Poetry does not come from inside you./You must seek in order to write
Category: Arts & Entertainment
So just hug me, let your arms/Fall perfectly where they belong
What am I to a cockroach?/Or what is a roach to me?
This is the time when the sun/Descends below the horizon—the ground/Is cool, dry, hearty and beautiful with/Thick golden hairs—of all distant things
My heart hates my soul./My mind hates my spirit./I’m corrupted.