The lines just look at me as if begging my hands to push pen to page, make ink marks across its wide open space. My journal sits by my bed, in the car, on my desk. Its quiet wait is still and patient, sometimes haunting, as it dares me to enter and offer up something new. The act of writing, a curious bird, as words spread wide against the blank page as if wings stretched across the open sky.


Categories: Misc.

No comments yet.

Have a comment or reply?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: