Tawny's profile

6100 barranca #144 orange kool-aide and an open door rusty metal rocking chair outside an old rusty trailor a boy tinkering on an old guitar early in the morning, not a clue girl child inside wakens to the creeks and strums paradise outside bringing wonders to come. smiles and adventures not a care in the world. present day arrives that girl child a woman, thinking of buying old rocking chairs. She'll place them on her patio in hopes of his return. The tinkering now rythem and blues. The wond...

What you are is a fantasy, a pipe dream. Smart and sexy, a regular Joe Suave. Imagining you kissing me is all I need. Fearful you might proceed, Most likely it can only end badly. I'm not what you need. I know. I can see. So lets keep it easy and enjoy wondering. Today i was close enough to kiss you, as you tried to open up to me. Showing me your body, knowing the tatoos draw me. Sweet heart I am a miserable disease as much as I'd love the company... You are so much more deserving of laid bac...

Kindergarten is where our story begins. I was the class clown and you, the little princess. We rivaled for the spotlight amongst the hooligans. We never imagined our bonds could be endless. My friends were your friends so we were a clique. At times we were enemies; little girls have to pick sides. You’d stand by your best pal and to mine I’d stick. Early on, our relationship compared to roller coaster rides. Then Jr. High came and we found new crowds. I remember you became the subject of much...

An old dilapidated bridge over a shady swimming hole. The dirt road that leads you through bee hives and lazy gators. That giant pecan tree surviving generations of my kin. Those acres of Georgia land farmed by papas bare hands. The dark swampy nights on the porch swatting flies. Mostly I want that southern, self reliant, fuck it attitude. Raised in California, I'm lost if there's no Starbucks on every corner.

An old dilapidated bridge over a shady swimming hole. The dirt road that leads to one of natures hidden treasures. That giant pecan tree surviving generations of my kin. Those acres of Georgia land farmed by papas bare hands. The dark swampy nights on the porch swatting at flys. Mostly I want that southern self reliant fuck you attitude. Being raised in California I feel I've been denied.