Monday, December 17, 2007

The Machine

There are days when I am a machine, churning out words.

Not the mind's manifestos, but the heart's need to imprint.

There are days when the ink is oil, smeared on my fingers.

The shame of pages I have snatched at too quickly.


Space Bar said...


Anonymous said...

and some of us visit your words warehouse first thing in the morning. gobble all your awkard oil stained inkless words for breakfast.