Poetry to me is prayer.
Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.
Not that it was beautiful, but that I found some order there.
... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.