We cut our teeth in the woods at night, light our paths as we inhale; exhale, crooked steps through smoke. Our side streets dirt roads, skipping rocks and school, fueled by rebellion mixed with booze. All we ever wanted was another line so we spoke in run-ons becoming strung out. The whole lot of it left us fragmented, but there is hope at the end; which in a blurred, fuzzy mental state becomes the beginning. Unless of course you never make it out of the woods.
Posted on: Tue, 02 Sep 2014 10:33:28 +0000