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White truffle shavings on yesterday's toast~ that's how poems begin. Not with grand themes, but with the nightclub’s stamp fading on your wrist as you scrub pans. Ink bleeds like old promises. Stigmatizations? We all carry them. The page doesn't judge. It waits, blank as snowfall before boot prints. Poetic lines are trenches dug in silence. Dig deeper. Fallibility is the poet's compass. True north points toward the next word, trembling.
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