Story

Hollow point honey buns, running holy rift. Had a dream, once it sold, the buyer called thrift. Found a home in an empty shell, bored just like walls. Tried to cut a doorway, the knives were all too dull. Emptied every pocket, couldn’t find an eye. Only found a promise, a promise became a lie. Words fell short on paper, the spirits have no ears. A friend became a bottle, a life became some beers. The story was the writer, the writer could not cry. Even when he prayed more, the writer would not die. Wishing for adventure, the writer forgot to try.