My lovers suffocate me,
Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,
Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at night,
Crying by day Ahoy! from the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head,
Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush,
Lighting on every moment of my life,
Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,
Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them
to be mine.
“Writing is like prostitution, first you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for the money”
I wholeheartedly believe that Moliere had it right when he wrote this. I have been writing since my teen years and I can honestly say I am still writing for the love of it. One day it may be for the money but if that day never arrives I will be happy just knowing I spent my life putting pen to paper and doing what I love.