all he had were his words
so long after being confined in solitude
words became an outside world
whiskey was his jailer
loss of imagination was inevitable
for a sojourner he stumbled upon the isle of belle
the nights become so cool for summer whenever he listens to the soft piano piece coming from the feminine windows
stars began to make meaning
pictures began to paint
words pour from the clicking typer
soon enough whiskey could no longer hold bounds
he found freedom
freedom by magic
by the magic of belle isle
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
my soul's faking emotions
like daisies i smile in the day and run Sad thru the night
could it be the fake ones i surround myself with
or the real ones that think little of me
yes! insecure i might sound
maybe i should visit the place u call home
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC