is my week,
Hardly unique,
But on Sunday I laze.
Paul Butters
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 5:21 AM UTC
On Monday I started to write a song,
The afternoon spent lazing around,
Memories of the Sunday night,
Like a hangover hanging around,
I close my eyes for a moment,
As I always feel the day slipping away,
Before I know it Tuesday is on,
I start to put down words,
But the end won’t come to my mind,
And I know the day is slipping away
For Wednesday has come now,
I feel the wakening of the doer inside of me,
I sit down with my pen and paper,
With the t.v. switched on besides me,
Oh I know the day has slipped away,
Now at the centre of the week I’m on Thursday,
I start for one last time,
But I know I won’t finish for the next 2 days,
And I wrote dad a dum da beep pada,
And I’m not surprised for the day has slipped away,
And I begin my weekend on the Friday,
Hanging around my incomplete song,
Just 5 words on the paper,
My head is spinning around,
And floating through time I’m onto the next one,
Its Saturday night I’m partying hard,
Not hard enough for my song undone is weighing me down,
I’m not sure what I’m gonna do about it,
So I try not to think just loose myself in the sound
As I dance to Sunday morning I,
I sleep from sun up to sun down,
Sunday night I’m roaming around,
I know tomorrow’s a new day,
I’m gonna finish that song,
Monday morning, I’m writing a song,
The afternoon spent lazing around,
Memories of the Sunday night,
Like a hangover hanging around,
I close my eyes for a moment,
My life’s slipped past when my eyes were shut,
Now I’ve forgotten what I was writing about,
Back to the start I don’t have another chance,
I curse life, for when I stopped it kept moving on.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
i
a m
positive
that you
are made of
s t a r d u s t
and water balloons,
oil pastels and the
collection of
settled sugar
at the
b o t t o m
of my
c u p s
o f
t e a
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC
On a Wednesday,
I want to tell you the truth.
listen to me as if it's the first time you've heard a voice
On a Wednesday,
I want you to understand.
because I don't want to hurt you, you see. I want you to hurt me.
On a Wednesday,
at this table I want you to realize
it was meant to be like this all along.
To be on opposite sides of the table with different worlds as plates, different wants and needs as different tastes.
On a Wednesday,
I want you to taste what I taste.
the sour taste of our expired time
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Strolling through the park
With humans, dogs, and birds,
Pink leaves make their mark
As they hover down in thirds.
Drifting along lazy airwaves,
An amplified guitar echoes
As a band soulfully misbehaves
For all nearby bedfellows.
Apartments loom over trees,
From a place of urban gray
As blue air works to appease
Spaces between dusk and day.
Sturdy street lights rusted and old
Accompanying a worn path ignite,
One by one flashing dark to gold
On a normal Wednesday night.
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!
Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.
Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.
Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.
So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.
Paul Butters
(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Sunday:
Ant Pills
Bear Traps
Cobra Feet
Monday:
Dolphin Lungs
Eel Soup
Frog Limbs
Tuesday:
Gecko Suits
Horse Pie
Inchworm ***
Wednesday:
Jaguar Barbed
Koala Beer
Lynx Lynch
Thursday:
Monkey Chips
Narwhal Fashions
Otter Drugs
Friday:
Porcupine Rehab
Quail Map
Roadrunner Piano
Saturday:
Slug Party
Turkey Slop
Urchin See
Sunday:
Vulture Guns
Walrus Tongues
X No
Monday:
Yellowjacket Fever
Zebra Clowns
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
bananas, bananas, yeah, let’s
b-a-n-a-n-a-s, go bananas, go ballistic
bet you’d like to see me eat a banana
the sun is an orange but my mind’s
already gone fruity, tuesdays and wednesday
are for the stuff i didn’t do on monday
crunch time, getting to my job
is kinda difficult without a car or a bike
and they know i’m too bananas
to drive or ride either
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC
Solvent and solution
Kept assuaged for so long
Treading in the selfishness of my subconscious state
Of barely traceable memories, spurred on by the gravity of time spent
At the briefest hint at past involvement
Each leaf falls, eventually.
Every pristine little well formed tended to.
Each nurtured, cared for, parcel or idea.
I can watch them for hours
Watching them fall, one by one, for hours.
When days start to bleed together, out of the corner of my eye,
I can always see them, marking progression.
Collecting in drifts, then, taken by the wind, then
The rot sets in.
I used to watch this.
I used to find time.
The roof cast me in its shadow, even standing along the banister that runs along the length
Even as the final rays of sun start to vanish one at a time
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
FANCY AS ****
I knew something was not right. I went in with a sledge hammer challenged the truth and you put the phone down. Me in London, You in Dublin. One day to our planned London Weekend.
*I came in like a wrecking ball
Yeah, I just closed my eyes and swung
Left me crashing in a blazing fall
All you ever did was wreck me
Yeah, you, you wrecked me
I never meant to start a war
I just wanted to know the truth
I wanted you to tell the truth
I couldn’t live a lie; I was running for my life*
When you put the phone down on me on Wednesday night Oct 10th followed by a solicitor’s letter the following day, that was abuse. That letter was profoundly nasty. It was all a lie, just like as I now know, the rest of our relationship was. You went to the Garda, anything just so I would not discover the truth.
Your abuse is not without it's consequences. I needed you to tell me to talk to me. I don't feel revenge, anger, hate; I just feel utter shock, used, physically abused and mostly devastation.
But you know what, it hurts like hell, but I will fight back and I will find my way out of this abuse. I find it hard to believe you want me to suffer like this. Now I know you ‘Fancied Me As **** Why not just be straight up? Why all the lies? Why not give me the chance to walk away when I wanted to?
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Ruddy's was the place to be on Wednesday nights, cheap drinks, free hotdogs and the graceful presence of Times Square hookers late at night, what a wonderful scene, marines hookers and the best jazz juke box inn manhattan, rowdy and something almost always happened, better than life. I was a young man in a strange country, had my fists tested in FLA and Brooklyn for stupid prejudices on my behalf and others, words hurt only those who do not know their meaning and root. There was a black man sitting next to me, quiet and still, a true barfly, he turned and said;
- you are not from round here-
- no - I said -I am from Mexico -
- you don't look Mexican, but let's go with it, I don't look African American either-
- r you from the south?-
-Georgia, as they call it -
-well, I've worked in FLA and met some rednecks, Cubans, blacks, but almost no Chinese-
-you mean yellow-
-or *******
- or **** you know men, I prefer racism down south, over there the distinction is cut loose clear, we don't like each other, but here, men I tell you, you wannanother beer?-
-sure men-
-Girls just wanna **** you cause I'm black, you know, to be cool and ****
-yeah, Jewish girls wanna **** white Gentiles, different reasons same goal-
-I hear you, here it's all about being fashionable, but deep in the pit it's all fake as a 10 dollar coin-
We kept at it until Beth started a fight with another ****** they were calling each other **** I've never heard.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC