Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

We view ourselves on the eve of battle. We are nerved for the conquest and must conquer or perish. It is vain to look for present aid: None is at hand. We must now act or abandon all hope!

"His eyes were on his heart, completely caught up in his work. 'Just something kicking around in my head. Reminds me of you. Fiery and sweet, all at the same time. A flame in the dark, lighting my way.' His voice... his words... I recognized one of his spirit-driven moments. It should've unnerved me, but there was something sensual about the way he spoke, something that made my breath catch.

Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas nerved and blooded with emotions all held together by the delicate tough skin of words.