Dirty, weaved rope from the hammock holds a choke now. It’s all in the name of discipline though, a place where character shows.

Solitary nails placed hurt into inanimate. There truly is no use in the noise or explaining it.

I do not wish only pleasure to persuade me, yet the thrill of a sharpness isn’t minute. I could muster up quite a stew with just a few brew.

Dickerson bay, who monsterrize...

The recollection officially has me begging

Desperate case of sobbing

A pounding heartache a canary fly over

Mother’s yellow purse and a clutter of things

The skin on my gums are even further beneath

Soothe and propel

Adolescent rebellious furthermore

What’s in question is

The setting aside of bosom play

It’s repeated and I’m defeated.

Cave painting millions maybe.

They told the story....

Life is like a sharp stick…

It was selected, I’m guessing by my maker.

Leaving an impression in Tyler’s left leg

Us kids at an attempt to outsmart the frog pond as if we knew where harm might be hiding.

Chatter amongst us warriors having found this useful.

It was amplified in our minds that we had power with these sticks.

We could avenge addiction, abuse, and learn to parent.

If we just wie...

Astonishingly, I found myself prepared for gloom.

Whoopty-Do

I’ve put up, the fudge the fudge.

Bet it’s in a recipe book somewhere.

Somewhere in the peripheral....