It used to be a toy, pretend really, but then the severity of art set in.
       
     
 Sometimes I found meaning in the static.
       
     
 The cool curvature of the past grips my fingers when I yearn to let go.
       
     
 I remember feeling the bass in my chest and thinking I was going to die. Or, maybe it was her legs.
       
     
 The horizon bled into my story and smeared all of my words.
       
     
7.jpg
       
     
6.jpg
       
     
 It used to be a toy, pretend really, but then the severity of art set in.
       
     

It used to be a toy, pretend really, but then the severity of art set in.

 Sometimes I found meaning in the static.
       
     

Sometimes I found meaning in the static.

 The cool curvature of the past grips my fingers when I yearn to let go.
       
     

The cool curvature of the past grips my fingers when I yearn to let go.

 I remember feeling the bass in my chest and thinking I was going to die. Or, maybe it was her legs.
       
     

I remember feeling the bass in my chest and thinking I was going to die. Or, maybe it was her legs.

 The horizon bled into my story and smeared all of my words.
       
     

The horizon bled into my story and smeared all of my words.

7.jpg
       
     
6.jpg