My woeful sapphic life
so hidden and tragic, yet so free
she is my ungotten fruit
and muse

I do not know why, but I have had this insatiatable craving of creating poetry all day. It might possibly be because of my own discovery of a few poems I had done a couple months back, very random poems, that perfectly and appropriately fit my favorite poetic prose style known as Sapphic Stanza.

'if you stay out here in the cold all night, you'll die.' you said, taking my hand in yours, bringing my fingers to your lips. 'your hands are like ice.' i didn't look up at you because, although my hands may have been cold, your touch made the rest of me catch on fire.

Just a bit of 411 for the community at large -

We've decided to come out of the closet instead of trying to cover it up, which would never work anyway. Besides, many of you already know. So here it is:

Gregory my best friend in S.F. says i should start writing the story in my head. SO HERE GOES! This is just the beginning, this work will probably be very very very long. I have no idea what to call it, but it is what it is. Hope you enjoy it!
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