
Living Under
The warm breeze punched me while I was harvesting my crop where I then stood to watch the rolling hills of golden blades of wheat swish and sway and glitter to the vicious wind.
Whatever this is, is whatever the hell I want it to be. Enjoy the Chaos.
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The warm breeze punched me while I was harvesting my crop where I then stood to watch the rolling hills of golden blades of wheat swish and sway and glitter to the vicious wind.

By James Bryant

He lacks conviction.

Here’s a few limericks I wrote.

The gas giant makes a come back.

By James Bryant

The Revolution may not be televised by the press, The Revolution may not be written by the papers, The Revolution may not be heard by the radio, But it will be shared.

And why it matters

And how they can fix it.

A poem by James Bryant