What love is.
I am such love.No, all the world’s a stage
and we are mere
Janitors
We can write the script.
And dress as Rosalind
And Orlando and live
Like Robin Hood transported.
But the trees; no drink too dry; the glass not half full; yet their throats longing
The trees; think of the trees;
I keep bees
yet stay in awe ; longing for a skirt ; pinkish thoughts
menopause
You say
No Bad Deal for Us; unacceptable terms unimaginable; hollow tree trunk
BUT I say to you:
your no deal WILL be my bad deal
your fake future WILL NOT carry me forward
My Scottish accent is growing – strong
I’m sorry but I can’t relate to that
a response I use more and more frequently.
Is life not suppose to make us grow? Not just make us feel inadequate and somehow missed out on all the fun?
fcukyourbore
ways
time betrspntalon
writ
nigh sens
lies
editspce
keys
fail
ctrl
haltdlte
ends
The only drawback with writing too varied and too unstructured is that people in general tend to dismiss the writing as being all the same, which could in fact be the case but rarely is…
Blue bells
beneath the apple tree
I climbed
In childhood dreams
Windfall
Ripe for scrumping
and pie
What were we looking for in the fog of each other’s eyes?
What were we reaching for in the mists of our pasts?
I have to admit to having a soft spot for Mist…
The Arts
The ever encompassing (f|t|p)arts
Compelling as the mist at dawn
The sunrise over a desert mound
The divine infinitude
Embraced
