Hands fall into one another as naturally
as rain reaching the ground.
Small comforts of warmth, tokens of affection
soothing unseen parts.
Caressing your nape, breathing you in-
you do the same.
The world grows silent around us,
the wind raising the hair on our arms.
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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
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2014
(302)
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April
(26)
- Miracles are an everyday occurrence with the righ...
- small tokens
- Today
- Fat Lemons
- West Coast Cool
- hollow like bones gutted of their marrow
- cutting sky above me the plane soars the pal...
- Versions of the World
- The World Doesn't Need Another Love Poem
- SCARS
- It is far too easy to get bound in by the walls ...
- defining perfection
- Destined
- Book Lovers
- Who am I ready to be?
- scattered brain blues
- How can anyone trust me when I've broken so many p...
- She Prefers Mustard
- Once you have known love everything else pales in...
- Cracks
- remember
- I want you to know that I remain here less joyful,...
- a quick respite
- T.Monk
- i was not alone as I sat beneathe blues waves fi...
- underwater
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▼
April
(26)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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