When I write...I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

i am infinitely yearningbrimmingand overflowingin wordsi discoverit’s another wayfor meto be in tears.

all the wordsall the poems know my warm, soft spots.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

How....will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.