That's what writing does to you. It eats
your free time, and your soul it swallows
it whole, so that you don't get hurt
by flesh it breaks your bones with inspiration.
And, the feeling while I'm writing is this ecstasy
that controls my senses. I was meant for this,
ink tainted fingers, blank pages and this loneliness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem