As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I have is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of space, of time.

Missed anything?
livejournal - 2005-03-02
romantic love - 2005-03-02
caitlin and i - 2005-02-28
the backyard - 2005-02-28
together - 2005-02-27