Is the grass fake?
My walk is blind,
A rider's high that leads my stride without form,
Without template,
The mindless reek of silent desperation,
That muddies the grounds for creation,
And of that mud that hugs my soles,
The worst of it is conformity,
The means to meaninglessness,
A mental asskicking,
Only let up to breathe by the wake of thought,
The flower of individualism,
Stemming from that marrowless bone,
Deeply sucked and deeply lived by those who dare to walk.
J.U.
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About the Creator
Ames Upward
My thoughts and feelings flow out of my mouth and splatter across the walls like a paint. Let my tongue be the brush of your heart and mind. May my words shape a masterpiece of your soul..
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