this is the aftermath of incubation.
a creation that aborts itself
.
.
.
continually.
inside of me
there’s always a death
waiting to happen
.
i see the corpses
of every idea i’ve suffocated
in the dead of night
under
the most comfortable of pillows
︎
DO I EXIST ? DO I EXIST ? DO I EXIST ? DO I EXIST ? DO I EXIST ?
SHAT ON FOR YEARS,
THEN LEFT OUT ON THE STREET:
AN AMERICAN STORY
THEN LEFT OUT ON THE STREET:
AN AMERICAN STORY
chapter one: cradle to grave ...
ALL POSSIBILITIES ARE EVENTUALITIES