While I Quietly Write Poetry In My Room

I write most in advantage with wind blowing in me, wine in the glass, but no toxic and no expectations... Simple and complex, so comes my writing... Without honors and flattery, chasing a distant target at random... My poor poetry, it's no frills and no subterfuges... up slopes and ramps, and somehow it thrills the blind and deaf... Poetry that hits strongly cheers me up and warms me up when I feel half dead... so hot it is, that the cold cannot handle it.... what if no audience appears, it is not surprised and does not cease... While writing, the cars on the street beep, mosquitoes suck my blood and verses... and in the silence of the room hundreds of ghosts applaud...