And I have another pair just like it.
A New Year's Poem for all to share,
with Alka Seltzer everywhere,
above the fizz and fuzz and fuss,
a joyous wish for all of us.
Buona Notte.
I’m trying to write a Christmas poem
But nothing rhymes with poem but Nome.
Or loam. Or foam. Or home. That’s good.
But nothing rhymes with good but wood.
Not everyone truly lives alone.
Hmmm.
It sounded more dramatic in my head.
Must be the way I thought it.
There are writers who think and thinkers who write. I think I am the latter.
Though I suppose those aren't the only options.
Somewhere there’s a heart that beats for you.
It isn’t mine. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
It isn’t mine. But I can comprehend
Why someone possibly could desperately
It's too broad a category.
The writer can only experience the book as written. The reader can only experience the book as read. The editor (if you are lucky) is the bridge between.