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...
If only I could write a sonnet, sigh
perhaps, my thoughts could get well organized...
Someone once asked, why do you write?
I replied, “because I need to let it out...
I.
"I feel hungry,"...
In the village of Heydon,
a civil parish of Norfolk, England...
At night I dream of suns so bright
Of flowers wilting up with fright...
It is through you, my beloved, poetry
that I have found a universe...
Thinking, thinking...
The clock is ticking...
It’s not you
it’s her hips...
And to think that I used to write everyday,
And now, I just write every other time...
Man, I don't know...
But I could be a bottle...