Mar 29, 2016
It took a forest to mill the reams bound within obscene seams to hold the scrawling of my dreams and still it teems, and still it teems be still, these fleeting, wilted things
These poems and odes these refrains poised with pain posed as lame quotes and thank you notes laments and laminated monuments to love loss and aspirations
ballads of pretty glass and the crash, cacophony coffins to emotions remote and forgotten some feel like egyptian cotton when unwrapped some are better off left trapped and still I scrawl even the scribbles in the margins speak with a southern drawl
