Oh saintly night,
you, where the moon strolls by...

So windy are the days when autumn comes
that even some leaves that once fell with...

Someone once asked, why do you write?
I replied, “because I need to let it out...

I.
"I feel hungry,&quot...

If only I could write a sonnet, sigh
perhaps, my thoughts could get well organized...

Thinking, thinking...
The clock is ticking...

It’s not you
it’s her hips...

It is through you, my beloved, poetry
that I have found a universe...

At night I dream of suns so bright
Of flowers wilting up with fright...

In the village of Heydon,
a civil parish of Norfolk, England...

And to think that I used to write everyday,
And now, I just write every other time...

Inside a car, with windows up,
A doll with braided hair, sits...