the sad letters of empty pages sit with me and my daily wages, mother whispers from miles of hue:
back home my son they look for you on window sills where hang the stars that pluck the notes from your guitar, are you this coffee memory across the table, across the sea? the frogs and turtles have come to pass to sing the chorus of the grass, to drown in rain of lines unwritten to wait for you pick up the pen, to write your blank letters on sad edges to read with me the sky’s pages
I am a Social Worker by day and an artist/writer by night. I use the written word in an attempt to make sense of the secret worlds and dysfunctional dynamics that lurk beneath the facades of our daily interactions. I am not sure how my writing styles are characterized, nor am I overly concerned about it. I am immensely enthusiastic about music and often connect better with songs than I do people. I also have an intense appreciation for quality wines and whiskies, frequently consuming them in excess. I like things that smell good and struggle to manage the symptoms of a life-long relationship with depression. So, why "grumpygorman"? Spend some time here and find out...
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