An old worn out bear with one button eyeand broken stitches for a mouth laid in isolation thinking to itself.Just one hug, why do they no longer have the time?I am worth one hug.The bear thought about it shaking itself loosefrom its dusty spot under the bedthere was little light down thereand as it cameContinue reading “Just one hug.”
I’m prone to bouts of anger, short tempered, the overly sensitive type. Writing is a way to make sense of it all. While art is a way in which I can escape the thoughts that haunt me shutting off conscious thought and allowing my hands to guide me.
