Go Write Through It
Go Write Through It
The problem, she said, with being a writer is, it’s never done. The line never ceases movement even when the end arrives – The ripples created on the mind span an ocean so vast, so incomplete, There’s no shore to find, no place to rest. …
Enough now. Enough of the stops, don’ts, doubts, blank stares at empty pages. The Death card has turned up for ego – so small yet so loud – a sparrow’s cry in a canyon echoing – an illusion of bigness. Peace doesn’t live in illusion. …
Sometimes, it just happens this way. Fall slams on the trees, the air chills, and I remember. I remember running, my feet pounding into the soft pavement, the smell of my new leather jacket, and catching up with her and running faster, faces streamed in …
there is no noise but in the hollow of my ear I hear the swift click of you at a typewriter. Ignoring the cold chilling London 1962 A steady drip of water from the bath breaks you — Your Children through their evening ritual and …
your name became a scroll across the bottom of the screen today – followed by dead. needle. arm. and I wonder if at the moment when your second hand stopped you knew the gravity of it, or did it surprise you, too? did your eyes …