portland, 'hail to the thief' 'is this weird' naked young youthful gestures, hail of a blizzard, rain and water marks on torrential markers, just discipline in between the lines because all guarantees prove false in this backdrop. Young and reckless in borad daylight, the motions hidden less and less. Moving from states chasing an old dream, we used to have the gleaming mountain top peak, critical analysis. Wake up paralyzed from the neck down. Writing to relieve that tension built up in the day spent so quickly. Challenge the notion. No poetry worth of fuck. My scattered brain could not comprehend.
(Apology for a lack of content, conflicting matters to attend to)
