I was supposed to walk this earth and make a change, but I didn’t, and I still walk just the same.
These plump tear ducts are ripe for picking. The fields are dry and ready to combust into another weekly fireside sweeper of moral.
But I must be a father to my crestfallen anchor and usher in the streets of baby lying long, watching the teeth cut and sculpt that *** into new laws and lands.
You cannot carry dead weight over chipper sidewalks with the expectancy of waves, without song and stress lifting and pulling shoulders up into the grinding mountains face,
kissing it's cheek for the assurance it needs to hold the flaming skies up for us all here, water starved and ready for transitioning into the painful parent ritual of children treading w a t e r .