Force a meaning into single lines
stacked upon another like cordwood.
A forest reduced to stumps.
Your tearful face.
Where you used to roam.
An age at an end.
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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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▼
2010
(584)
-
▼
February
(37)
- Chien / Pero / Dog
- This...again.
- Hypocrite
- In Space
- Another Night Lost In Downtown
- The End Of The Evening
- How She Does
- DONT CALL IT LOVE
- School
- Park Pantry or Everywhere and Anywhere
- Sweet Flower Of Youth
- La Voz De Un Angel
- A Vision Of Self
- Not A Poem
- Response To No One
- Another Kind Of Tension
- Sensation
- Dilemma
- A Split Dialectic
- My Dear
- A Love Less
- Time
- Womb
- Aftermath
- Morning Motivation
- An Edged Trifection
- Damselles
- The Hand Of
- Collapsing Chrysalis
- Lines Bound By Fate
- Passage
- ABC
- Falling In The Rain
- Axis At An End
- Vibrations
- Natural Order
- Rorschach In Your Eyes
-
▼
February
(37)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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