Monday, March 9, 2015


(i wheatpasted this to a  stop sign in silverlake)

Overwhelmingly committed
To the urge to not communicate
I grow tired of the disease
Where the faint smell of caramel
Gently seeps into everything
As though, growing venomous, day-by-day
Ever gets old.
 The wings that have held me up
are holding me back
where the thunder breaks the storm of my heart
in the reaches of those ancient places
where there is something beautiful and noble
in words

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