For days when I am porous

November 14, 2008 irishwordpainter

I write in a language that has no translation and bleed invisible ink that runs through the southern most tip on a faultline.  The Northern Scars.  There are no maps or road signs marking the path out of this madness.  Later, I will tell you how one stumbles blindly out onto the streets of insanity.  I will even tell you the names of the avenues that house more pain than love.  But first, you must tell me if you believe we write the songs in the only language we know?

Entry Filed under: Sadness

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