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.

2 comments:

Space Bar said...

Oh god...no!

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.

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