I wrote a letter
on a beacon of hope
gave fate the return address
but sadly, I still sit and wait
for tomorrow
and tomorrow
maybe tomorrow
but sadly, tomorrow never comes
every day is a search
every day a wish
please
please
oh please
but sadly, nothing is found or returned
some days I see shadows
some nights a mirage
could it be
could it be
could it be
but sadly, none of them are really you
there are moments where I believe
there are moments where I truly feel
that I will see you again in time
as it passes
and passes
and passes
but sadly, you're still disappeared
Frustrated because that momentum you have with writing has now been sabotaged by the process of editing? Stop and take a break. Allow some time for your creative session to cook. Even days. Fresh eyes are kryptonite to the backspace key. You can correct me if I am wrong. – Ash
I went to a coffee shop tonight and wrote. I do that from time to time. It was very productive, always is because of the atmosphere. Sometimes writer’s block is not about where you are in your head. It could very well be about where you are physically. Change your space, I bet you’ll change your pace. – Ash
Boats sway nestled to port quietly breaking the ocean toward the shore its laps catch my ear then, I see I watch as the moorings drip counting seconds for no reason high over in the charcoaling sky chimney smoke rises, strangling the hills there… blips of buoy lights reach north and south tomorrow to be a beautiful day this, a story, a grandfather tale to comfort me as I am ushered home by the dear harbour before it can sleep it sings lending me its sounds for sweet dreams to come allows me the harmony of its salty crests until I turn my door in goodnight I listen for the songs of the harbour
four shadows passing by midnight the king, the jack, the ace, and the joker pushing and shoving…jousting in jest their laughter lulling the moon as street lights froze everything in time and the world just slept shuffle and stroll in the wake of the chopping shore they poked and praised, challenged some more free until the sun began to peek then they retreat with the dampening dew enough stories for a thousand tomorrows from a single night a key to a forever yesterday
The body was easy to move from the place to the car to the boat. As it always is. Premeditation is kind of my thing. I have done this same routine maybe a hundred times. No, I believe it is a hundred and six times. Yeah, a hundred and six. You know, blondes are my favourite of all the women. Slightly more gullible. Usually more attractive. All of them walking by themselves late at night. Coming from their restaurant shifts, drunken bachelorette parties, or on their way to an ex-boyfriend. Then, I would present myself to these tired, these tipsy, and these texting specimens. Most nights, it is an unlit cigarette in poor lighting that works effortlessly. Cliché I know. Although, there were times I would fake a bleeding lip on this fragile face of mine. It was easy with these ladies the way I look. Always so helpful they are. But now I am bored. Unmotivated. No more of this killing racket. I am done. Finished. The girls just do not seem to fight back anymore anyway. Shall I leave a clue? Maybe allow one to getaway? Hmmm. Better yet! How about this one? Number 107. I mean, after all of that and you, my pretty blonde lady…are still breathing.
took a walk-in summer grass picked a blade, made a sound the air was country wild strawberries sweet like lazy cats we lay for hours In the filthy hot, in the no time afternoons sometimes on the highway to anywhere I had never been, now I was away from home, but home In a holiday dusk I remember watching mosquitos dance we hid in quiet as the sun went to sleep while children ran through the tall trees like tiny beasts searching for their capture there was so much laughter inside my heart a new smile I learned to grow pure place full of running and joy town between the seconds I’ll be back again someday
Earth To Ash 