From the depths of Baudelaire to the brilliance of a Byron in bloom we jump into the vapid rivers of a self reflective doomed and isolated soul, eager for an early suicide reminiscent of any romantic worth the drool he holds in his mouth.

NONE OF THAT INSTAGRAM CRAP
NO TIC-TOC BULLSHIT IN Sight (well maybe a little)

( No limericks here).

Lo and behold, slack jawed and in awe, contained within is the latest collection of the soon to be famous forever poet of all nations D. David Croot!

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-Any advice for a society in moral decay?

-Naaaaaaah, It's always been this way

-Any other comments?

-I kindly ask you to read my novels instead. Who peruses poetry these days anyway?

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Trigger warning, too much heart may be on display. You may weep!

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D. David Croot has been writing on and off (pretty much continually) for nineteen hundred years. He is no preternatural creature, no real special abilities or heightened desires to speak of, but he’s put in his four-trillion hours and it’s all for you my sweaty precious and sublimely beautiful creatures.

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