a night spent
not so alone
has been a pleasant respite
from the usual
emptiness that has been.
too soon to tell
if anything is happening
unless it already has.
life does not always need to make sense.
embrace the embrace.
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It's always getting late.
When I am not writing this is what I do.
"In the present we are always in memory." - Trish Keenan
It's always getting late.
Introduction
This blog is a virtual notebook of writing that I maintain as often as I can. Poems, stray lines, random observations, all co-exist here. Revisions occur as needed/deemed fit.
See/Hear
A Chronological Archive of Joy and Heartache most often referred to as LIFE
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▼
2009
(385)
-
▼
June
(36)
- Origins and Obituaries.
- Asleep Before I Laid Down To Rest
- fra g men ts
- Distance and Emptiness
- No Sense
- Sol
- The Most Moving Poetry I Have Come Across
- A Day Of Death
- The Cold War Was a Failure
- Burn Out
- Flaying Flesh
- Shed Upon The Ground
- For Neda
- Words From A Dead Night
- The Vanity Of The Vain
- All The Mad Men
- Form?
- Chaf
- Vintage
- Remember Nothing
- unfinished
- Eraser
- The Aftermath Of You
- Forward Four Word Forward
- Memory
- Tale Of Brave Ulysses
- Without Measure
- Words Written On Scratch Pieces Of Paper
- make sense
- After A Morning Conversation
- Long Nights In Unfortunate Situations
- deuce
- Eight Workday Thoughts
- Respite
- rush job
- His Name Is Alive
-
▼
June
(36)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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