Sometimes I think my verses are bare and raw.
The same way I believe I have a way with words,
I feel I don’t.

Sometimes I wish I could shape them,
so they wouldn’t be so direct—
that I could mold them
like water atoms between my fingers.

I don’t know.
Strange.

I just don’t want to be
so dry,
sometimes.

Poems come and go.
How many have I left unwritten
simply because
I had no paper in hand?

They attack me without mercy—
sometimes at the break of day,
sometimes at nightfall—
but always,
always,
after a powerful feeling,
after a great illusion.

Always,
they are with me.

I don’t want money!
How many times do I have to say it?
I know my verses will lead to nothing
But at least I’m whole
Isn’t that what we needed?
A purpose
I’ve found mine: writing cheap poetry
that only sells to crazy hearts longing to understand
Understand what?
I have no idea
I only know that art is this—being ecstatic
Not trapped in some rule because someone said so
Do it differently
Put that dot outside the curve and
Tada! Art!
Only there does the magic make sense
Sorry, babe, you tried so hard to make me rich
But I found my wealth elsewhere
I know, you’ll tell me that money can’t buy happiness
But it can buy many other things
Still, without it
I found peace

I thought only in prose
I could be whoever I wanted to be
How mistaken I was—here too!
I can be a thousand and one things
And you? Can you be who you are without art?
I doubt it
But if you show up before me painted in gold
I’ll believe
Yes, I’ll believe
The world is mad

I decided to run a test
throw a few words on paper
see what would happen
and I was amazed
by what I found