The one time that my brush has composed the words to a piece of free verse. Pure, pristine innocence. Encircled. And soon sucked into a stained, spiraling vortex. Of avarice and temptation. Lust. Greed. Gluttony. Jealousy. Anger. Doubt. Anxiety. Negativity. Impatience. Sloth. Conceit. Fear. Withdrawal. Denial. Falsehoods. Ephemeral pursuits. Vice. The preponderance of the I. A … Continue reading Writing, Through A Brush
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