We’re talking about art here
Do I make it short? Do I let it suddenly abort? Do I go on and on and on? Do I let my words just mourn? Do I let iambs burst out? Do I make it compact and stout? Do I in syllables fly? Do I have words that fret and cry? Do I write...
The edge of reason
When words move out of their homes And emerge like stubble, all prickly It is time to shave them off We carve our future with a dose of ambitions But sometimes the cravings get out of hand, Boisterous. It is then time to take the whip out. A stubble can be boisterous but not a...
