Thursday, 15 March 2018


There are still just two genres that exist.
Masks, three or a thousand. Who's counting?
I made these leg weights in art class, bogging me down.
Six foot and then some, still couldn't dunk.
I wear this mediocrity suit as a uniform, 
so ravenously strong, its bulletproof.
I've practiced silence since school to keep my hands from shaking.
To keep my words from breaking, I carve caves of limestones and labyrinths in my head. 
Between crossed legs and wasted days, I'm a busy man.
I'd do it all today but I don't. I like to blame myself everyday just as an assurance of tomorrow.
Last night I couldn't decide how accurate is "dramatically dull" a critique.
So, can you too describe your ceiling in brief?