Poems. One.

I dawned full length sleeves over the empty cartons of my enjoyed flesh - this morning - overflowing in deep-whispered carnal snarls, with supple breath, and my gut on a fierce prowl, I began sniffing the air for direction to that pleasure vein, the gold vein deep underground that I know must be somewhere close, under my nose, maybe even, in my bones. Sure, dark. Sure, vast. but It keeps whispering. I was able to take a deep breath, staring at the impasse, the rock wall that formed in front of me when I commanded my dreams appear. Arriving first as vapor, then an impasse, they revealed themselves not so much cunning as wounded and offered redirection. Full stop. I looked. Deeply. And stayed….

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Hope Littwin Comments
A Bundle of Raw Nerves With No Epidermis

This is the life of an empath, with a shit ton of ambition, who oscillates wildly between the unquestioned assumption  that though she has mad skills and consistent output BUT because she is an artist, she ultimately is seen as low value to her $NYC$ $habitat$ ($$$) AND the knowing that because she is tuned into the unseen world of emotions, which are the real stuffs of influencing the peoples, its only a matter of time before she reigns supreme. IDK. It’s exhausting. Don’t do it this way. If you know of another way, tell me all the things…

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Hope LittwinComment
How Do You Eat an Elephant?

In the world of here today, forgotten tomorrow pop tunes, I stand by the belief that musicality is not dead. I still believe in lush orchestration, beautiful complex chords, incredible production, highly trained and gifted talent, devotion to the craft, much shedding behind closed doors of garish practice rooms…I think we can have it all. Quality and quantity. Deep work and pop-topical output.

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