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Male , 61-65
Feeling tired
working late writing to my blog

http://goo.gl/45OKRX
We must never see the isolation of the writer as the a social condition, but the devices of a good imagination to do our best.

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Member Since Dec 17, 2013
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Heritage
  • a little French
  • and a little Celtic
  • and a little Danish
Vices
Politics Moderate
Horoscope Cancer
Special day 6-30
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Local Time August 2nd, 12:24 AM

I Write Poetry

'1 Heartbeat' Inside the distance of a single heart beat a lifetime of emotion can exist Love's emotion left unspoken has no purpose To serve no... [more]
therepurposedmale has shared 10 Mature Experiences
  • I Write Poetry And The Occasional Short Story

    "Starvation" Last night I went to bed hungry Hungry for your touch Starving for your smile Gut rumbling emptiness Emptiness that won’t be re… [more]
  • I Like to Write About How I Feel

    'Loves Dark Goodbye' Last night my walls were tissue thin There hung a vale of starry skies The years dissolved, your smile slipped in My heart repeats an aural delight … [more]
  • I Write Poetry

    'The Song of Sweet Taress' Truncheons of despair, surge within him Wintry, his fist, and brooding soul Assails, a sea of darkness solemn Mind, a tangle of lost c… [more]
  • I Write Poetry And I Think It Is The Language Of The Heart

    "the Fire Within' If broken hearts can mend, who will do the mending? once broken are they not more fragile, or less so? Toward a mindful life we bend… [more]
  • Butterfly Woman.........part 1

    Posted on: June 5th, 2014 at 1:31AM

    Days passed on the wide prairie, the Sun pounded the tall grasses while overhead a lone cloud barely shaded a distant clutch of cottonwoods, presently the woman emerged from among the trees. She walked defiantly up the long incline, a wooden bucket handle in either hand. Water tossed by her steady movements, soaking either side of her long skirt, but gradually she made her way up the slope toward the solitary wagon. The resounding wind tugged at the canvas coverings and starlings cavorted in the tall switches of grass, bounding from one stiff blade to another, plucking the unsuspecting grass hoppers as they inched their way up the long green stems. Reaching the wagon the woman rested against… [more]

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