Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks. Who sponsored and inspired the poem. A Brief History of Babel. To see the rest of the poem, click here. Only 18 poems to go! .

My Work Featured On Daily Literature Deviations on DeviantArt. The Stepping Stones To Becoming A writer. What It Felt Like To Write My First Words. The Highs and the Lows of Being a New Writer. Haworth and The Bronte Sisters. One Day An Angel Came Calling.

Poetry, Quotes and Nature Notes. I appreciate all the LIKES and all my followers and apologize for not posting on this site as I originally intended. Alas, for the time being my story fountain has run dry.

When will we stop killing each other? When will we have peace? When will we tire of the crimson flow of shed blood? People talk about change, but they never act. The next day, they pick back up the axe. Am I the dark artist, the clouded poet? Is my mind the forsaken empty, the vast unknown? Where do I belong? This is my honor, my prayer, my plea.

When I was driving home from work this afternoon I started to think of this blog and its lack of updates. I think the general trend is that when I dress more, I write more. Usually, around February or March, I cease dressing up, in preparation for shorts-season, and with my wardrobe so goes my writing. When I become Justine I become a canvas. Justine is a creative expression of mine. There are few people w.

When I wake each morning,. I gracelessly pry my eyes open one at a time. Even the dimmest light is still too bright for me. It is always the right one first,. For no real reason,. You are uncomfortably, perfectly warm. You rub the crust from your eyes,. As do I, leaving black smudges on my fingers. As I erase what remains of yesterday.

After writing for more than twenty years without ever publishing any of my works, with great trepidation I created this blog in April 2013. I am still overwhelmed by the warm and friendly reception I received from this community, the positive feedback, the supportive comments and the general familial spirit which abounds in the blogosphere.

Because a new kind of madness left me stung. The melody, the beat, the quiet crescendo,. The timbre, the resonance, the eerie vibrato. They all seemed dreary, all seemed sad. But little did I know, they were all that I had. Every note I tuned felt heavy. Every strum I made felt weary. Music is free, yes, music is freedom.

This afternoon I had this view from the backside window of our house. Beauty lies in the eyes of its beholder. Beauty lies in the eyes of its beholder. An old photowork of mine-. Nd I close the door of my darkened chamber; I sit-.