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:: Chris H. on a White Clad Figure - Hey there KinderTrauma, I hope this is the right way to reach you about a certain program I saw on TV that scarred me early on and I have been trying to un...
9 hours ago