Stop and smell the pot ash and seed hulls in the dirt--
The enamel of your ancestors
So wild and proliferate, that fields
Teem with hotly colored flowers to compete.
A sun that once roved orangely across van Gogh's eyes
Distills the corner, by a truck and your waiting friends.
Stop. Waste everything;
Now, I want you to look at me.
Name That Trauma:: Alex M. on a Crying Baby and a Victorian Doll - Hi there, Terrific site. I was wondering if you could help me with a half-remembered TV-based trauma from my childhood. My brain’s telling me it was a scen...
15 hours ago