Not being who I was.
Wrinkling, day to night.
You’ve cut the string to my kite.
The years bounce from wall, floor, wall.
Norah Jones, Sober, Motionless.
Quietness, Asleep.
Nevertheless, Awake.
Hush.
Piano chirping, Ears at rest.
Eyes heavy, Not even close to the best.
The youthful boy inside,
Abreast with wayward lies.
“Like brothers on a hotel bed.”
Hey Chris “These are the words unsaid.”
Journalistic Writing