I am a writer – and so when it’s hard to do, I allow myself to trust the process and carry it me where it needs to go. This never fails. Honestly. Even with writer’s block, there’s always something I can bring forth in my heart, soul, and mind and express it on paper. Writing is magical like that.
Grief upon grief dances together, lies together, tarnishing the vivid array of color we once held. We weep, we weep, and we are afraid it will never stop.
"...and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”
The vulnerability of not wanting to be alone.
We have moments that become memories that become stories that sometimes play over again in our minds like a blobby-ish piles […]
Where I am From by Heather Newell I am from orange and blue skies roughly framed By domineering pioneers and […]
Pumps ain’t the knee high stilettos of Cosmopolitan glamour, Smack. Click. Slam. They are boots not so much made […]
smoke and haze are blinding but somehow you continue to see. piercing, raging, you scream. it stains and with time […]