Photo Taken by Supreme Optics Photography

July 17, 2019

Writing back to the summers of hell.

Writing back for the summers I failed.

Booking flights taking off from 28 L.

Looking back for a sun to prevail.

Because my daddy isn’t here.

Most of ours aren’t, and no one cares.

It’s hot enough to cry.

Okay, so mines died.

With that I built my own well.

And ran Portland, singing for the pale.

They get scared of the anxiety I detail.

Writing to home so the blue is my following trail.

Blazing each scenery.

Shining on our greenery.

Danger’s in the repeating tree.

Try something new next sun.

You’ll love the times we had no funds.

-Budd

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

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