“How are you? How have you been? Who are you?” I don’t know how to answer these questions anymore, where once I had perfectly formulated, sure-as-steel answers. I’m still catching my breath and making sense of sounds. I’m experiencing the first summer in two years. In many ways, it is…
IdeaSmith is not just my name. It is an identity. It has been a journey. It became a saviour. And then a ray of hope in my hardest time.
I’m punk, you’re cheesy. And now I’m writing poems about your loving but you got there via the punks.
A glass of lemonade and a whole relationship dynamic in one swallow. It’s all ice shards and acid.
He writes of the isolation of chasing material dreams. I saw exquisite poetry laced with slivers of pain.
Do I truly have no regrets?
