Poems kept close, now left open on the desk — come in, the lamp is lit and the chair is free.
"If honesty is a sin, then I've sinned in every poem on this shelf — and I'd do it again, in the same ink, without once asking to be forgiven." — Aparyx
Arranged the way a library arranges its shelves — by subject, with its own call number.
No poems match that search.
I'm Aparyx. I write because some things only make sense once they're on paper — and even then, only barely. These shelves hold what I couldn't say any other way. Most of it is open to read. A little of it is locked, on purpose. Come back whenever you like; the lamp stays lit.