Things written long ago and maybe more to come.
The smell of a mother is softness of heart.
When you sit in a chair you still see through your own eyes.
Do I have the will to live until,
From first hand shakes to goodbye hugs
a single leaf i received tonight
Dear Innocence,
Jesus is my paperclip.
My own pen is a mighty sword that stabs myself.
I want to shove this pen right down my throat.
By the side of the road I see a broken umbrella.