The pages in my
old journal are like
the gutter of a house.
streams of unfelt
words washing from
the roof down into
the overfill.
slowly draining
into the sewer.
To filter then move on, but even in filtering I would think that you can find gold nuggits A clever write, Love Duncan X
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can relate.1 in 5 I don't destroy, but the other 4 are flaming turds...