In the inkpot of life, the poet’s quill dips deep.
Fear not the rise and fall of time,
Of passion, of ego, of loss – Feel
Until you are like to burst with the feeling of it.
Then write, and feel again.
Poetry will keep you awake at night,
If you let it. Let it. There is no better bedfellow.
May the night tease your secret
Words from you like a lover, asking – no, demanding –
All you have to give. Give it.
And demand the same in return.
They say that you have truly learned
A language when you think,
When you dream, wholly within it.
May you learn the language
Of poetry this well,
And swim in its waters like a fish
Glinting in the sunlight.
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