For the most part, I was busy emptying myself. I saw an old women selling roses, and I wrote a poem. I saw someone die of hunger, I wrote a poem. I hurt someone, I wrote a poem. I fell in love, and instead of saying something, I wrote a poem. I haven't seen someone I loved and grew up with, for ages, and I never tried to talk to them, but I wrote a poem. All this time, I was getting rid of parts of me that hurt, but at the same time creating more each day so that the cycle that my life now revolves around continues, so that I may have some part to get rid of tomorrow, some part to turn into a poem.
I often have a dream where you were penning a poem. Crystal clear lines arose then like royal emblem. But then I woke up, poem incomplete; one writ then also quite hazy now. I try again to pen the poem. But what a pathetic man I am— one with a begging bowl, pleading hapless a soul, a dry tree in a desert, foliage nor flowers nor fruits, mere trunk and stem!