Forget this poetry
business and bullshit.
Words become stale
and brittle as bread
left on the counter, but
words have been around
a lot longer than a loaf
of rye. I imagine the thick
amber of syllables coating
me and hardening over years,
over centuries and tedious
millennia. I tire of ink
and the clicking of keys,
I'm tired of regurgitating
night after night
the people and faces, plants and places
I digest throughout the day.
What the hell do I care
to share with you anyway,
the things I want to consume?
Paper and ideas are limited
resources.

Blah blah blah... graduation... blah blah blah... future... blah blah blah... lifetime memories... blah blah blah... et cetera.

Evite

I'm so impressed right now, I might throw up. I would only throw up over something truly magnificent. http://www.fengsunchen.com/

Today the world
is only big
enough for two
words to fit into it
: not, yet.