she slammed the door andwas gone.I looked at the closed doorand at the doorknoband strangelyI didn't feelalone.

Struggling alone, like the everyday and ending with the same fate.

When you are convinced that what you offer is yours, whether it be mediocre or of standard quality, your originality will make people love you in a way you did not expect.

Writing is such a solitary occupation that it takes a long time to build up a group of professional peers with whom you genuinely identify.

5.57am and I__ finishing the last poem to the taste of the last cigarette. Smoke in my lungs, poetry on the paper. Inhale, exhale, it doesn__ get much easier.

There is no darkness when I go to sleep; the wicked, as they say, never truly rest. I see blinding flashes of desperate arms reaching out, I hear cries for help over the crackling of burning wood, the ashen remains and the gut-wrenching smell of charred bodies.