I have drawn my death one thousand times. I have never written it, So I continue to breath, But breathing brings thought And thought is like the fire – A common mistake
The ring finger has always been the most sensitive, It searches for hairs grown backwards & thin, It carries promise, Sometimes an honor – Other times a curse.
The understanding of impact hurt more than the landing My foothold lost in battles for self So I drink my last vice from chipped glasses Hoping I won’t cut my voice
It’s been a long, strange road A hundred conversations That never happened Words I’ve waited for That are never spoken But I’m glad you finally learned to spit