poetry – whisky sweet

First Lines

The paddle in my hands moves my craft where I need want it to be. I am adept as I weave with against the current

quiet fills the spaces left behind as the setting sun has spent its final glory for the day. the world waits and eyes are closed

I say that I’m not creative, that I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I assure you, when you say I must be

i want you to read with your eyes closed. i want your senses to play musical chairs and have sight be the one left standing,

words, they seduce me. drawing me in and twirling me around them as if they were my lover. their seduction, burrowing within my mind, is

a revision of an earlier expression of mine I am she tears at me from my depths searing me the rawness of her