IMPLIED SECRETS: Poetry slides an incisor behind our addiction to living, rips essence from its bones and grinds us chunk to paste, half sustenance, the rest, waste. Verses are beds for the senseless masturbated to perfect sense. Sentiments and sympathies in micro-doses of self-psychoanalytics affixed to symptoms,
ticks, and epiphanies. Come inside, we have odes to sing. *** These verses twist trauma and grief into self-loving peace, a therapy cushion of words and doodle artwork. Come feel the dark so we can see the light again.