Love, in the time of cancer
I may have months to live She sighed and looked at the bulb The specks still there As they were counting the Days like borrowed coins. She don't...
I'm a thinker, though not always a good one.. I think I'm a flicker, rarely predictable and do not have a schedule or an ambition to write bigger. I write, because sometimes writing leaves a mark in ways nothing else can.. I don't write consistently, but when I do, I feel like the quiet is listening. I don't know how it works, maybe no one does.
As someone once said, “What is written belongs to the beholder.” So maybe it means something. Or maybe it's just words..