--For Nor.
She braids my hair...
I told him, dreaming is good
it spits stardust on our despondency...
There is this whir fluttering the air
with its strange tongue...
Those people can touch
me in so many ways...
All the poems I wish your lips could feel,
to taste their raw discontent...
'And how do you cope
with being so far away...
Tears in my cookie dough
makes salt rivers flow...
I believe in love but I am human
And I’m starting get a crush...
A baptism within this rhythm prism
Realism for the realist has concealed this...
The old oak has
dark histories...
Is it about my bookshelf
or is it about the depth behind all those books on...
These twisted
old bones...