Reaching for the light
outside my window
I stop my hand
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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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2015
(328)
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June
(20)
- Do dreams paralyze Watching the wandering sky Lear...
- Destroying myself One evening at a time Rebuilding...
- I speak to the night She asks if I am lonely Your ...
- Anarchy by Numbers
- Be careful with the words you read and let live in...
- On Change
- How could so many years have passed since the las...
- Reaching for the light outside my window I stop my...
- Rip me to shreds Blood and flesh Nothing left
- Morning Meeting
- carve words from my tongue create new lines of me...
- selective vision what is there for us to see cou...
- you smile in your sleep what does an infant dream...
- the moon stares at us gazing in admiration our m...
- I don't want to see your beauty fade and see you ...
- Big heads, small minds.
- Why worry about what you've done when you know wh...
- Let it happen
- What I Have Learned
- Even obsession fades in time.
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June
(20)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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