Underneath my pillow
Because i like the way
It feels like
You're still breathing
At the back of my neck
Like the way
You scribble your poems
On my frail arm
Poetry is a different language. Altogether a different one. It has implicit rules, weird kinds of freedom and tasty colors.
When somebody asks you, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" and you answer " I want to be a poet", they will either laugh at you, look at you sympathetically and tell you to get a "more secure" job or ask you "Aside from that...?"
(Should i let you see me smirk?)
I'm not complaining. I mean, i have been one of those pessimists/"realists" before. But I realized that i SHOULD teach myself how to LIVE. And fully LIVE.
I can't afford to be confined with papers and lunch meetings and iMacs. Deadlines, boss liaisons and gasoline. Of SMS deals, paychecks and rebonded hair.
I want to write. I like its mystery. I like its energy. I'm obsessed with it---whatever it exactly is---throbbing inside me...like a baby of five months.
Go find me a rich husband. Because I'll just write... :)