If I cut myself open
will you love me more?
How many secrets,
how much truth
do you want from me?
Will you take the blade
and press it to your belly?
Steady your hand.
Let me give you mine.
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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
About Me
life
When I am not writing this is what I do.
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