Why must we waste love so carelessly?
The past is a strange beast if not treated properly.
How quickly the past moves behind us
and how it strains to be remembered.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
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)
-
▼
December
(23)
- No More Death
- In the Heart of Winter
- In The Heart of Winter / The Summer of My Life
- He Who Waits
- these final moments
- if the mind can believe then everything else will ...
- A Freewrite Disguised as a Poem (and vice versa)
- Morning Drive
- purify
- Lens
- Living Among the Stars
- There is no choice that is not of consequence.
- fishing
- Three Observations on Sunday, December 14th
- For Anna
- 12 13 14
- 12 13 14
- Check the Apple
- Tenant of the Attic
- Im/possible
- 4 briefs
- We were strangers when we fell in love.
- We Will Cross These Distances Together.
-
▼
December
(23)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment