from one line to the next...
In a scribble white paper
as if bleeding through to
touch the chest... To luv or
Not to luv... Here the
smead taking form in the
moment of the release of
the truth talking from
the impossible finding words
comin from what's been
on the hush... Speaking in
rare form in its own
spread before the eyes.. jotted
down without an end to linger
into upon request... It's times
like this that makes me need
a better friend... Broken down
as if the alphabet pieces
the explanation of self without
being able to lie... Standing
back up jus same as I
went down that one time...
Rolling solo the ball of this
pen spins with the hands that
take to long to get to know...
Giving my words a home...
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