this reality
has always been a bug
who behind blinds in mauve nights
pulls out the paints and is gifted
in realism.
Grief has rained from sockets
over the heaps of pictures
that breathes sighs to pigment saints
they became too wet for burning.
Then again a factory spits them.
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About Timmy the Scribbler
Love to write all kinds of stuff
I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
