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 the 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.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: