My eyes are blind so I cannot see.
Can I grab your hand and lead you
to the sounds I hear?
Disconnect expectations.
Let your feet walk on new ground.
My skin feels the cold.
Hairs stand at attention.
Is that your hand on my neck?
Touch me there. I cannot see.
Is that your hand on my neck?
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
-
▼
2014
(302)
-
▼
March
(23)
- bridging a gap
- Every life will become a past life.
- What Sound? What Touch?
- those who lead
- witness to memory
- Cracks Overhead
- 5 Non-sequiturs
- Petty Problems
- Two Observations
- Dirty Children of the Sun.
- If you are in my thoughts you are never really fa...
- Small Acts
- I am not a mythical creature. I am very much real.
- wild beauty
- Oh Lord, forgive because no one else will.
- Racing through Hell.
- Hold Your Mother's Hand
- Hap
- nothing new in the mirror merely my face agin...
- let the daylight in
- Knife Fight Massacre
- Without Dissent
- At birth
-
▼
March
(23)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment