I cannot escape.
let me feel your silken hand
once more, fingers gliding
softly over mine.
grabbing you by the hips,
drawing you into myself.
where did this night go?
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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)
-
▼
October
(38)
- lo que veo es lo que quiero
- Dear Olive,
- Willful Isolation
- eyes without a face
- the night ran away from usbeneathe a blur of sound...
- Are You Just Like Me?
- another incomplete fragmented idea
- A Preferred Method Of Sanity
- What The Night Does During The Day
- The Loneliness Of Winter
- Bury Me In The Sky
- The Ring
- Let's Be Clear About This
- 3 Tankas
- Compass
- Question:
- Beautiful Grey
- Wishful Fiction
- Good Company
- Reminder
- Burial
- 10 10 10
- Two Trains of Thought
- fr agm e ...
- Finding The Ones Worth Suffering For
- seul
- The Mirrored Hand Of History
- Maybe In The Next Life
- Couch Sitting
- Getting To Bed
- The Ocean Is Falling From The Sky
- Predator
- le coeur de la nuit
- P.O.V.
- Debtors Prison
- Sirens of Morning
- The Birds of Morning
- Drama Queen
-
▼
October
(38)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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