Listening to the rain. I’m home. The sands of time can go fuck themselves. Each of them. Home wasn’t always a thing I knew. Home was a faint whisper about Honesty and relief. Home was a deepening hole begging you to never tell. Never tell. As hushed mushroom grew in the shower. A blistering mouth spewed throbbing beginnings. – Listening to the rain it’s hard not to love. Now that I am home. And I am home.
-M. Taggart
mtaggartwriter 
Love this..
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Good to see you
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This is really great!!
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Thank you
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