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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...

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