a series of ??? (without the brass and chrome).

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Following the river of another thought spiral...

The truth is that I haven't been well in a long while.

As my fascination with the past is the illusion of a life without endings.

So now I go there to pray, while there is a condescending voice.

My stories are a commentary on cliches.

But Anna lou gave a shit, and now she is dead.

It's calm of the night and absence of a hope that is external.

A series of ??? cut me down to the heart of pain.

I am not in heaven, and I am afraid to be dead.

Is it a poem if it reads like a blog post?

We are organized to the music of ideas, not the rhythm of rhyme.

The effect is a justification...

But even then, it could use some brass and chrome to let the world know what it is missing.

He made his name on nightmares...

 

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