Tell me what's the difference
Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.
I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.
Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.
I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.
This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?