Feature photo by: Jon Tyson (unsplash)

June 27, 2019

Writing a book is hard. So far delays be the par. But when love is the game, we’ll paint until fame is our distant scar.

When we laugh we thrive; ignoring the deep interior cry. Meanwhile, working and getting shit done is all who we’ve become.

When our sun peaks, our inner joy will beg to speak.

Behind each crime an ignorant fool. With society’s rule we mistake them for becoming a tool. A wrench to crank lost people; because numbers will drown us by the peep hole.

Taking a step back you’ll see the wall you dwell behind. The hole like a star; inviting the small particle we truly are.

I like country music, but what is it to inspire the guitar martyr? Running on mile 7 under a Strawberry moon, I sang to the people like a rock & rolling fool.

Missing the dream that took flight. A lifestyle and I cannot look of fright.

Only time will get us running; the love we spent once cunning. It wanted you. Therefore it is you.

Don’t bother the type case because love has no color for race. Otherwise, you too were taught to love in a specific case.

-Budd