Poetry

Woe be onto whomever ventures hither, for the path onward is long and winding, and in the end, quite inconsequential. In spite my troubles and lacking talent, in spite blasphemous grammar, in spite  arduous mechanical prose, in spite spite itself, I endeavor to tell what the heart seeks to tell and linger. Like a fart.

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--Recents--
--Highlights--
The Monster of Dover
Oct 17, 2020

Deathrose

Sep 5, 2020

Tooth Thief
Apr 24

What Doth the Sun Say? 
Feb 21

Sleep 
Dec 12, 2020
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