.... it pours out of you like blood, staining the crisp white pages with ink. Smears of truth that you can never pull back into your body. They are there, out in the world for everyone to see, more baring than sprinting naked through a crowd. There is no feeling like having written. Welcome back, muse. How I have missed you.


This just poured out of me, and I was compelled to put it down somewhere. This seemed the right choice.


Is it ridiculous to feel the thrill
that clutching rush down in my soul
reaching out and touching you
and you're reaching back touching too
Back to me
and I can see
that little sign on the window's door
Hello, How are you?
Did you seen me before?
How long it took to pen this note
just to ask a line or two?
But what I'm asking's so much more
A note, a night, one tender moment burning
A chance, a try, for the rest of our lives
Does it scare you,
because it scares me too.