I was born in Glendale, California. I call Los Angeles my home. As of late I roam. I have no patience for blog posts at the moment. I just want to sing songs. But I can write short sentences and feed the beast and make it feel alright. I've got a home for the night. I've got friends with shelter and flowing water.
The bed is calling me. It would be either way. I'm learning all about talking by listening to people talk. Let's let these ghosts go walking, by walking down that road.
You point and shoot and wander round. We make out homes on hallowed ground. We've got our friends and we've got our church. We've got our pains that have to hurt.
I have a desk and a couple beers, some cigarettes and a language full of spears. I let them fly. I let them fly. Most of them miss the mark, and that is fine. What matters most this time.
Poetry in paragraphs. Lets not revert. To things that hurt. Let the memories stick, and the strong ones more. I hate to hear an artist talk about her artists chore. But what I hate much more, is an artist who says nothing, lyings saying "Art no more".
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