500 words

500 words yet unwritten, allowing me to sense their continuous presence, taunting me with their potential and their cleverness just out of reach, blaming me somehow for all the shortcomings of mankind, or at least my own, as if it were my fault that I love them so desperately but forget their order too quickly to put them into the world that expects so much and so little of them.

Life, death and the written word

Powerless

Not so zen

Just because

Revolver

Exceptionalism

Arthritic Flower

from “Still I Rise” by Maya Angelou