When one cannot write
It is not writers block...

Blood are tender,
though the fangs of thorns are made of stainless...

Look
how inflated I am...

Our expanding
only circles to reflect in the given radius...

London
caressing the bruised pelt of a perpetual wisdom...

The timbre of a crying dog burning in the...
unsettling like unknown...

Poetry is the might
to individuate the most latent blooms...

All the night
sea...

how pretty you are in the vanity mirror
is how the mirror...

The black man Jazzes
and fire...

Was I ever P like a penguin, living in icy...
or free like the D...

God is the basic good,
The rest, one, has to learn alone...