…the art I make is worth it.
Vengence, unguarded, has all but been abandoned. Anger, the burning coals the buddha talked about, drop them. See their sparks as they grind into the Earth, then darken into nothing. No time like the present, no fear but the accented. This is where I should always be, yet it means nothing when you stay stagnent.Continue reading “Why A Poem Never Belongs to The Author”