Not an artist in the slightest,
But I'll pick up my brush.

Every bristle perfectly dipped,
Strokes ever gentle and patient.

My wrist flicks in a perfect rhythm,
Seamlessly blending your colour.

For you,
I do the impossible.

I'll paint the sky golden,
Because you deserve anything other than ordinary.


- Tré

Im done im done
I give up. No more
You didn't care
No love just war

It was a game
I kept no score
It's all offense
No love just war

I am blind
Where is the door?
Led astray
No love just war

You picked fights
You have no core
Just dead inside
No love just war

I've moved on
I flew, I soar
Ive find myself
All love no war

It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.

anonymous, he disembarks
and heads
for any old london bar

and thinks, should I collapse
and die     ..
and drinks to each strange
passer by

What if the question
is older than the answer?
What if time forgets
why it moves,
and the stars
no longer know their names?
What if we speak,
but it is the silence between words
that holds the weight.
The road bends
not to mislead,
but to remind us:
truth is never linear.
A seed does not know
it is a tree.
The stone does not dream
of flight
yet both contain the sky.
I do not search
for meaning,
only the place
where meaning once slept.