We writhe and contort in these early hours
until we wake. Only then do we find the night
mare all too real. Sweat pours down skin as
you wonder, What is next?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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
-
▼
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment