Sanity leaves the biggest wounds...

There is a stream of thought that drapes our senses in linguistic beauty.
I do not care for the state of language at this point,
my only worry is that god will leave us.
standing with a limp at the side of some derelict landscape.
with our hands in our pockets pinching at bits of loose thread.
Nervousness? or jsut some kind of depraved madness.
And we think of Hemmingway,
or Bukowski
of Dickens
or Burrough.
people are always over judged.
especially those who can write.
and then
when they die
we are reminded
that heroes are just butchers and bakers
maybe even candle stick makers.

{I still think of her, when shes least likely to be around. She is there, prudent and on time}

And i see the end of the day, like some book too boring to finish.
some more void juice perhaps?
or sanity bread?
I dont think so,

'Too much learning can make you sick with freedom' they say.
they say alot of things. especially when they're drunk and high on words like 'democracy' and 'Wall'.

words arent meant to make sense. tehre not meant to abide by law.
They're yours, too share with nobody, and everybody.
So shut the fuck up whining and write about pissing in the wind.