Bad Poem, made of spit and tarred bark(no edit), trying to get back to the flow.
smoking my amaturer ciggaret
think to where i left my butts behind.
and believing, so desperately that, past my
gut, my fat strong legs, where my mustles cling like
leeches to bone. to the eathly hollows below.
my thoughs drew clearer. i belived in the roots and in my legs.
my mind forgot what i was doing and thought of excuses for the impishness of my smoking
but back to basics i ran. my jerseyed torso agains a rock, connect to grass, mushrooms and bark. and forgetting my own fear of death. for a moment i saw.
and i can say i saw.
