A writer reports on the universe. When he presents his credentials, the gates of heaven and hell are equally opened to him. He can hear the devil’s defense and god’s accusations. The guards at the king’s heart let him in. The writer can be anything and any one he wants. When he writes he is a god, he creates.
Don't fall in love with me. I am not one entity. I am a multitude of phantasmagorical entities. I am the poet. I am the writer. I am the wanderer. I am the philosopher. I am the beggar. I am the king. I am the drifter. I am the hunter. I am the creator. I am the creation. I worship my own gods - Bukowski, Kafka, Hemingway, Rand & Plath. I listen to my gods - Beethoven, Mozart, & Tchaikovsky! Don't fall in love with me! I am not one entity. I am a multitude of phastamagorical entities.
The Throes of Poetry - Hymns formed from groans of acquaintance, its rhythm weaving between tranquility, compassions, and peril - like bare feet stomping on broken glass - bleeds, recoils, then steps again.
I used to be afraid about what people might say or think after reading what I had written. I am not afraid anymore, because when I write, I am not trying to prove anything to anyone, I am just expressing myself and my opinions. It’s ok if my opinions are different from those of the reader, each of us can have his own opinions. So writing is like talking, if you are afraid of writing, you may end up being afraid of talking
The power of a writer is that he is a god of sorts. He can create his own worlds and populate them with his own people, all by the powers of his imagination. It's the closest a man can come close to the gods. No wonder the most successful writers are considered immortals
Many writers write because they’ve been there, seen that, did it and burnt their fingers
Don't believe in everything that is written. Not everything that is written is true
If I can write, who possibly can’t. Even drawing a line in the sand is writing
Writing poetry is a passion, ignited by thoughts, fueled by ink. A way to travel through another mind, where souvenirs of tears are tucked away inside your soul. Or leave you with smiles for miles, depending on which route you go.
The world badly needs a “Great Arranger” putting everything in perfect order, where none shall be seen in wretched hunger, without a health care and decent shelter. Why we can order our homes, not our world? Where are all the leaders and the rich lords? Where the bright ones, the holy ones adored? Is it only God who can fix the world?