Tuesday, 19 July 2011

A poem in the writer's shoes

A poem does not write itself
No matter how alive it can seem
No matter what disguise it puts on
The red lipstick, the long copper hair
Or the most arousing smell ever

A poem cannot write itself
Without the senses of the writer
It will wear her lipstick, her hairdo
And her perfume
It will adopt her personality
Walk the way she walks
And be still whenever the writer’s senses
Decide to retreat to the real world

Friday, 8 July 2011

On endless Fridays

Fridays are like being trapped in a purgatory
with one foot in heaven and the other in hell