its face
I grow
weary,
wondering
how,
why.
I ask
without end.
There
is never
an
answer.
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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)
-
▼
August
(61)
- No Explanation
- Said the Moth to the Flame
- Belle
- on the approved path of life and love
- About time?
- Days
- No Where
- Naja's Place
- Familiar Stranger
- An Uneasiness
- Mama and the Devil's Music
- The Midnight Blues Garage Stomp Boogie
- Sickness
- Censorship
- Internal Dialogue
- A Gentle Fragility
- Human Nature
- Effect
- For Paul Proteus
- In The Dark Any Dream Can Be Real
- Nesting
- Through The Blinds, A Sunrise
- Balin
- Four Years
- Future Widows
- Unsolicited Advice I Gave
- Friend,
- Nocturnal Creatures
- Limited Vocabulary
- Creating The Master
- Lies & Life
- All of our loveis unrequited.
- Cycles of the Seasons
- __________
- Creating A Tapestry
- Expansion
- Time is Tight
- Before and Before
- Explorador
- All The Words We Cast Into The Water
- One For The Girl In The Big City
- Lyrical Fodder?
- Erosion
- Movements Of The Earth
- Scraps Of Thoughts Piled Upon My Desk
- -isms.
- The Freed Pendulum
- A Call
- Om
- Asking The Deaf
- A different kind of death.
- Jesse Hoffman
- Speculation
- Vingette For Passing Moments
- Enslavement
- A Great Patience
- Active Reader
- Murderers Row
- Sap
- Glass of Water
- Agents of Time
-
▼
August
(61)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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