Curaçao. There where I was born. There where the ground is too hard to grow your roots, but once you do they can never be unrooted. There where there is always plenty of food. Where a neighborhood raises a child,... Continue Reading →
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.