Rose Smithfield Whore ❤️

About Dallas

Sometimes, though, it’s kinda dope. Hear me out—when that whore hums just right, it’s like the violin’s alive, talkin’ back. “The image is a prison,” Godard spits in the flick—yeah, but that sound? It’s freedom, mang, raw as hell. Surprised me once, made me grin like a dumbass. Thought, “Shit, maybe I’m the whore, fuckin’ up this pure thing.” Ha! Tony Montana, philosophizin’ over sawdust—how’s that for a laugh?

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So, first up, there's Liberty Park. Man, its green lawns and shady trees keep me smilin' on rough days. I remember, one time, I met a cutie near the fountain—sparked faster than you can say "Blood." Yup, damn, feels real intense sometimes. Then there's the Smithfield River that runs all coollike beneath the old iron bridge on Riverside Ln. Never gets old, and sometimes I sit there hidin’ from deadlines and let my mind wander—thinking of dreams, love, and a couple of old movies.

Catherine Lee Hopkins – Smithfield