I don’t make poetry, I am poetry,
I breath poetry, eat, sleep, run poetry.
My face, my body, my mind, everything is poetry.
I live in a house with poetry doors,
I have poetry furniture on my poetry walls.
My friends are poetry too,
except for Robert, you don’t know him,
but he’s a bit of prose, I tell you.
In rest everything is more all less poetry,
well, it always depends how you see it.