Waves wash over my heart.
It trembles.
I shudder
as the ocean moves
within my chest.
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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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▼
October
(38)
- routine
- You drown your sorrows in a glass of self-pity.
- Faith
- canvas
- What thread through what cloth?
- Fountain
- The Gods have been good to me but why?
- On Sleep
- After Midnight
- a measure of happiness
- Two Versions of the Same Idea
- F.A.I.C.
- How strange it is to feel broken and not know wher...
- Quote Me On This
- erase the words written in pencil upon the page ...
- Questionnaire
- Pool
- corporeal
- Cold bruised skin. What was the story before the...
- A Day Like This
- all music is obscure to someone
- so lips may kiss proving themselves real doing awa...
- There is comfort in our grief.
- Piece of Truth
- Going to Church
- three scenes from a notebook
- use this line wisely do not make waste in this spa...
- start here
- Bored to Deaf
- When does the princess get to rescue the prince?
- unseen compass
- The Choices of Freedom
- breaks
- Possible
- Those Passing
- Togetherness
- Recovery
- beasts
-
▼
October
(38)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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