Sfumato

Lying within this collection (a bit short I know) are my first samplings of poems and stories. Writing has been something of a constant companion to me over these recent years, and though many writers have said this before, and will continue long after we are dead and gone, it's true, it is a friend and a lover, and at times (if not most of the time) an enemy hell bent in destroying you. But he, or she (depending on what gender the creator would like to attach to it) comes to you first as a tease, then a mere hint or possible suggestion for an idea; and then finally (after many hours hitting yourself on the head and wanting to quit), a story; the creator hopes it is a good story, or a poem, or maybe even a song lyric. At the end though, it is yours, ours, this final creation. Us writers; we who are mouthpieces of comtemporary culture and history in the making, we take it with us to our graves. Though some of us play out our deaths or lives quite differently, it is true a writer does so in his and her pages, and in those those pages, our epitaphs, our last gasps. I hope to be there too, among those mortals of the written word. Either way, I know I'm going to enjoy the ride. And this stranger, yes it comes to me strangely rude, and smelly, and nasty, but at the end; like I said, whether prose or poetry, it eventually settles in for comfort, and stays all the way to your death bed, with it's ears always faithful to it's master's tongue.