Winter dawns on me. The cold of the air, suffocates
my bones. I look outside and flowers are blooming in.
...
Her lips kissing your neck, her hands caressing your hair,
could not wake me from my slumber.
...
That's what writing does to you. It eats
your free time, and your soul it swallows
...
Broken
I was not born a poet,
I was broken into one.