the spine, crawling across
skin like a lovers caress.
green fingers tousling hair,
taking hold, taking over.
a hundred fingers over your
mouth. muted horror.
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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)
-
▼
May
(47)
- Broken Glass
- Yes. Yes, We Could.
- Home By Any Other Name
- Why?
- It's A Long Way To The Beach
- Evening
- Esperanza
- The fairy tale came true for you.
- Disappearing Act
- Dudes & Damselles
- Plantlife
- Over Turning The Rock
- RE: Words
- Genre Jargon
- Plate Tectonics
- Post
- the Why.
- The Final Meeting
- breaking time
- Conclusion Written In The Middle Of A Bottle
- Small Kindness
- Essential Knowledge Of The Western World
- A Smattering Of Random
- Communion
- this Demon
- The Creator Has A Master Plan
- Crystal
- Photographs
- Girls I've Known
- This Weekend Wasn't Enough
- Little Ducks
- Within Grasp
- Wine/ing
- Pieces Of The Past
- But is it true?
- Weathering This
- Restraining A Blossoming Flower
- Factism
- Exquisite
- Fresh Tendrils
- Razors Razors Razors
- Free Write #1
- Splatter The Wall With Red
- In Heaven
- Helen Oh Helen
- sc old
- Who and Where?
-
▼
May
(47)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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