Poets and writers drink more intensely. Smoke more intensely. Worship God more intensely. Poets and writers fuck more intensely. Poets and writers give more willingly-- spilling the alphabetical marrow of their souls out into the albino sonogram of hope that is the page, hoping some stranger whom he or she has never before met turns to his crafted syllables in time of dire need and somehow finds solace, finds laughter finds a friend.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
on her birthday...
Five mile run through the leftover autumnal haze of Bradley park as the metaphysical menarche of dawn broke into shards of glass perrywinkle overhead crimson smudges like bad 80's mascara before transitioning into shingles of light...life tastes just like yer lips baby, fresh and just a lil' wet and ready to blossom into the covenant of spring...
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment