Thursday, June 11, 2021

Summa runna cumma, it’s twenty-won.

Gotta short fuse, watch what I get done.

Gimme all my money—I ain’t short on funds.

But my writing block’s over—that shit was fun.

Speaking and I’ll repeat, I am his son.

Twenty-won the sun shines for my runs.

Modern day hustlin, my money ain’t fussin.

With incomplete words, I should buy full verbs.

But nope. I publish dope.

Creatively struggled against these ropes.

Writing a beast who overcame being broke.

Money issues choking at my got-damned throat.

Went forth anyhow—my body’s a boat.

Floating through life to give up?

Competition should hope…

I don’t mope. I just go.

Unlike me long ago,

Writing for broke.

Grab a coat.

It’s cold,

Bro.

-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 words we speak become our vehicle; what you read is how I digest them.” -Budd

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