Mar. 12th, 2013

simply: (Starry)
I hadn't realised I was missing poetry until I discovered it again. TS Eliot and Emily Dickinson and Neruda.

Words, I want to eat you up then spit you out in new and fresh configurations, none of them brilliant, all of them heartfelt and clumsy and embarrassing. For isn't that poetry, anyway. It doesn't need to make anyone happy. It only needs to be.

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