The candles that melted, smoke that lingered and the wine that has accompanied the adolescents didn't bring much good. They were a whirlwind of emotions that I never understood. Why, was I thinking this? Why, was I feeling so much? Why, was I the only one?
The poet in me doesn't like to call himself a poet, nor a writer. (He loves to be called one though.) He doesn't like to make too much fuss about words or grammar. (About anything, pirate remember...) Those are rules for other mortals that I don't abide by.