ginsberg

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Long arm gendarmeMy mistake namasteBackpack bivouacChanneling Kerouac.Brilliant stars, silent nightsFireflies, Northern LightsMountain streams, fresh air
A beat for those who sold their souls for security of roofs over heads and unions of like minds. Never again having to contemplate the what, or when, or why, or how.
an open book of poetry lies half-read, half-abandoned because as a moth is drawn to a light, the amateur poet is drawn to thoughts of imminent failure   the knowledge of talent unfound, unpolished
  I believe in every word I speakAnd I believe that love is not for the weakI believe that passion can consume, like a fire left to bloom And I need you to understand That this pen, I hold in my hand When I put it to paper, I'm bleeding my soul on
With a Godly breathe he inhales the heavy, yet hollow whispers of the night siphoning the miniscule remnants of assurance loosely woven, each with its own cynical thread
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