COYOTE BLOOD
poetry, art, mistakes, music, love, visions and everything...
Morning Poem
my hands smell like gasoline,
why which, I have know idea.
Abby just called me a "Wigger",
but it's okay; I love her.
are we the only reason for each other?
maybe, shit.
throwing a tape ball
to the wall to see if it sticks.
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