my poetry, — [it has no words] but feelings and emotions [and eyes] [and jaws] [and skin] [and pulse] [and blood] [and soul]; my poetry, it is a being, — [it lives], [it cries], [it smiles], [it bleeds], [gets thirsty and gets hungry], [it's free and prisoner at once]; my poetry is going up and down, [it sings and dances, and it draws]; [it's what one wants and even more], [it sneezes, whistles and it sails]; my poetry is virgin and is vampin' [it pleases any pleasant pleased]; [it's sin and innocence], [it's wolfing] it's animal of you, it's sensual of me.

Pride has its own talent. Put it aside. Do anything necessary to bloom. Both. Me to you. You to me. Let me hear howling your  wolves on my lips, while the lust propagates passion through our blood . With the shades of blue full of dreams, our astral bodies love to play with fire. Mine thru you. Yours thru me.