her spoken word is much more graceful than her written yet my oppinion is just that and I prefer to keep it close and drilled to pieces of myself where juandice and jubilation run ridden in the irridescent afterglow of midday

so alive soulive in the glistening pool of remainders where we meld and mesh in the slush turned crystaline pure

my eyes burn for water and ice and I think of only fasion and fraud twice removed from my surroundings yet I am a constant painter of landscape and all things preordained to be beautiful

my mind cannot fuse any longer and I feel the falling redundance of thought tearing a new home in my abdomen where I used to toss my first drafts and other garbage

youth spoiled like grapfruit on the counter ticking away the very time we wrap ourselves in

we hold onto so little yet are held down.

why?

PEACE - Tristan