Life is about getting over it, all of the tragedies and all the victories, all traumas and triumph. The beautiful fractures and bruises, veins and jagged cracks asymmetrical maps of linear life falling forever forward. Glued together and displayed in infinite rear-view, the bumps and stitched ridges espousing a life learned as a life truly lived.
One time above a little shop, An old greengrocer climbed on top, Despite himself he could not stop, The world had changed forever. The fruit of that old grocers loins, Became obsessed with notes and coins, She knew the club
The world is a race If you want to succeed, pick up your pace Keep running, focus, put in extra hours, fly solo But doesn’t this make you feel empty and hollow? Be yourself, be silly, be alive, spread joy
Look into their eyes. Eager, wanting to know. Wanting to know what they got themselves into. Fresh faces, years before the first wrinkle. Blank slates hanging on our every word. Each time, a clean slate pregnant with potential. Each time,
In the empty house of snow, though, interred a blade of grass when I was searching one midnight flame in frozen night, on parting lips of darkness. The art of delusion churns the sea for an untitled arsenic, of a