20. haiku sentence

There are nights when the blank stare of the page cancel out all commentary, covering the body in heavy snow. Yesterday, yes. Today, maybe. These words are forced. Passive verbs. Bland sentences. If I am not careful I could fall asleep at a moment's notice, accomplishing nothing more than a series of whines, bitter rumination. I want to be able to complete the various projects placed on hold. It's just. I mean— (all I have are excuses. It's time to just admit it. Creating a schedule would help. Not continually moping would help. Or comparing these recent plague years to Shakespearean/Chaucerian circumstances. Do not be a fool. Pick up a pen. Write. Draw. Meditate. Read. In fact, I purchased a copy of Mary Shelley's Last Man. Her language thick with an uncommon vernacular. But then, likewise. Writing helps. Despite its awkward pulse. I remember writing in the past; a bridge is built within my timeline. Current events can influence other writers. It is a viable option. For me a spirituality or craving for something other, these are what spiraled out the words: cracker crumbs left on his side of the dining room table; twenty-four hours of a chilling rain; the dog asleep in her boy's arms; the odd-shaped bruise spreading across my calf. Who's to say? Maybe tomorrow a fire will be lit as the morning progresses.)

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865. silence between words— between the momentary arc of hummingbirds


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playing with the haiku form— @HaikuSentence

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