the purpose of destruction
is always present.
I archive my feeling,
attempt to give grace a go,
but just write a stupid poem.
it's raining,
and I have become hyper aware of my mouth
since I have stopped drinking.
smiling at the horizon,
so many buried hatchets,
but without problems there would be no solutions
I am a little boy
but my body is 40 years old,
the past is letting me live.
just a clown
wondering aloud,
how soon is now?