AtherNess

I tried to think of something to write.  A poem and a great one, which provokes tears, like he read to me yesterday in my car (for her, not that I minded).  But the words don’t come as easily as they did when I was younger.  Mind, those words weren't good ones. They were the type that came out of me in such magnificent forms but that inspire only embarrassment when reread with cautious curiosity.  Awkward rhyming schemes and forced wordiness cause winces and sarcastic questions as to possible mental instability when read. Beneath the questions are still the words, subtle references to a d

I could be sleeping, But sleep is living death and I would rather read.