How easily you come undone
beneathe the weight of our feet.
When I see your kin
smeared across concrete
I can't help but weep
inside, wondering
if it could've
been me.
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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
-
▼
2010
(584)
-
▼
March
(39)
- Lost In The Forest
- Circumference & Circumnavigation
- A litt
- Back To The Fork
- The Poet Tree
- Seasons Change But The Words Still Remain
- Finding Us?
- The Real World
- L to R
- Sarah Sera
- Four Lines For Naught
- Community
- 2 Pieces
- One
- Little Lamb
- 1/2 an attempt
- E.T.C....
- History Lessons
- Goodbye By Way Of Attrition
- Where.
- Is this the fear that drives me?
- And Then There Was None...
- A Reminder To Myself
- An Illusion
- Life
- Modern Love
- Fluid
- How It Falls
- Stray Lines Without A Home
- Little Snail
- Samsara
- Inconvenient At Any Time
- dead
- Shards Of Glass Glimmering In The Moonlight
- A Ball Turret Close To Home
- Sisyphus
- Caravan
- White Curtains
- Corner
-
▼
March
(39)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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