Humanity is overrated. That’s what he always says, and he’s saying it yet again. One day something will happen and we’ll all disappear and something something. She stopped paying attention long ago. She could try to give her opinion, but he’s too busy trying to understand the universe. Yet, she wonders what is there to understand if he just doesn’t get it when she pounces on him and shoves her boobs on his face and whispers “now, now, now!“
I like writing poetry. It poses a nice challenge: it’s like you’re dreaming awake, somebody notices, asks you “what do you see?” and you have to tell them what you’re dreaming about in such a way that they can see it too. You share the landscape in your mind like you would a snow globe (minus the snow, most of the time). When I’m writing, I’m not really looking for a certain structure as much I am trying to focus and make some sense out of these watery visions. Words are like lenses that help me see things inside me in detail. Thus, when I look for words, I’m actually looking for polished glass. I’m looking for pieces that not only allow me to see better but also sound good when they tinkle or shatter. Besides, this process helps me get rid of that forlorn feeling that I so often get. Poetry drains rotten love out and leaves my heart as good as new.