matt fromm (march 24 1982 / los angels, ca.)
Poems Start With P
no one seems to get it.
my fingers crawl across this thing
I bleed on it spit on it sleep with it.
its the only thing that matters.
devotion to of all tings
(the written word) seems useless to most
the most are probably right but to be wrong in a world so right is to be perfect at least in my humble opinion.
I have gotten jobs
gotten stoned gotten sober
gotten everything for being wrong.
clearly I did something right.
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