ginsberg
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I have seen the tortured minds of my generation rise out of the ashes of insanity naked in new birthborn of one-night stands to fathers angry at street-level poverty looking for another damned fix
Long arm gendarmeMy mistake namasteBackpack bivouacOn the Road with Kerouac.Brilliant stars, silent nightsFireflies, Northern Lights
A beat for those who sold their souls for security of roofs over heads and unions of like minds. Never again having to contemplate the what, or when, or why, or how.
an open book of poetry lies half-read, half-abandoned because as a moth is drawn to a light, the amateur poet is drawn to thoughts of imminent failure
the knowledge of talent unfound, unpolished
I believe in every word I speakAnd I believe that love is not for the weakI believe that passion can consume, like a fire left to bloom And I need you to understand That this pen, I hold in my hand When I put it to paper, I'm bleeding my soul on
With a Godly breathe
he inhales the heavy, yet
hollow whispers of the night
siphoning the miniscule remnants of assurance
loosely woven, each with its own cynical thread
