writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: You and Me
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2010/01/you-and-me.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Monday, January 11, 2010. You're into me, I'm into you. We talk and talk, that's all we do. We share our stories, our lives, our pain. But there's a line we draw, a line we feign. We're close, yet so far. We're killing time, counting stars. Beating around the bush, when we really know. We're meant to be, you're winter, I'm snow. How long do we fake the real feel inside.
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: May 2009
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2009_05_01_archive.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Tuesday, May 26, 2009. Don't know what to name this yet. He hides himself behind the shadows. While walking, he stares at his toes. He avoids conversation and keeps to himself. And even if he talks, no one can tell. But when he's alone, its a whole new world. He knows he doesn't have to do what he's told. He unleashes and reveals his art. But only he knows why he doesn't try.
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: August 2011
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2011_08_01_archive.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Thursday, August 4, 2011. You're Winter, I'm Snow. There was a time when I never thought,. I'd write of love, happy endings, and what not. And then one day, he came into my life. Casually asked if I'd be his wife. You can imagine how it hit me, and more,. That nothing like this, had ever happened before. And now what was I to do, what would I say? So I said yes, of course!
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: We Have Us
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2011/08/we-have-us.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Monday, August 1, 2011. Yes our lives are messy. But who gives a damn. We can sort our crap out. As long as we're talking, we can. Rough day at work,. Rough time at play. Just some momentary madness. Good times will eventually stay. I don't know why I'm writing this. Or tagging you on this piece. I needed to clear out the mess. In my head - need some peace.
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: January 2010
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2010_01_01_archive.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Monday, January 11, 2010. You're into me, I'm into you. We talk and talk, that's all we do. We share our stories, our lives, our pain. But there's a line we draw, a line we feign. We're close, yet so far. We're killing time, counting stars. Beating around the bush, when we really know. We're meant to be, you're winter, I'm snow. How long do we fake the real feel inside.
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: May 2010
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Saturday, May 8, 2010. Writing in the Winter Chill. Darkness sets in the horizon. The day's mist gets thicker and dense. The firewood is out, the coal is ready. The streets dimly lit, no cars, so empty. Behind the clouds, in the jet black sky. Almost non-existent, it hides on the sly. At times showing its self, playing peek-a-boo. You smell moisture, you smell green. I'm yo...
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: Sláinte!
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2011/08/slainte_01.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Monday, August 1, 2011. The wind blew in my face. Chill, piercing, like a thousand knives. I cycled on the open street. No lights, no trees, no life. My helmet being the only burden,. I felt weightless, ever so light. My knees were stiff from the cold. As I pedalled to the nearest pub in sight. I needed to get to a pub real fast. I was going to freeze if I let it pass.
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: You're Winter, I'm Snow
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2011/08/youre-winter-im-snow.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Thursday, August 4, 2011. You're Winter, I'm Snow. There was a time when I never thought,. I'd write of love, happy endings, and what not. And then one day, he came into my life. Casually asked if I'd be his wife. You can imagine how it hit me, and more,. That nothing like this, had ever happened before. And now what was I to do, what would I say? So I said yes, of course!
writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com
Confessions of a closet poet: Writing in the Winter Chill
http://writer-closetpoet.blogspot.com/2010/05/writing-in-winter-chill.html
Confessions of a closet poet. A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. Robert Frost. Saturday, May 8, 2010. Writing in the Winter Chill. Darkness sets in the horizon. The day's mist gets thicker and dense. The firewood is out, the coal is ready. The streets dimly lit, no cars, so empty. Behind the clouds, in the jet black sky. Almost non-existent, it hides on the sly. At times showing its self, playing peek-a-boo. You smell moisture, you smell green. Subscr...
