Winged shoes in flight rarely touch the ground.
I have known no one who would rely on a cloud.
Cirrus is rarely serious enough.
She spills icy tears and other sentimental stuff.
But Venus is lilies, roses and violets.
and Mars is lies, ruins and violence.
The wirey tight rope between is soaked in blood.
Cutting through souls caked with mud.
Mercury's net sits just beneath.
"Catch me, Catch me" Venus pleads.
"Earth is spinning much too fast" she says.
Get me off of this whirling mess.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
stuck-wallpaper, tickled, matted-madness, in the morning before matinee wallflowers at school dances just want to be asked. ask them. they...
My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...