October 12, 2019

It would come at moments so quiet, our ego’s pulse would sound.

Silence in realization that we’re here… was all we ran for.

It would be an hour of power, for us, by us, and forgetting bones so untough.

Each word we breathe was a quail.

To syphon the others’ attention vail.

The one hat which lay atop what thoughts they stop.

Begging in silence, we have words you’ve unthought.

Here’s your destiny; fail in the preset bravery.

Become one as the channels let him be.

I’m not of the be all you could be.

The respect, however, is in me.

You are me—I structure through a doing.

No one gets it but me.

Encrypted codes for lineage to see.

Not even I can read me.

But eventually they’ll see what it meant in thee.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

2 Comment on “What Writes Is Best Not Spoken

  1. Pingback: Running Back Where I Planned Further Away | @VehicleDigest.net

  2. Pingback: From A Place I Wrote To @BarackObama | @VehicleDigest.net

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