irk is to erk as write is to right
I forgot how easily the words come to me when my heart is in my own hands, and I'm sorry you missed out on it, people chanted my name and for the first time I didn't hear yours. Why would I? Aside from the self loathing hot spring our mothers birthed us into we have nothing in common. From there I chose a road paved in gold and you chose the swamp lands.
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Unfiltered, immature (but maturing) rants, poetry and (current) findings of the first leaf in my adult years: These are mainly stripped of my independent "self". They are projections of myself in the relationships with men, women, art and the earth that I created in an attempt to free myself from isolation, childhood terrors and hurt. I've created a new blog for present/future - much more art - individualized pain - and everyday questionings. #likehoneyburning.blogspot
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