Art

A reclusive girl, in a red dress, sitting alone on a lone rock in the middle of a river, in the early morning

Everything’s already been said. There’s nothing left to say. Everything’s been heard and read. There’s nothing left today.

[continue]. . .

A small, pink flower grows up between the unfinished, wood planks of a home deck.

I flay myself
on the altar of art,
cut down to the bone,
break every last part.

I write it on paper,
type it into my phone,
share it with the world,
and feel utterly alone.

[continue]. . .

Two ladybugs, one in flight and the other sitting on the stem of an orange spring flower. An artistic macro image with a blue background containing more, out-of-focus flowers.

A poem is not found
in an abundance of words.
Nor is it unnecessarily complex.
Poetry is found in the heart
and in the connection it makes.

[continue]. . .