November 12, 2019 would have marked three years of my poetry being on display for all to see. What I really meant was that it would be my first time being sub-bought by the crutch to erase all the awful things I would say to myself. Question. What has no tongue but a throat filled to its brim with the bones of shotgun riders? That was literally my best attempt at flirting. I'm not very amicable on the road. In fact, fast forward about one minute and five seconds in and I will welcome you to the best parts of my visions. With my addictions take precedence over flat chested staircases, steps that have had more attention than my outside world. Carpeting soaked in new world order my massage in these six inch thick hyperbole. The ladies just love when I lick my lips. Grab my ball and run besides. Grand Daddy ain't here to play catchboy. I wonder if he's proud, child. If Nana's famous French toast has the same taste, you continue to write with such conviction but who's sitting at the table with you. And then I wake up nodding back into a reality, a sick twisted joke these pages are holy ghost-filled and sanctified. Nobody is supposed to be here.