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IV.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short, square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
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home.


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i caught "the easter bunny"

i love you even though my 5th period class hates you.


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i started writing at 12.
and i just finished my thought. and every goddamn, motherfucking word is without-a-doubt, perfectly necessary.

that was a nice write.