A return to the pen on paper. Ink from the soul splurged on a white sheet. Will you consume my smorgasbord of spelling and reprieve? An art that dies will resurrect a need for transparency. Return to poetry. The ache to master the language of the babbling baby. The need to communicate as an adult. Shakespeare expectations meet cliche. I am not a poet, but I write as I grieve.
This is a random collection of my writing. When I write, I attempt to be fair to all my readers. I accomplish this by giving them my unhindered soul. All works are copyrighted.