These are outbursts often in times of sadness. In times of loneliness and isolation i record my poems. When i am comfortable i rarely write. This is a great site allowing anyone to write a book.
Is this a word,
I have it and yet it was there in the clearing it left me.
Gripped by a certain energy,
Crystal beneath the setting sun,
Burning beauty in a misty haze,
The heir to immortality plays listlessly,
Through caverns we run,
My head grows big here
with ideas i want to get down on paper
Lorca, Picasso? Relentless questions