Walls of the air do not crack as there exist our stories lingering across the streets. Our thin cucumber bodies/ oiled between a decade of romance speak nothing but of arid lips and concave lust The brooding sniff of the moon to sink between my large womb. She often speaks to me of you. Your abstract ways of unraveling things behind the layers where mockery hides. To pleat the abhorrence of life, your bones are my memoir. my spot of expanded prints & rainbows.. Make me bend and scream, your coral colour creaks on my tongue. To the tress, I wish to announce a twig suddenly has fallen.
I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...
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