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STRANGER LANDS
Folder:
CLICKITY CLACK
Underground gutter assassins polish their potholes by dumping and scrubbing vehement floods and streams of bleach, designating this peculiar little neighborhood, cripplingly unique, due largely to the fact as follows, since its sole inhabitants you couldn't discern any significant difference against calling literal Quasimodo-esque hobbits; hence why they hide, yes, designating their respective numbers, according also to their own strange native tongue, and finally all merely to mark these cute little doors of their kind, so to speak, and shutting off until the next knock, knock, knock comes knocking around.
in my reading, this could
in my reading, this could ultimately be describing a hidden, odd little community that lives apart from everyone else.
Outsiders see them as strange, even deformed, and try to “clean them away” or ignore them.
Because of that, the people keep to themselves, mark their own doors, and speak their own language.
They only open up when someone comes knocking. At its heart, it’s about how groups that don’t fit in are pushed into hiding,
but still hold onto their own identity behind closed doors.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
Hit the hammer right on the
Hit the hammer right on the nail there, right in the sweet spot there, ya hear me?
peace, pot, tequila shot
Jesus loves us, stoned or not