You cannot help
yourself, little spitfire.
Stop struggling and
become what you
were destined for.
Box the emptiness,
collect the stars in
your mouth, and spit
them where you prefer.
Poetry & Verse by Nicholas Alzate
You cannot help
yourself, little spitfire.
Stop struggling and
become what you
were destined for.
Box the emptiness,
collect the stars in
your mouth, and spit
them where you prefer.