Peace, Love & Penis
Picking yourself up is the hardest thing.
That rip in the fabric of stability seems eternally defiant to weary helping hands.
The need to feel sorry for yourself surges like a giant wave, ravenous and non-discriminating
to whatever joys or troubles lay in your path.
As 25 peeks around the corner, I look back through reflective eyes and I feel disgusted.
It’s been a life spent consuming and deflecting.
This empty space where a garden once grew, now blooms with cobwebs and sand.