All Blog Entries

If a true plea had wings so innocent and fair,
through which place or time would mine have to
sour to show that penance is the threshold,
desire, the door, which needs be unbolted to liberate
my stall of lashes, wrinkles, blood and gore. For I've
waded in the depths of evil's shore and have delved into
the caves of leviathans galore
who dented my flesh,
halved my soul and
residued the rest
of me
on the deep sea floor. ...

Well it's three in the morning on a Friday night as I loiter about my comp in crinkled boxers tinged with fruit roll up stains. I've a seamlessly reoccurring dream that I've been in this physical state or mood of thought before and it is little wonder. I'm sixteen years old dwelling in an environment where gunshots aren't aberrational, where cocaine is a euphemism for sugar and where if your dog (or anyone living for that matter) dies in your midst you'd best chuck it out the window before triple-inch-lengthed ...

Last summer during lawn mowing season I would contemplate why can't my eight years younger wife be doing this. Even better spend time with our grand-son while the daughter proceeds to reenact those long lost days of Cinderella's lowly position of door stop. Better yet the hearty muscles of a son-in-law showing the 'old man' how's its done. I can act ever so grateful that the good Lord sent this fine young fellow to bedazzle and relieve me of this shy, introverted daughter who's a little too ...

So, it was a really good day. I've finished writing my first chapter to my story. I'm not going to call it a short story or a novel yet, because I simply don't know what it is going to be. There were some changes in ages and such, but nothing too major. Here is the entire first chapter for everone to read. I hope you all enjoy, and I would like any comments that you have.
~Meg~

P.S. The formatting is still a little off, but I'm working on that. I am just copying and ...

The Conjugal Meet

She trudged with an end of her soul
on the pave of serendipity
lane.

Her glory were bipeds
goading her on, his soul
was a doubt, scudding along
he turned at the bend,
of Jan frost end (so long)
her tickled lips pursed
and he whispered a song.