What haven’t we found
lurking in the bright meadows
because we’re more apt to scour
the long, draining night?
The slums of faded parchments
have less to fear now,
their faces never slated to grow
the lines that would wrinkle their brow
and make them memorable.
When flowers aren’t cared for
they Continue reading
And here I am running out of ink.
My study does well to confine me
with its oaken, tattered shelves;
I’ve come to scribble, leaving the rain alone outside
And it’s gone and got itself lost.
I never let a coin drop without
it having first been flipped.
I often choose the inveterate echo
over either shiny side.
My thinking cap is brisk and knowing
full-well of its poisonous nature
I don it daily.
It is a bit tight, but
It suits me.
Art by Markus Gann
A blank page, or screen in this modern age, has such a wonderful, mystical and frustrating dichotomy to it. On the one hand it holds absolutely nothing: it’s vastly sparse and unappealing; on the other hand, it can become anything, limited only by your imagination. That is both the great triumph and bane of a writer.
The most astounding piece of writing advice I ever received was Continue reading