Spilled Ink

A piece of soul in ink, and unto the paper it spilled. A collection of thoughts that rhyme from a wandering mind.

Prismatic Memories

"i. they tell me they 
cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them
that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. science. history. iv. but i want to speak. there are moments that fleet...