"widowed" poems
Let the world always remember,
That fateful day in September,
And the ones who answered duty's call,
Should be remembered by us all.
Who left the comfort of their home,
To face perils as yet unknown,
An embodiment of goodness on a day,
When men's hearts had gone astray.
Sons and daughters like me and you,
Who never questioned what they had to do,
Who by example, were a source of hope,
And strength to others who could not cope.
Heroes that would not turn their back,
With determination that would not crack,
Who bound together in their ranks,
And asking not a word of thanks.
Men who bravely gave their lives,
Whose orphaned kids and widowed wives,
Can proudly look back on their dad,
Who gave this country all they had.
Actions taken without regret,
Heroisms we shall never forget,
The ones who paid the ultimate price,
Let's never forget their sacrifice.
And never forget the ones no longer here,
Who fought for the freedoms we all hold dear,
And may their memory never wane,
Lest their sacrifices be in vain.
09-30-10b.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:31 AM UTC
Neatly coating the floor in thin white trails, woven into floorboards like cotton twine, sunbeams snake their way across hardwood.
Books scream to be read & my yellowed pages ache to detail my experience as a widowed reader of time.
Magazines pile, while my simple hands grow a day older.
Heat on my neck.
The driver of time exhales grandiose,
tells me to travel while I'm young,
visit regions on this globe that grow green with age,
listen to honest trumpets before I gray,
wade in pools of clear urgency.
He said:
"Find a walking stick out beyond the ether
laugh with veracity, poking fun at Saturn & the Stars."
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
there once was this guy named oedipus
of whom it was prophesied
that his mother he'd marry, his father he'd ****
at a place where three roads were tied.
his mother and father discovered their fate
and tried to dispose of their son
but he ended up in corinthian lands
and their efforts were all undone.
then a drunk guy ruined his happy facade
and to an oracle oedipus went
who repeated to him the dank prophesy;
he fled corinth, not taking a cent.
while on his sojourn away from his home
he encountered a party royale
which rudely pushed him off of the road,
and angered he slaughtered them all.
then from that blood soaked three-way path
he nonchalantly flew
not knowing that his father was
the man that he just slew.
he continued his journey until he reached thebes
where a sphinx held the city hostage
so oedipus solved the bird-cat's lame rhyme
and released thebes from its *******
as a reward, the people of thebes
gave oedipus their widowed queen,
unknowingly joining mother and son
in a marriage that was unclean.
after they ruled for twenty good years,
during which four children came,
a plague was induced by the sheltering of
the man by whom was slain
in searching him out, oedipus found
that the murderer was really he,
so long ago. the man he had killed
at the place where were joined roads of three.
but by finding this out, he also discovered
that his wife and his mother were one.
he gouged out his eyes after her suicide;
in her own bedroom she was hung.
as it turned out, oeddy exiled himself
but the seeds of his misery were sewn.
so he went to colonus and wandered around
and this is the end.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
The lament of
a widowed
Werewolf
in the
fury of the
space
between.”
|| shoo.shu ||
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
stayed with a woman
and her sister
for a few weeks
up by the chesapeake
on a little river
with a dock
that audienced
the most beautiful
sunsets
a man could witness
she was a good woman
widowed
quick to think of others
before herself
never got drunk before noon
worked hard and long
for the money she earned
and I appreciated her
and her hospitality
her sister
smoked ****
and drank expensive wine
on that dock
during the earliest hours
of the day
looking upwards
all the way till that
beautiful sunset
I would join her
while her sister was hard
at work
I appreciated my woman
for her work habit
for the *** and the
hospitality she gave so
willingly and passionately
however I also appreciated
her sister
in many of the same ways
which is why I was asked
loudly and violently to
cut my visit short
after only two
quick weeks
I still miss
those sunsets
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
My life is simple, humble pleasures
The girl I love, summer leisure
‘The Duke is dead’ the prime minister says
‘Your time has come, you must do your best’.
My heart grows large, my eyes turn red
One final kiss, I lose my breath
My mother weeps, my father stares
His parting words ‘you must do your best’.
We train for the task that lies ahead
Our tools of evil, our countries crest
Brothers forever, until the end
The sergeant says sternly ‘you must do your best’.
The foreign soil, our blood it thirsts
We do not falter, we march and curse
We face our destiny, we march abreast
My father’s voice follows me ‘you must do your best’.
The fight is hard, our spirit put to the test
Death follows us, we cannot rest
Our bravery triumphs, ‘oh how our country will be impressed’
We do our duty, we do our best.
But the victory is fleeting, our brothers fall
Staring eyes, cold skin, we loved them all
Our grief immense, we lay them to rest
They were the bravest, they did their best.
The darkness surrounds us, our souls to stone
They want to end us, to send us home
I raise my weapon; one man lay dead
I have taken, life most precious, I have done my best.
The war is over, the Duke avenged
We wander home, those who were left
return to crowds, they stand abreast
They thank us all, ‘You are the best!’
The war is over, still a battle I fight
My hands tremble, sleepless nights
I see his face, where his body rests
My heart is cold, no pride, but guilt instead ‘I did my duty, I did my best’.
My parents proud, my love distressed
My suffering is silent, put to them instead
They grieve for me, the boy that left
The Man, broken, who survived, who tried his best.
A fatherless son, sonless mother
A widowed wife, man’s lost brother
Their pride is poison, a shot to my chest
I confess my sins, they do their best.
My life was simple, now changed beyond measure
The girl my wife, our children treasures
‘The Duke is dead!’ she says to them
‘Your father went, he did his best’.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
I’m rocking back and forth against the hull of my loneliness,
Stuck in knowing it’s goodbye
But not being able to say I love you
or I’m sorry.
I’m crying with joy and longing as I lie in the love and conversation around me,
Wishing it were mine.
I’ve been high so long my heart rate stopped going down with the sun.
Going over it all all over again all the time.
I feel like a child again, terrified by the the dark, the wind, the eyes of men.
I’m breaking down in the line at the gas station.
Looking out the glass wall at a Lovecraftian highway,
Flickering florescent lights like the ones from The Exorcist.
On my way to a cavernous husk of a family dinner,
Most of them gone now.
Just me, my mother, and my widowed, bereaved, great aunt.
There’s a stupid old cardboard cutout of a mascot next to me grinning too widely, holding up its product.
I scream and tear it’s head off it’s body
In my mind.
I have work on Monday.
This is life.
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 12:14 PM UTC
Widowhood is not a curse, ladies
Widowhood is ordained by God
Bible and Qur’an teaches about widows
Tamar in the Bible married twice.
Tamar was widowed twice.
God had a plan for Tamar.
Khadija was a widow married twice.
Her second husband was young Mohammed
Allah had a plan for Khadija.
Zainab and Zubaida two sisters
Two sisters bound by widowhood.
God had a plan for Zainab and Zubaida.
Leah Rabin and Jehane el-Sadat widows
Their husband sought peace, they were killed.
Jehane and Leah had no fear, God had a plan.
Widowhood is not a curse.
Widowhood is ordained by God
God has a plan for all widows, have faith.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
3.7k
4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen with a devastating war
Yemen crushed by Saudi war criminals
Yemen wounded by US' immorality
Yemen killed by too many's frigid hearts
Yemen unbelievably destroyed
4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen a skeleton
Yemen with its sustainable resources confiscated
Yemen its country's wealth no more
Yemen with blood everywhere
4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen with 20 Million affected
Yemen with babies deceased
Yemen with young orphaned
Yemen with old without shelter
Yemen with men buried under sand
Yemen with women *****
Yemen with countless widowed
Yemen trapped under rebel with people screaming for help
4 Years, 1500 days, 3600 hours, 2,160,000 minutes, 129,600,000 seconds
Yemen in shock
Yemen weary
Yemen with its hands up high in the air pleading for an end
Are our hands up with them
Are our foreheads wet
Are our eyes full
Are our mouths dry
Are our fingers in motion
Are our legs fatigued
Are our brains thinking
YEMEN: 4 Years Starving, 4 Years Dying, 4 Years Bleeding, 4 Years Grieving, 4 Years Hurting, 4 Years Too Long Not With Our Oppressed, 4 Years Too Late We Must Begin
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
To die,
To fall,
To lose,
In an act of,
Life-giving,
Spirit lifting,
Victory,
Is simply,
Nonsensical,
And yet,
Perfect,
Completely,
Irrational,
And yet,
Thought out,
And so,
Incomprehensible,
With human mind,
But absolutely,
And definitely,
The right thing to do,
Because God loved the world so much,
He would let his own creation,
Take his only son from him,
To save his creation,
From the hands of evil.
And the best thing?
The most amazing and inconceivable thing of all,
Is that he did it for all mankind.
Athiest
Agnostic
Christian
Jew
Muslim
Sikh
Hindu
Buddhist
Black
White
Straight
Gay
Lesbian
Bisexual
Asexual
Boy
Girl
Bigender
Transgender
Agender
Young
Old
Kind
Cruel
Happy
Sad
Rich
Poor
Healthy
Ill
Free
Enslaved
Safe
Afraid
Intelligent
Stupid
Deaf
Blind
Disabled
Handicapped
Single
Taken
Married
Divorced
Remarried
Widowed
Lost
Found
Persecuted
Persecutor
Murderer
Self-harmer
Suicidal
Unloved
Adored
Popular
Ignored
Beautiful
Ugly
Guilty
Innocent
Outcast
Desperate
Autistic
Bulimic
Alcoholic
Bipolar
Addict
Dyslexic
Anorexic
Schizophrenic
SAVED
Every single human being ever born is saved.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Draped in bridal red
Amidst widowed landscapes she stands
With her veil swaying gently in the breeze
And blossoms tinkling at her feet
Fractured light decorates her
Revealing rubies hiding in her tresses
She brings forth her veil
Shading weary scorched souls
An oasis
Amidst desolate desert sands
The forest fire rages
Against fate which brought upon us this drought
Rekindling hope
Of new birth and mercy
And rages
Until it's time for gentle showers and soothing greens
Then tired
Sleeps until the end of spring
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC
born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation
complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience
ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow
breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty
divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs
fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds
seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake
so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake
to take her language for another world
visions died with imminence and grandiosity
a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture
living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity
glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity
careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins
glossy water robs apostles of oxygen
filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry
& now the god’s live in ignorance and misery
crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground
astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds
powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude
another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood
confused prisoners gifted with the write to think
proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings
a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions
matter undermined the undefined enlightenment
spirals in the light comprise a present tense
evanescent destination sensei keep I humble
so many stripes up in my wavelengths
widowed endorphins scrape the pain away
balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity
many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.
Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.
Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.
If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot.
Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.
Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field were all you'd let yourself take in.
It was the fourth of October, 2008,
And you had stopped crying.
You were surrounded by those dressed in black, you yourself wearing a nice dress and his necklace.
Your brain was on high alert and yet you were calm, almost as if nothing fazed you.
Not the smell of the ground,
Freshly dug up in the cool, hard Earth of the autumn time,
Nor the sound of your own mother crying,
Allowing the tears to flow down her cheeks while she says a few words about her husband; now widowed.
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field were all you'd let yourself see,
The rest just a blur of movement and scenery.
You sensed the touch of your uncle's hands on your shoulders,
And could hear him sniffling,
Mourning the loss of his brother.
His grip was tight, almost as if he was afraid to lose you too; almost as if you were the only thing he had left of his dearly beloved brother.
You could taste the bitterness of the words your mom had said to you the day after he died: "daddy died", those words being repeated over and over again in your mind,
An infestation of thoughts and language.
A white rose, a gold casket, and a field,
The rose you were holding in your small, fragile hands;
The rose you were gripping so tight blood started pouring from your skin as the thorn punctured your tiny little fingers;
You did not notice, you did not choose to notice.
You threw the rose onto the casket as it was being lowered six feet under.
The casket with him in it.
His hair was brushed back, his black and white suit on, and his eyes firmly shut...forever.
It's done.
He's buried.
The field he's now buried in is covered in a thick fog, similar to that surrounding your mind.
And as the car arrives to take you back home,
You can almost hear the wind whispering for you to come back and visit and although you've finally left the scene,
All you can picture are a white rose, a gold casket, and a large, foggy field.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I am yearning to go
to meet the people
behind the passion
to set foot on a plane
and have no fear
but only expectation
of what greatness is to come
I am yearning to go
to see the
broken
orphaned
widowed
and lost
I am yearning to fight
to seek justice
for the oppressed
a home for the homeless
a father for the fatherless
I am yearning to be apart
of their lives
even though they
do not know my name yet
I am thinking
night and day about them
and when I see their faces
my world will be complete
and I know the yearning
will be replaced
with a hunger
and a thirst
to be a part of their lives
until I am called elsewhere
(a.c)
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
I am a criminal,
A low down ***** convict,
Robbing old ladies and turning the youth into like minded thugs and killers.
With my gun, I can turn any day into new years eve.
Bang! Pow!
I've just shown you how,
I ***** somebody's light out.
I live by the gun
Ready to pull it out and start blasting away,
And if you're in the way?
I hope you've had an eventful final day.
One more body to my death toll is of little consequence.
And to those who choose to cross me
will be dealt with in a premeditated sequence.
So many women I've widowed,
So many children I've left with only half a family.
Do I care?
No.
For my heart is as black as my skin
I have no feelings of remorse or empathy.
Or do I?
Am I really this despicable person?
Is what I've just said is not me at all,
Or just what people perceive me to be.
The truth is, that's all it is
A perception
A perverted perception forced upon me and others like me by illogical stereotypes,
A perverted perception perpetuated to the the point where it has become the status quo,
A belief so deeply ingrained in the minds of the masses that I become public enemy number one, two and three,
so deeply ingrained that I should not know what it means to be free,
so deeply ingrained that I should not even be given the change to better myself.
Does this perception out rank reality?
Does conceptuality govern the actuality of reality?
If so, I perceive this world to be full of ****
Oct 18, 2020
Oct 18, 2020 at 5:37 AM UTC
God loafs around heaven,
without a shape
but He would like to smoke His cigar
or bite His fingernails
and so forth.
God owns heaven
but He craves the earth,
the earth with its little sleepy caves,
its bird resting at the kitchen window,
even its murders lined up like broken chairs,
even its writers digging into their souls
with jackhammers,
even its hucksters selling their animals
for gold,
even its babies sniffing for their music,
the farm house, white as a bone,
sitting in the lap of its corn,
even the statue holding up its widowed life,
but most of all He envies the bodies,
He who has no body.
The eyes, opening and shutting like keyholes
and never forgetting, recording by thousands,
the skull with its brains like eels--
the tablet of the world--
the bones and their joints
that build and break for any trick,
the genitals,
the ballast of the eternal,
and the heart, of course,
that swallows the tides
and spits them out cleansed.
He does not envy the soul so much.
He is all soul
but He would like to house it in a body
and come down
and give it a bath
now and then.
2.5k
The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eyes
An alien suttee.
2.5k
I must begin with an apology, my friends
That I shed no tears for you when you passed
When I heard the news that you lived no more
That I did not ponder on your existence and ceasing thereof
When I continued with the ritual day to day
For this, I am truly sorry
I must continue with an apology, my friends
That I did not acknowledge the cancer in your bones
When you were still fighting, still breathing
That I put out of my mind even the thought of autocide
When your wife was left widowed, your children fatherless
For this, I am sincerely sorry
I must persist with an apology, my friends
That I did not wish to attend your funerals or memorials
When I was given an invitation and a chance
That I did not comfort the loved ones you left behind
When I dined in your homes with your memories
For this, I am truthfully sorry.
I must push on with an apology, my friends
That even now I cannot grieve for the loss of you
When I sit and write this poem with all left unsaid
That I still cannot bring myself to shed a tear, to weep
When I force myself to dwell on this tragedy
For this, I am earnestly sorry.
I must conclude with an apology, my friends
That I am still inhaling stale air, exhaling my ghost
When you have been torn from your families
That I can still ungratefully demand more than my lot
When your potential was cut down without my caring
For this, I am fervently sorry.
So, so sorry.
And yet I still do not cry.
h.f.m.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Today bears the weight of erstwhile trepidation.
Uncertainties exhumed only to be hung up as ominous flags.
Black as night my widowed heart paraded through the procession.
Garbed in ash encrusted, sequinned frock, hemmed train all tattered in rags.
Herald the face with no features yet obscured behind a chiffon veil.
In hands, a bouquet of black roses, worm-eaten to the stems.
The mourning sun only gave the weakest glow,
feeble attempt to rejuvenate all that is stale;
to imbue the shimmer back into forsaken jewels and dulled gems.
Her entourage kept up with heavy feet; all grim and sullen.
Also faceless... Armed with pitchforks and torches.
Today they will draw much; having thirst for crimson.
Today they witness her death as the black parade marches.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
My Harvest, my golden ever-lasting grain,
My bird-winged heart who soars above this dull terrain.
My Heart, my love, my lasting life's refrain.
Oh breath, beat on and overcome this pain.
My crop of gold, my one true wish, my meaning as foretold.
My true and constant one, whose only hand I hold.
My lonely one, my ring'ed one, whose story is not told.
Oh heart, bear up and carry me to the fold.
My only at my leaving one
My dark nights soothing sun
My comfort tales by her are spun
My daily works, my widowed one
Let all the suns rays warm her twice,
Let rainfalls wealth melt her winters ice,
Let all my mossy paths caress her feet,
Until the two of us re-meet.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
In the Church, I met a woman so old
Bending under the weight of years
I wonder what made her steal my attention
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?
In spite of her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still
Strange enough, she recalled to me
The determined, but decrepit old man beside the pool
Whom Wordsworth had once encountered
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool
I watched the woman humbly prostrate
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form
Surrendering herself at the feet of God
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform
In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church
As if her afflictions were reduced to half
As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want
Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead
There was a newly dug up grave
That stood aloof as a heap of mud
I watched the old woman approach this spot
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor
Her withered hands clasped together in piety
And her eyes closed in silent prayer
With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose up and once more knelt down
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown
Within that mound, slept her only son
Who died in his prime, a month before
Leaving his widowed mother behind
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore
As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last
And heavily yet quietly walked away
Leaving the one who was once her own part
*** *** **
While the wounds of the young are quickly closed and healed
And their ductile affections entwine around new passions
The aged withdraw to the silence and desolation of life
Once when deprived of the love that life no more sanctions!
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
How long woman is wild when she is alone?
How far woman can reach without her soulmate?
How quick woman can fall in her endless waiting!
How fun woman can die if she is alone in big house!
How strong woman can fight looking her husband die?
How big woman can dream if her husband is not rich?
Which wills woman can have if her husband is poor?
Which knot can win woman to unknot if her husband is bleeding?
Which well can be nearly for widowed **** woman?
Which well can be so far for kind widowed woman?
Which heart woman can have if her children are prisoned?
Which decision woman can take if prison guard needs her to ler her kids get out of steels?
How fun is man thinking he owns her wife's heart!
What happens when he is died so?
After understanding all that I asked my mind grandpa, how dare she talks women in that way he told me "all women not like that" and again " non kind hearted woman Are married with Sky"
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 8:40 PM UTC