am.

they both had the magnitude for capturing the ability to spread aesthetics, simply and inegotistically, as one should.
but both, both were young and careless and naive, both crippled a tad, both sat upon by friends and lovers and money and school.
both graded and put and told, and though both had a few words that rhymed and were putt beautifully both were weak and cluttered.
he went on, a bit of a godless young man, and everyday life, paralyzed the moments in which he thought sheerly, in which he could sit to think of why he longed to speak to the unknown.
why it is that upon hearing that in the very tips of nights god, god in all his might reverently and merciful traveld down to the earth to be closer to his worshipers, to forgive and grant them, to mend their cavities.
to cover them with balm.
why it is that he was soo deeply displaced by that.
she, she was the essence of joy and fun and leaps and humour and carelessness, but not in the least of ways.
lonesomely she would wish not to be remembered.
silently she would wish she would write only to mend the cripple of mundane life.
upon witnessing each other, they cluttered within each others ugly.
the poet and the guitarist, knowing the spark of what is trivial to the world
sat admiring a blue bird that stared at them then flew away.