Marcel Proust on Reading and Dying. No prior knowledge of Proust or his epic, seven volume novel In Search of Lost Time.

Irreparable, are the expanses of her contours. In a world where the wind owns our Marilyns, how dare we leave virgins outside for the prowl. Inch by inch, we alter life as we know it. And then we ponder why blisters are forged from our unknown. Perfection was not to be our destiny. Progress, the only target we should harbor. Fears of fortitude, pronounced more by uncertainties.

Okay, now the hiatus is over.

This was one of the first poems I posted on WordPress. And I thought it could use another airing. Flashes of strobe and heady weed streamed through a carelessly ajar door. The earth swirled and tilted when I arched backward, just to hear you swear as my hair tickled the bare tops of your thighs.

The Poetic Journey of John White, writer. A New Direction NEW! Posted by John White. Any move away from our agenda. Will quickly earn you a label. That we can and will plaster there. For all the world to see. Go along with us on this. Ride toward the granola sunset. Ever be spoken but where.

Woman getting jealous of women? June 21, 2015.

When you look in my eyes,. For behind them I am horrified. And fingers wringing as voices say. There are footprints in the snow. That lead to my home.

Puget Sound, WA, United States. I like to write . really, really, I do . Can you tell? View my complete profile. Rhythms, Thoughts, Words. Ma Chanson de Rien du Tout. For the ones living for the night.

Who are you and what the hell do you want? At The End of Ideology. I still meet people who say that high school was the time of their life, but many more call college the golden days. For me personally, high school was an oppressive and creatively deadeni.