Pen. Paper. Self.
Me. The pen. The humbling acceptance of the blank page. The most performative thing about writing with pen/pencil and paper are the ink smudges caught inside the deepening lines of your hand, the growing callous inside your middle finger.
Works In Progress
The above is a contender for the cover design of a collection of poems I hope to publish in the spring of 2018. My emotions canvass everything from fear to exaltation to giving into this luminous desire I have to share this collection of approximately thirty-five poems. I began writing the poems in the summer…
The Things We Leave Behind
We hear the word legacy and we think of what we leave behind when we die. Our unencumbered reality may well be this: We leave things behind every day. With each breath. Our skin flakes and lands on windowsills, our hair clogs the drain, that time we smiled at a stranger is now as much…
The Only Way Out
I believed the stories others told me, and those darker stories I carry with me. I didn’t understand story. My voice only sang out in poetry. I’d wasted most of my life on one dream. I quit writing stories for nearly a year. I couldn’t not write and there was poetry. . I tried…