when you read this think of all the people you know that are sick an struggling just to be, to hold on, as we walk around without a thought, an we do walk around with out thought.

my ladder has me reaching, climbing, striving to reach for the dream that pulls me forward, as knurls are forming in my throat and stomach,


it's like my exhumed flesh fighting the endurance of waste, my time is rare, like judas kiss all over my body, i weep as tears do not form, mybody has no moisture, i can see that clearly now as i look down at me.

it's only the exhibit of a movement, a thought, a want, a need is gone for this body does not need anymore, a outer voice is here, it's like a intercom struggling to be heard, as i ajust it to fit my height, my beining, floating higher,



with intention i contrast me, as anticipation utters my name again an again,