the white space is desolate
starving for words
as is the space inside my skull
Inner rumblings only I can feel
Thought alone does not satisfy.
Font is the appetizer, letters tumbling onto the page stirred by tapping fingers and words become the tools of thought. The bouquet of story is manifested by language. To write, to dream no more - for in that hypnotic wake of writing is the stuff of life.
I'm back.
2 comments:
So nice to read you again... you've been missed.
Huggz-
Dini
This was well done. You captured the essence of of facing that blank white sheet of paper. The letters and words are there they just have to flow off the fingertips to come alive and tell their stories. Keep it up. Enjoyed the thoughts.
Stan
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