The skies thunder, the earth rumbles, and the seas thrash about; yet the worst tempest somehow resides between my breasts; entrenched under my skin, encased between my organs. I shan't experience the joys of satiation, nor the misery of lack.
“No rest, no rest” the winds seem to bellow at me. I scream at the skies, disconsolate! Maddened even! Must I suffer? Must I suffer to create art!?
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Quiet women and other myths: A collection of musings
PoetryI wouldn't go so far as to call this poetry (which would imply that *I* am a poet), but I can safely call this a collection of musings, thoughts and sometimes badly strung up words about anything and everything.
