My loud pen laughs as it cries
tearing apart blank spaces
to prove: I'm real, I'm here,
I'm a god damn failure too.
Sin is a theme that sucks boots off,
a muck that says: come on in,
dirty is no disgrace, we are all
going to end up without feet.
If a page is written, it may as
well be spoken, for shouts
shoulder the same burden
as vertical line over dots.
A humane place, a world with
grace, these locations are too
specific to make strong cases
for universal standing water.
Mosquitos like it here too.
Take of the blood, the body
is as willing as the size of
the pin that pricks my arm.
Roman Ryan 