Thin Dark Line All The Facts None Of The Flavour
An uninspired poet wrestles with his words. Am I poetic
enough? This is all a faade. He reaches deep, way past
exploding capillaries. His bloodshot eyes are not the
only sacrifice. He reaches out, he reaches in. Say what
youve known, but he doesnt know what to say. Write what
you know. Well, know what you write. Well you know what?
Youre right. An uninspired lifetime, unedited wasted
youth, climbing deeper inside empty attempts. Will anyone
understand the choices that he makes? Will anyone connect
with what he has said? No stories to tell, no lines to
sell. Expression restrained.
