Indifferent Earth
Place of my birth
Silence follows me
I bristle again
Listening
Listening
For a home
I cannot find
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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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2016
(372)
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September
(32)
- Toma'a
- beauty in your eyes dare I kiss your blooming lips...
- late hours turn to dawn what does night say to mor...
- caress your soft neck eyes closed feeling silken h...
- power of silence your lips do not part for me win...
- The Eternal
- Monuments to hubris.
- Autumn of burning Air sits heavy over us Smell of ...
- Waste Your Life
- Adulthood
- You Whom I Loved Best.
- We love the ones we cannot save.
- Gathering Dust
- Advice to Self
- Even the dead pray.
- Immutable Law of Humanity
- Use failure as a starting point for living Experie...
- failure of memory
- Unconscious Functions
- Processional
- This Night (Freewrite 9/12/16)
- two incomplete ideas
- One of the highest functions of art is to elevate...
- Home / Less
- Those Who Sow the Soil
- A Certain Kind of Writer
- What Kind of Honesty Are You Looking For
- Recognition
- Woke Up Dreaming
- On Hope
- It Doesn't Matter He's Dead Anyway
- If I Need Your Help
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▼
September
(32)
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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