It may be my weakness
That I write and live
Without revisions
Or blend endlessly
My painted blue
white horizons.
It may mean I am
True or careless yet
I don't care
A bit. Just trying
To live
Honorably
Speak truth
May I someday
Make all the words
Arrange in a flow
That portrays
How a man with
Heart needs no erasures
No fan brush
Or cleaners
Just a bit of spit
To wet his finger
As he composes.