A few minutes respite is all I ask; my being, it aches and groans, threatening to fall apart. The threshold of my innermost self is all dammed up, at the very core of my soul is liquid poetry and sometimes, when my head is full… my eyes spill over.
YOU ARE READING
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.
