Savaja

I am compelled to write poetry, erotic poetry, poetry. I always have been. It is curious how one can set aside something, yet the compulsion can become so great that it must be picked up again and resumed, even when one believes the muse has abandoned the idle heathen. Apparently, it is not so. Not life's vicissitudes, tragedies, comedies, or boredoms have managed to silence the craving, urge, necessity: I am writing on a phone next to a child I finally got to sleep...