words have started to be easier to say on a page than out loud.
ink bleeds blue till the touch of the paper turns it black.
we write as if we yearn to listen as few wish to understand.
the transparency of individuality lets us fall onto Wall Street seeping from the stories our grandfathers once told us.
we grapple with peace and obstruction as if it’s hanging us on Capitol Hill.
the man on 10th begs for money, the woman on 8th begs to be seen.
humans are funny that way.
our lives become a reflection of who we never got to be, rather than who it is we got to become.