Poetry, like a skilled seductress,
creeps on me from behind,
kissing my neck with moist inspiration,
shivers race down my fingers,
as orgasmic muses in febrile semblances,
cascade salaciously on paper.”
“Poetry is an elixir; a soothing balm to life’s plenteous
maladies; a shoulder that drinks up the tears of our mind’s unkind tragedies.
It is a bloodhound, sniffing, seeking, the lifeblood of
villainous questions.”
“Poetry is like fire:
It burns a tyrant’s ego
and heals a soldier’s wound.
It purifies gold,
and beautifies clay.
It awakens Morn,
and sends Night to sleep”
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