My voice is a tiny grain
in his skull to be devoured
by vultures or fertilized by madness.
Evey morning as I rise I
pay homage to his stony
face. I read novels into
his stature that never moves
He never remembers anything
beyond his well preened shoes
I type with one eye open well
into the day. In stillness,
he stares narratives through me
Frantically , I write nightmares
in bold font until I am spent.
At midnight I place him back under glass.
My eggs firmly stored in his basket.
Great article
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Thanks
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You’re welcome
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Oh wow. This atmosphere.
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😌💕
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I love this image!!!
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Thank you
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You’re welcome. Have a wonderful day!!!
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You do the same 😌
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😊
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Marvelous pic
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Great mystery with this one 🙂
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😊😜💕
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Amazingly and pencilingly well done. Such vivid imagery and the photos helps to bring across the feel.
Love this, Tosha. ❤
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Thank you. You’re the penciling best
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Wow, I think you should probably lock him in the attic!!
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Ha! I threw him down the basement stairs
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Don’t go in the basement…
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😁
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I love the imagery and vibe this article conveys
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Thank you
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Is this about a notebook? Or something else in which you write?
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It was my attempt to be a little spooky. 😉😜😉
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Haha, well then it worked! I was just thinking too much into it.
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Then I was just thinking too much into it 😝
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It can mean anything you wanted to Maine. That’s the beauty of poetry. I hope you’re having a wonderful Monday
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I am Tosha, and I hope your day’s going well too!
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Thanks. Ir is xo
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